Read Online The Golden Day by Ursula Dubosarsky - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ursula Dubosarsky
Tags: JUV000000
Ads: Link
Schoolgirl
W HEN THE MOTHERS AND FATHERS opened the envelope and read Miss Baskerville’s letter, they were bewildered. What did this mean? They looked at their daughters and asked questions.
‘You lost her?’ said Cubby’s mother.‘How could you have lost her?Your teacher? I mean, I’ve heard of children getting lost…’ The mothers and fathers rang up other mothers and fathers and asked more questions. Some had even rung the school and demanded to speak to Miss Baskerville. But this was not encouraged. The situation had changed, that was all. Class 4F was no longer Class 4F. It was Class 4S and in the morning Miss Merrilee Summers, with her cap of silky red hair and the highest qualifications, entered the room and set them to work.
The little girls liked Miss Summers. She didn’t shout. She wore nice clothes. But they missed their teacher. Miss Renshaw was gone, but she was still there with them in the room. She was there in her chair, with its worn cushion. The folders on the teacher’s desk belonged to Miss Renshaw, the tin of drawing pins, the narrow vase of blue glass. She was there in the posters on the walls, in the books on the shelves, in the signs saying ‘Pencils’, ‘Mathematics’, ‘Extra Reading’, ‘Social Studies’ and ‘Natural Science’.
They constantly expected to hear her voice. Each time Miss Summers called out to them, in the corridor or on the stairs, to stop running, stop talking, stop eating, stop shouting, stop banging, stop being so silly, it should have been Miss Renshaw calling.
Mrs Arnold, the deputy headmistress, reappeared in their remote classroom. She knocked on the door and put her head around. At once, the little girls stood up.
‘Sit down, sit down, girls,’ said Mrs Arnold, waving away the courtesy.
She perched on the edge of the front desk again and looked at them over her thick-rimmed black glasses; kindly as always. They looked back. Their eyes were clear, but their hearts were dishonest.
‘Now, I know you girls are feeling very upset about Miss Renshaw,’ Mrs Arnold began.
Yes, yes.
‘And I know you all want to do your very best to help her.’
They did. They nodded, and Mrs Arnold nodded back, encouragingly.
‘Now, you see, the fact of the matter is, some of you – it may be not all of you but some of you – have something more you can tell us about what happened that day.’
No nods now.
‘I don’t want to accuse you of hiding anything. Perhaps you don’t quite understand the seriousness of the situation.’
There Mrs Arnold was quite wrong. They understood too well. Don’t say anything , they whispered to each other, inside each others’ heads. Don’t tell.We can’t tell.
‘I know that you are all good girls,’ said Mrs Arnold. ‘I am sure of it. And I know you want to do the right thing.You may be afraid, but you mustn’t be afraid. You must do the right thing.’
Oh, the right thing! It was too late for the right thing!
Mrs Arnold stood up to go.
‘You know where to find me, girls, any of you, any time. My door is open.’
She nodded at Miss Summers and was gone, coughing all the way down the four flights of stairs.
‘Right then,’ said Miss Summers uncertainly. She had some chalk in her hand. ‘Let’s copy down the week’s spelling now, shall we?’
She turned her back on them and started to write on the blackboard. Her writing was nothing like Miss Renshaw’s. It was childish and lacked Miss Renshaw’s flair.
Annual
Cardigan
Eight
Fever
The little girls pulled out their spelling books and began to copy down the words. The chalk squeaked, the pages flapped.
‘These words are too hard,’ complained Martine.
Miss Summers paid no attention. She kept on writing. They watched her back, and her hand moving across the board.
Mixed
Orphan
Socks
Unless
‘I hate spelling,’ said Martine, and put her pencil down.
Silence.
There was a moan, and then a sob. It was Bethany. But she was not sobbing about the
W HEN THE MOTHERS AND FATHERS opened the envelope and read Miss Baskerville’s letter, they were bewildered. What did this mean? They looked at their daughters and asked questions.
‘You lost her?’ said Cubby’s mother.‘How could you have lost her?Your teacher? I mean, I’ve heard of children getting lost…’ The mothers and fathers rang up other mothers and fathers and asked more questions. Some had even rung the school and demanded to speak to Miss Baskerville. But this was not encouraged. The situation had changed, that was all. Class 4F was no longer Class 4F. It was Class 4S and in the morning Miss Merrilee Summers, with her cap of silky red hair and the highest qualifications, entered the room and set them to work.
The little girls liked Miss Summers. She didn’t shout. She wore nice clothes. But they missed their teacher. Miss Renshaw was gone, but she was still there with them in the room. She was there in her chair, with its worn cushion. The folders on the teacher’s desk belonged to Miss Renshaw, the tin of drawing pins, the narrow vase of blue glass. She was there in the posters on the walls, in the books on the shelves, in the signs saying ‘Pencils’, ‘Mathematics’, ‘Extra Reading’, ‘Social Studies’ and ‘Natural Science’.
They constantly expected to hear her voice. Each time Miss Summers called out to them, in the corridor or on the stairs, to stop running, stop talking, stop eating, stop shouting, stop banging, stop being so silly, it should have been Miss Renshaw calling.
Mrs Arnold, the deputy headmistress, reappeared in their remote classroom. She knocked on the door and put her head around. At once, the little girls stood up.
‘Sit down, sit down, girls,’ said Mrs Arnold, waving away the courtesy.
She perched on the edge of the front desk again and looked at them over her thick-rimmed black glasses; kindly as always. They looked back. Their eyes were clear, but their hearts were dishonest.
‘Now, I know you girls are feeling very upset about Miss Renshaw,’ Mrs Arnold began.
Yes, yes.
‘And I know you all want to do your very best to help her.’
They did. They nodded, and Mrs Arnold nodded back, encouragingly.
‘Now, you see, the fact of the matter is, some of you – it may be not all of you but some of you – have something more you can tell us about what happened that day.’
No nods now.
‘I don’t want to accuse you of hiding anything. Perhaps you don’t quite understand the seriousness of the situation.’
There Mrs Arnold was quite wrong. They understood too well. Don’t say anything , they whispered to each other, inside each others’ heads. Don’t tell.We can’t tell.
‘I know that you are all good girls,’ said Mrs Arnold. ‘I am sure of it. And I know you want to do the right thing.You may be afraid, but you mustn’t be afraid. You must do the right thing.’
Oh, the right thing! It was too late for the right thing!
Mrs Arnold stood up to go.
‘You know where to find me, girls, any of you, any time. My door is open.’
She nodded at Miss Summers and was gone, coughing all the way down the four flights of stairs.
‘Right then,’ said Miss Summers uncertainly. She had some chalk in her hand. ‘Let’s copy down the week’s spelling now, shall we?’
She turned her back on them and started to write on the blackboard. Her writing was nothing like Miss Renshaw’s. It was childish and lacked Miss Renshaw’s flair.
Annual
Cardigan
Eight
Fever
The little girls pulled out their spelling books and began to copy down the words. The chalk squeaked, the pages flapped.
‘These words are too hard,’ complained Martine.
Miss Summers paid no attention. She kept on writing. They watched her back, and her hand moving across the board.
Mixed
Orphan
Socks
Unless
‘I hate spelling,’ said Martine, and put her pencil down.
Silence.
There was a moan, and then a sob. It was Bethany. But she was not sobbing about the
Similar Books
