Free Miguel Street by V. S. Naipaul Page B

anything, ma’am. You must take care of him and send him to a good school and feed him good food so he could study well.’
    My mother didn’t say anything.
    When Titus Hoyt left, he said, ‘Cheerio!’
    That was the second interesting thing about him.
    My mother beat me for getting my shoes wet in the gutter but she said she wouldn’t beat me for getting lost.
    For the rest of that day I ran about the yard saying, ‘Cheerio! Cheerio!’ to a tune of my own.
    That evening Titus Hoyt came again.
    My mother didn’t seem to mind.
    To me Titus Hoyt said, ‘You can read?’
    I said yes.
    ‘And write?’
    I said yes.
    ‘Well, look,’ he said, ‘get some paper and a pencil and write what I tell you.’
    I said, ‘Taper and pencil?’
    He nodded.
    I ran to the kitchen and said, ‘Ma, you got any paper and pencil?’
    My mother said, ‘What you think I is? A shopkeeper?’
    Titus Hoyt shouted, ‘Is for me, ma’am.’
    My mother said, ‘Oh.’ in a disappointed way.
    She said, ‘In the bottom drawer of the bureau you go find my purse. It have a pencil in it.’
    And she gave me a copy-book from the kitchen shelf.
    Mr Titus Hoyt said, ‘Now, young man, write. Write the address of this house in the top right-hand corner, and below that, the date.’ Then he asked, ‘You know who we writing this letter to, boy?’
    I shook my head.
    He said, ‘Ha, boy! Ha! We writing to the Guardian, boy.’
    I said, ‘The Trinidad Guardian? The paper? What, me writing to the Guardian ! But only big big man does write to the Guardian? ’
    Titus Hoyt smiled. ‘That’s why you writing. It go surprise them.’
    I said, ‘What I go write to them about?’
    He said, ‘You go write it now. Write. To the Editor, Trinidad Guardian. Dear Sir, I am but a child of eight (How old you is? Well, it don’t matter anyway) and yesterday my mother sent me to make a purchase in the city. This, dear Mr Editor, was my first peregrination (p-e-r-e-g-r-i-n-a-t-i-o-n) in this metropolis, and I had the misfortune to wander from the path my mother had indicated ’
    I said, ‘Oh God, Mr Titus Hoyt, where you learn all these big words and them? You sure you spelling them right?’
    Titus Hoyt smiled. ‘I spend all afternoon making up this letter,’ he said.
    I wrote : ‘… and in this state of despair I was rescued by a Mr Titus Hoyt, of Miguel Street. This only goes to show, dear Mr Editor, that human kindness is a quality not yet extinct in this world.’
    The Guardian never printed the letter.
    When I next saw Titus Hoyt he said, ‘Well, never mind. One day, boy, one day, I go make them sit up and take notice of every word I say. Just wait and see.’
    And before he left he said, ‘Drinking your milk? ’
    He had persuaded my mother to give me half a pint of milk every day. Milk was good for the brains.
    It is one of the sadnesses of my life that I never fulfilled Titus Hoyt’s hopes for my academic success.
    I still remember with tenderness the interest he took in me. Sometimes his views clashed with my mother’s. There was the business of the cobwebs, for instance.
    Boyee, with whom I had become friendly very quickly, was teaching me to ride. I had fallen and cut myself nastily on the shin.
    My mother was attempting to cure this with sooty cobwebs soaked in rum.
    Titus Hoyt was horrified. ‘You ain’t know what you doing,’ he shouted.
    My mother said, ‘Mr Titus Hoyt, I will kindly ask you to mind your own business. The day you make a baby yourself I go listen to what you have to say.’
    Titus Hoyt refused to be ridiculed. He said, ‘Take the boy to the doctor, man.’
    I was watching them argue, not caring greatly either way.
    In the end I went to the doctor.
    Titus Hoyt reappeared in a new role.
    He told my mother, ‘For the last two three months I been taking the first-aid course with the Red Cross. I go dress the boy foot for you.’
    That really terrified me.
    For about a month or so afterwards, people in Miguel Street could