Free The Beloved by Annah Faulkner

day.’ I grabbed a handful of her skirt and pressed it against my face. ‘Come on, love.’ She prised my fingers loose. ‘Everything’s going to be fine. You’re a big girl now – grade three!’ She ruffled Tim’s curls. He flattened them again with his hands.
    We climbed into the jeep and took off down the long road that led over the hill to Boroko. Dad drove flat out, whizzing around bends, making Tim slide across the back and shout with excitement. Then suddenly we were there, skidding to a stop in the gravel driveway of Coronation School. Through the dust I saw long low buildings with wooden louvres and wide verandahs set around a big square. There was a shelter shed, a wide shady poinciana tree and a dusty playground.
    Dad lifted me out. ‘There you go, honey bun. Have a good day. How about a kiss for your old man?’
    I kissed his nice face with its tickly brown moustache and smell of Old Spice aftershave. He put his hand on Tim’s shoulder. ‘Have a good day, son, and look after your sister.’ Tim took my hand, his eyes behind the Coke-bottle glasses serious. Dad grinned, waved, gunned the motor and slammed the gears. ‘See you at three o’clock,’ he shouted and the jeep shot forward, bouncing up and down. Mama said he drove everything like it was supposed to fly.
    A teacher took us to the quadrangle and a bell clanged; not a whirring bell but a big clunking bell. Kids ran in and formed lines. No black ones! Didn’t black kids go to school?
    â€˜We gather here for marching to class, Roberta. Can you march?’
    I nodded, and she took me to stand with the grade threes. Tim promised to wait for me at play lunch and went to stand with the grade fives. Kids craned their necks at me but before anyone could say anything a little man in khaki shorts stomped onto the verandah. His stumpy white legs were smothered in black hairs and his red mouth opened like a cave.
    â€˜ Silence! ’
    The National Anthem crackled out and all the kids began to sing.
    God save our grey – shusqueen,
    Long live our no – bullqueen,
    God save our Queen.
    The little man glared. ‘Good morning, children.’
    â€˜Good moor-ning, Mis-ter Bos-well.’
    â€˜A new term, children. I have great expectations.’
    The sun beat on my head, the air wrapped me in its great sticky arms and Mr Boswell talked.
    â€˜Those not prepared to uphold our traditions of hard work, dedication, and godly behaviour can expect six of the best.’
    My leg ached, I felt dizzy. Would he ever stop? At last the music scratched out.
    â€˜ Lef! Lef! Lef-ry-lef !’ Mr Boswell roared, and hundreds of feet pounded the dust.
    Our classroom was big and airy and our teacher was Mrs Potts. She had frayed, dust-coloured hair and a face like copha but her aura was a lovely lemony-pink. She took my hand and I thought she was going to show me to my desk but instead she led me to the front of the class.
    â€˜This is Roberta, children, and I want you to make her welcome. Roberta has had polio and wears a brace to keep her leg straight until her muscles become strong again. We all know how much suffering polio causes and we don’t want to add to it, do we?’
    Fifty round eyes stared at Mrs Potts. ‘So if I hear of anybody teasing Roberta or upsetting her, they will go straight to Mr Boswell. Is that clearly understood?’ Everyone dipped their heads. ‘Right,’ said Mrs Potts. ‘We’ll get on.’
    I went to my desk, the clunk of my boot filling the room.
    Mrs Potts pointed to a list of sums on the blackboard. My heart sank. Two long lines of numbers. I copied them in my book, twirled my pencil and felt sweat trickle down my chest. Mrs Potts came down the aisle and peered over me, so close I could see the black hairs of her armpit spread like spiders’ legs over her skin.
    â€˜Having trouble, dear? Well now, you add up this column first