Free Mister Pip by Lloyd Jones Page A

look. Then, with a start, she caught sight of the book in his hands. I thought she might try and grab it off him and drive a stake through its covers. Instead she took a deep breath and announced to Mr. Watts she had some informations (she always said “informations”) to share with the class.
    Mr. Watts politely closed
Great Expectations
. As usual he was guided by his innate sense of courtesy. He gestured for my mum to take the floor and she started in.
    â€œSome white fellas do not believe in the devil or God,” she said, “because they think they don’t have to. Believe it or not there are some white folk who on the strength of a glance out the window will not pack away a raincoat for their holiday. A white will make sure he has a life jacket in the boat and enough petrol in the tank for a long trip out to sea, but he will not take the same precautions by stocking up on faith for the hurly-burly of daily life.”
    She bobbed from side to side. She was more cocky than I’d ever seen her.
    â€œMr. Watts, here, he thinks he is ready for all things. But if this was true, then the man shot by the redskin must be wondering how come he didn’t see the helicopter until it was too late. So. But for the rest of us peoples—and that means my beautiful flower, Matilda—pack the teachings of the Good Book into your person. That way you kids can save Mr. Watts because I am not going to be the one.”
    We looked as one to Mr. Watts to see if he minded. We were glad to find him smiling behind my mum’s back. And when she saw us kids smiling too, it made her madder. I was already ashamed by her words, but I also knew her anger didn’t really have to do with Mr. Watts’ own religious beliefs or lack of. What made her blood run hot was this white boy Pip and his place in my life. For that she held Mr. Watts personally responsible.
    If my mum had set out to insult Mr. Watts and show him up, then she failed—if Mr. Watts’ smile was anything to go by.
    â€œOnce again, Dolores, you have provided us with food for thought,” he said.
    My mum shot him a look of suspicion. I knew she didn’t know that expression:
food for thought
. She would be wondering if the white man was insulting her without her knowing it. And if that was so, how stupid would she look to us kids?
    â€œI have more,” she said.
    Mr. Watts kindly gestured for her to carry on, and I sank deeper behind my desk.
    â€œI wish to talk about braids,” she announced, and to my horror, she began addressing her remarks to me.
    â€œMatilda, as a young woman your grandmother wore her hair in braids and them braids were thick as rope. Them braids were so strong us kids used to swing on them.”
    Some of the class laughed, and this encouraged my mum to shift her attention off me.
    â€œThis is true. If the tide was up we would hold on to the end of a braid in case we stumbled on coral.
    â€œMy mum’s braids were so blimmin’ long that us kids used to sit in Uncle’s wheelchair and hang on to them while her big bum rose above the bike seat. We cheered at that big bum. We hooted like dogs drunk on jungle juice.”
    This time Mr. Watts laughed along with us kids.
    â€œNow,” she said, “the reason for braids is to keep flies off you and to shoo away the boys who want to stick their hands where they shouldn’t. A girl who wears braids knows right from wrong—and she’s no bloody show-off.”
    My poor mum. As quickly as she had won us she lost us. And she didn’t know why. It was as if she didn’t listen to herself.
    By the time she arrived at her closing argument we sat with folded arms and bolted-on expressions of polite interest. “So, when you bring two strands of hair together and tease them into rope you begin to understand the idea of partnership…and you understand how God and the devil know each other.”
    My mum was so eager for us