Free Feather Boy by Nicky Singer Page A

piece of paper over. “Oh yes, Kate. Kate Barber, perhaps you’d like to start? Tell us a bit about your Elder and what you’re doing with her.”
    “Him,” says Kate, getting up and taking the paper.
    “Front of the class, now.”
    Kate goes and stands by Mrs Simpson’s desk. She looks uncomfortable.
    “I’m not asking you to declaim Shakespeare, just tellus a little about your Elder and the work you’re making together. You could start perhaps with the man’s name.”
    “Albert,” says Kate.
    “Good. Now tell us something about him.”
    “Well, he’s eighty-two and he left school at thirteen.”
    “Lucky,” says Niker.
    “Then he earned sixpence a day working first in the saw-mills and then ‘on the building’. He clocked on at half past six in the morning and finished at six at night, with half an hour off for breakfast and an hour for lunch.”
    “Not so lucky, then, perhaps,” says Miss Raynham, meaningfully.
    “And for the artwork we’re collecting songs. Because Albert really likes singing. And you know the story Catherine told, about the Prince who wouldn’t speak? Well, Albert’s idea is that you can sometimes sing things you can’t speak. So if he was trying to break the spell, he might sing to the Prince. And maybe the Prince would sing back.”
    “Good. Good. Thank you, Kate. Can you show us the work?”
    “Well, I can’t sing it, but this is one of Albert’s favourites.” From the paper she recites:
    “The first time I met you, my darling
    Your cheeks were as red as a rose
    But now they’re old and faded
    They’re as white as the whitest of rose.
    Still I love the white rose in its splendour
    I love the white rose in its bloom
    I love that rose, the sweetest that grows
    It’s the rose that reminds me of you.”
    She holds up the paper for us to see. The poem is written in black ink on a square of grey. Around the edge of the picture are sketches of flowers which have yet to be painted.
    “Why have you drawn it on a gravestone?” asks Niker.
    “It’s not a gravestone. It’s a paving stone. Albert’s idea of the path, remember?”
    “Well, I think it’s wonderful,” says Miss Raynham. “Thank you very much, Kate.”
    “Can I do it now?” asks a voice from the basin.
    “If you can be sensible, Wesley. Can you be sensible, Wesley?”
    “Yes, Miss Raynham.”
    Wesley goes to the back of the class and collects some red, orange, yellow and black strips of paper.
    “Is yours a paving stone, too, Wesley?” asks Niker.
    “Nope. Mine’s a fire.” Wesley makes his way to the front and perches himself on the corner of Miss Simpson’s desk. “Gotta warm dat dere princie up. Dat’s what Dulcie and me reckons.”
    “Dulcie and I,” says Miss Raynham.
    “Dulcie and I,” repeats Wesley, “Dulcie and I have been discussing potatoes. Dulcie is seventy-six. When she was my age she used to come home from school at twelve o’clock, boil some potatoes, eat them and return to school by one-thirty.”
    “And what have you learnt from that, Wesley?”
    “That they didn’t have chips in those days, Miss Raynham. And,” he adds quickly as he sees her finger begin to wag, “that they had more responsibility.”
    “Oh?”
    “Yes. As well as lighting the gas, Dulcie got to peel the potatoes with a very sharp knife and drain boiling water. On top of that – it was her job to light the parlour fire every morning. Get the coal in, lay the fire and light it. Me – my mum doesn’t even let me have a match.”
    “Really,” says Miss Raynham.
    “So these are some flames Dulcie and I havepainted. This one,” he indicates an orange strip, “this one says ‘we didn’t come to no harm’.”
    “Any harm,” says Miss Raynham.
    ‘“No harm’,” says Wesley. “That’s what Dulcie said.” He mimics: ‘“You lot is babied today. We didn’t come to no harm’.”
    “I see,” says Miss Raynham. “The verbatim report.”
    “What?”
    “Carry on, Wesley. You interest