Free Lessons from the Heart by John Clanchy Page B

getting somewhere for lunch, they can get the ulcer over it, I’m not.’
    And I realize then I could write a poem about this which would have puns, like Larkin’s poems do, and would start: They’re smoking now on the busman’s watch, and I’m just deciding whether I’ll make the poem rhyme or not, because I can think of a second line that would end in botch, when Miss Temple asks if I want to swap and sit in the front seat, and I don’t say, ‘What – with Mr Jasmyne?’, like Toni would, because I know Mr Jasmyne will be sitting at the back with her. This is one of the things about Toni: she knows how to behave, but she doesn’t. And lately she’s been getting worse. Unless she’s with Mum or people she respects, when she’s perfect. Mum refers to her as the pineapple sometimes because she’s rough but sweet at the same time. And I often wish I could be more like Toni that way because she’s always honest and says what she’s thinking or what she wants, whereas I’m usually polite, even if I’m feeling bad inside about someone.
    â€˜I don’t mind it here, Miss Temple,’ I say.
    â€˜But you can’t be seeing much, can you? With just a side window and the backs of all those heads in front of you?’
    â€˜Really, I don’t mind,’ I say again, and I don’t, particularly now that the kids have stopped using the toilet as a revolving door. In fact, as we leave the caravan park and head out onto the highway, most of them are yawning and half-asleep after their late night and all the excitement of tenting. The sun through the glass is warm, and as we reach the open spaces, more and more of the kids in the seats around me shut their eyes and begin to roll and sway with the motion of the bus. They’re all wired, however, and occasionally snatches of sound drift back to me – Pearl Jam, the Oils, KORN, Spiderbait all mixing crazily together.
    â€˜Just for a few hours then,’ Miss Temple says, as if I’d said yes instead of no. ‘Till we get to Wilcannia. Then we’ll swap back.’
    So I have to pack up my stuff just when I’d got myself all properly settled, and I wonder why Miss Temple’s so keen to swap – it can’t simply be for my sake – and then I remember her comment about only seeing the backs of all those heads, and I understand. So, I bundle my things together again – my bag and books and Walkman and everything – and stagger down the aisle with them, past Luisa and Sarah who are sleeping, black and white, against each other, past Billy Whitecross and two of his friends who are awake and already shooting, pia-oww , pia-oww , blasting kangaroos and emus on both sides of the bus, and I see Dave, the driver, looking in his mirror and shaking his head -though I’m not sure what it means this time – and I decide I will make the poem rhyme, and as I fall into the front seat and the kids behind me snigger, I think how disgusting it is for Miss Temple, being a teacher and that, and she’s such a feminist. But two minutes later she brings me a book that I’d left behind and looking at her again and seeing how keen she is to help me, I don’t think that about her at all. And I wonder if I’m simple-minded or have weak judgement or something, if I keep changing my ideas about people as quickly as I do.
    â€˜Tolkien?’ Miss Temple says, handing me the book.
    â€˜I just thought –’ I say, and try not to blush.
    â€˜No, no, it’s a good choice,’ she says, ‘for a long trip like this. It just depends what level you’re reading it at.’
    Miss Temple’s always on about levels of reading. You can’t just read anything with Miss Temple, you’ve got to analyse it, and when you do it always turns out that the book you’re reading or a poem, say, like The Ancient Mariner, isn’t about a ship being