Free Sally by Freya North

tail swish.
    â€˜Gentlemen, lady, this is Richard Stonehill from Mendle-Brooke Associates.’
    â€˜Good morning,’ said Richard somewhat reluctantly, as he took the head of the table and began unravelling the roll of drawings, crocodiles still foremost in his mind. However, as soon as his design unfurled itself, Richard was totally focused. His personality, his gifted presentation and the skill of the design itself kept his audience rapt. An hour and a half shot by. Had they had the money there and then, they would have pressed cash into his hand and given him
carte blanche
to start immediately. Reality, however, would impose a minimum two-year wait.
    â€˜I think I’ll just have a wander,’ Richard informed his hosts as everybody shook hands. ‘It’s the crocodiles that fascinate me.’
    The children were having a lovely time, especially Marsha and Rajiv who were still holding hands long after the crocodile had disintegrated. Sharp, sweet wafts of dung and straw were filtered by the chill air and were pleasing to the nose. The bellow of the camel was impersonated very well by Marcus who was offered a ride by the keeper. Squeals of delight filled the air as the dromedary lunged and lurched itself up. The children’s zoo proved very popular too; little hands gently petted even littler furries and packed lunches were shared illicitly with the bleating, pleading, pocket-nuzzling deer and goats.
    Around Miss Lewis, a band of keen young artists had gathered to sketch the elephants.
    It was cold, cold, but clear. Everyone was in a thoroughly good mood.
    â€˜Oh, children, the light’s just
per
fect!
Sim
ply perfect. I’ve brought charcoal and 4B pencils and some waxy crayons. Who wants what?’ The waxy crayons were the first to be snapped up followed sharply by the charcoal. The pencils were the last to go because Miss Lewis forbade erasers – ‘Work
through
your mistakes, make your errors a part of your de
sign
’ was her oft-chanted dictum. Experience had taught Class Five that any child caught smuggling a rubber would have it ceremoniously confiscated and, worse, would have to contend with Miss Lewis’s inconsolable hurt.
    With not much more than an ear or tusk completed, the children began to complain of cold toes and numb fingers. Miss Lewis had overcome that problem by investing in a pair of red mittens, the tips of which could be folded back to reveal black, fingerless gloves. She sat on the bench surrounded by the hastily dumped materials of her protégés (off to see the
yeuch! spi
ders and
urgh! beet
les) and breathed in the coarse, sweet smell of elephant. Wielding a 4B as a conductor might his baton, she began to draw fervently, making any mistake a committed part of the overall design.
    Sally, who had just finished a quick chat with the polar bear (he had winked at her, slowly and wisely), contemplated the scamper and flurry of her class, released from the greyness of school and its buildings. She felt a little sad, imagining how the animals too would kick up their heels and squeal with delight if they were turned out into pastures new, let alone to their native habitats. She thought it cruel how the children teased the rhino for being so ugly, the way they grimaced and growled at the motionless lion, chattered and jumped around in front of the chimps and tapped the glass of the aquarium to see if the fish would budge or the clam slam shut. She walked past birds of prey and couldn’t associate the moth-eaten raptors with those she remembered from her childhood holidays, soaring in majestic abandon over the hills near Aunt Celia’s.
    Miss Lewis had a hushed audience about her. All over her scarf (black) and her jumper (red) were chunks and furls of wood and lead: ‘Never use a sharpener, gives a
gha
stly line. Scalpel. That’s the answer.
Su
per edge. Absolutely not, Marcus, only I can use it.
Horribly
sharp. Trust me.’ The children