Free Half-Sick of Shadows by David Logan Page B

Russia called Uri something under G. Gargargle: Uri.
    ‘A spaceman!’ Mrs Wipple howled. I feared her scissors might put an eye out. I must have said the wrong word. To cover my embarrassment, I said, ‘Or a librarian.’
    ‘A librarian!’ Rather than laughing, this time she looked impressed. Mother, sheepishly, told her I was a great reader. ‘Is he indeed? How wonderful! Why do you want to be a librarian?’
    ‘I don’t really know.’ I wanted to be a librarian, primarily, because it was less embarrassing than being a spaceman.
    ‘I have no doubt you’ll make a first class librarian.’
    Just when I thought that Mrs Wipple had shut up, she asked, ‘And what school will you attend, Edward?’
    Mother answered because she must have seen on my face an unwillingness to cooperate any further in my interrogation. ‘He’ll board at Whitehead House.’
    ‘Really!’ Mrs Wipple’s scissors stopped snip-snipping. She came round from behind me, scissors raised in one hand like a weapon, comb in the other. ‘Then you’ll meet the principal, Mr Mulholland. His wife’s a client and very good friend of mine. What a coincidence.’
    ‘It’s a small world,’ said Mother, trying to be impressed.
    I disagreed with her, but kept my disagreement to myself. The world had lots of islands and oceans. In fact, it had more water than land. I’d seen a globe, and an atlas too. An atlas is a flat globe made into pages. You can turn both of them, but in different ways.
    ‘You’re in good hands there, Edward,’ said Mrs Wipple, who had started clipping, ruffling and combing again. ‘I happen to know that Mr Mulholland is the
crème de la crème
when it comes to headmasters.’ My ears pricked up, but not too high otherwise she might have pricked one with her scissors.
Crème de la crème
sounded interesting. ‘Mr Mulholland is very distinguished in educational circles. Yes. He has friends in high places.’ Like, sitting on roofs? Up Everest? ‘I’d keep in with your headmaster, Edward. Oh, yes. If anybody can make a librarian out of you, he can. You scratch his back and he’ll scratch yours.’ I was only five, and still resistant to having my back scratched by a stranger. Nor did I fancy my fingernails working across someone else’s fatty, gunky old back. In fact, I would rather have bathed in porridge . Nevertheless, there was something in what Mrs Wipple said that needed thinking about.
    ‘I must tell Edith I’ve met you,’ said Mrs Wipple to Mother. ‘You never know, Edward, she might put in a good word, eh?’
    What good word? Precocious? Precocious was the best word I knew, although diphthong retained an element of mystery.
    ‘There!’ Ten minutes after she started, I had a straight fringe for the first time in my life. She stood behind me, stroking my head, wiping my cheeks, pinging loose hair off my ears. ‘Finished! Don’t you think he looks just like a little librarian, Mrs Pike?’
    ‘He’s a little something all right.’
    Mrs Wipple packed her tools. Mother apologized because she didn’t have the correct amount of money and had to ask for change. ‘Never mind,’ smiled Mrs Wipple, counting notes and handing one back. ‘Whenever you can, my dear. Whenever you can.’
    Mother saw her out the back door.
    ‘Who is she?’ I asked, as Mrs Wipple drove off in her red car with the sun roof open and her big red hair sticking out like a bonfire.
    ‘What a nice lady,’ said Mother. ‘What a very, very nice lady.’
    ‘Who is she?’
    ‘That’s Mrs Wipple!’ Mother sounded proud to know her.
    ‘I know. But, I mean, who is she?’
    ‘She’s a hairdresser. She cuts people’s hair for a living, and she owns a salon. When people are old or ill and can’t go to her salon, she comes out and cuts their hair in their own homes. Isn’t that a fine idea? Now, off you go and show Sophia your new haircut.’
    Mother’s genuine happiness made me genuinely happy too.
    But our happiness was destined to be