you work hard and try your best. Will you do that?’
‘I’ll try, miss.’
‘We can start next week if you like,’ said Elisabeth. ‘You know, Darren, what I said to you when I first met you was right. I don’t tell children something just to make them feel better. I meant what I said to you when I told you I liked your story about your dog and that it was well written and very amusing.’
The boy nodded, sniffed and smiled. ‘Miss, you know how you said that if you really want to say how you feel then the best way is through poetry?’
‘Yes, I do. A very famous poet once said that poetry is the shortest way of saying things and that it looks nicer on the page than prose. It gives you room to think and dream. You have to write down what you want to say at first and deal with the punctuation and spelling later on.’
‘I’ve written some poems, miss,’ the boy informed her. ‘Sometimes when I’ve not got a lot to do at home I write a poem. You don’t have to get everything right with poetry, do you?’
‘Will you let me see some of your poems?’ asked Elisabeth.
‘I haven’t shown them to anybody, miss,’ he said. ‘I just do them for myself.’
‘Well, that’s all right. There are things I write that I don’t want anybody else to see.’
At the end of the day Elisabeth found a piece of paper on her desk, folded neatly into a square. She opened it up. It was from Darren. The writing was spidery, the spelling poor, but the content took her breath away with its honesty and emotion.
The Trubble with Words
Words spel trubble.
They trip you up,
Trap you,
Trick you,
They dont folow the rules.
Words spel trubble.
They cofnuse you,
Snare you,
Scare you,
Make you seem a fool.
Words spel trubble.
They ambush you,
Buly you,
Hurt you,
Make you feel unhappy inisde.
Words spell trubble
They decieve you, Supprise you,
Worry you,
They make you cry.
Miss Brakespeare was tidying up her classroom when Elisabeth put her head around the door.
‘First couple of weeks nearly over,’ she said brightly, catching sight of the head teacher.
‘And things seem to be going well,’ said Elisabeth.
‘Very well, actually. I cannot tell you what a difference it has made having a smaller class,’ replied her colleague, ‘more space and all these new tables.’
‘I haven’t had much of a chance to see you since the term started,’ said Elisabeth. ‘It’s been so busy and gone so quickly. How was your Christmas?’
Miss Brakespeare shook her head and gave a small smile. ‘Not what you would call a barrel of laughs,’ she replied.
‘Oh dear,’ said Elisabeth.
‘I am afraid Mother seemed to delight in playing the martyr more than ever. I know she’s not been well but she could put a bit of a brave face on it, especially when it’s Christmas, a time of supposed peace and goodwill. I’m afraid she’s a dedicated hypochondriac. When Father was ill he rarely complained. Right up to his death he remained cheerful and made the best of the time he had left. My mother, I’m afraid, is one of the world’s grumpy old women. Nothing anyone does for her seems to be right. Her presents didn’t suit, there was nothing on the television, the house was too cold and nobody bothered to come and see her. The turkey wasn’t cooked enough, the sprouts were too hard, the stuffing dry and the potatoes overcooked. I tried to persuade her to go with me to the carol concert at the chapel but she wouldn’t. She went to bed early on Christmas Eve feeling sorry for herself and grumbling that this would be the last Christmas she would be having. “I won’t be here next year, Miriam. I’m on my way out,” she told me.’
‘You went to the carol service then?’ asked Elisabeth.
‘I did,’ replied Miss Brakespeare. ‘Mr Tomlinson asked me to turn the pages while he was playing the organ. I do it most Sundays for him.’ She reddened a little. ‘It gets me out of the