Tom All Alone 17 (i)

I posted a version of this a few years back, as some may remember. It was a factual piece as the incident actually happened. I've rewritten it now as part of Tom's narrative of childhood. That's where it properly belongs.

*

Miss Newman had to take some time off, so a new teacher called Miss Farnham took over from her. She was a lot older than Miss Newman. She was a tall, thin woman with tightly-curled brown hair that reminded Tom of the hair on a girls doll - though it was grey over her ears, like someone had splodged paint on it, or like she was wearing fluffy ear muffs. She always wore plain dresses and black lace-up shoes, and loose woollen cardigans a bit like the ones nan knitted and wore. She kept hankies in the pockets, which were always bulging. She would pull one out now and then to wipe her nose. Sometimes she would blow her nose and always look in the hankie afterwards before putting it away. She had a big nose that stuck out like a beak. Tom had heard Gary Birtles - the biggest boy in the class - call her 'parrot-face' in the playground, and everyone thought it was funny. Another thing she always wore was a big gold crucifix on a chain, which dangled down over the front of her dress. She had a stiff way of walking and held her head very upright, almost like she couldn't bend her neck. And her voice was high and droning and dull-sounding, like one of those Tom had heard on nan's wireless when she was listening to a play. Tom had a feeling that she didn't like him, though he wasn't sure why. Perhaps she'd been told about him, and how he'd been caught telling lies in his News Book. She didn't smile or laugh very much, and was stricter than Miss Newman. If she caught anyone talking, or not paying attention, she'd shout at them. She didn't do any of Miss Newman's things, like give chocolates as prizes for the Fingernail Competition. One day, when the class had been noisier than usual, she made everyone put their hands together behind their heads during playtime and wouldn't let them go out into the playground.

Every morning, everyone did their usual News Book writing and drawing. They also had Letter and Number books that they had to do as well now. Each day, they had a fresh letter and number in each - written in red ink at the top of the page - and they had to copy the letter and number underneath, filling up each page with as many as they could. They then had to hand the books in for her to check.

One day, the number in Tom's book was 3. He already knew the letters and numbers well, so it was easy for him to do. He soon had the page filled with 3s, finishing all of his books before everyone else. He took the books up and left them on the corner of Miss Farnham's desk. Then he sat down again and took out a reading book to look at. Around him, the others worked away. It was a bright day, and the room was filled with sunlight, glinting on the metal surfaces and the glass jars on the Paint cupboard. It was summer and it would soon be the holidays. They had seven weeks off for the summer. Tom couldn't wait for it. While he was looking through his book, his mind was wandering over visions of caravans and beaches and being free.

Miss Farnham cleared her throat suddenly, making everyone look up. Tom saw that she was looking directly at him. She had his books open in front of her.

"Thomas Seagrave," she said, loudly and firmly. "Come out to the front of the class, please."

Everyone in the class turned their eyes on him - wondering, as he was, what the matter was. He thought she might be pleased with the work he'd done. But the tone of her voice and the look on her face said something else. Perhaps she thought he'd told lies again in his News Book. He kept looking at her, too fearful to move.

"Do I need to repeat myself, Thomas Seagrave?" she said, louder. "Come out to the front of the class."

He got up and walked over to her desk - feeling those eyes watching him all the way. He saw that she had his Number book open in front of her. She held it up towards him.

"What do you call this?"

He looked at the page - filled with his number 3s, as he'd written them with his pencil.

"Well?" She pointed at one of the numbers. "What's that?"

"Number three, miss," he mumbled.

"Pardon? I can't hear you."

"It's a n-number three, miss."

Her face hardened - like mum's would go when he'd been naughty. She looked at the page again herself, then pushed it back to him.

"Really? It doesn't look like it to me. Look at it again."

Tom heard some quiet sniggers in the class now. Miss Farnham usually didn't like that, but she seemed to ignore it. He just stood there, staring at the page, at all those number 3s.

"What number is it?" she said again.

"Th-Three, miss."

She slapped the book down hard on her desk and stood up, bringing the class to silence again. She handed him a piece of chalk.

"Go and write it on the blackboard for everyone to see."

He looked at the piece of chalk. He looked at the blackboard. He knew every eye in the room was on him. He didn't move.

"Come on," Miss Farnham snapped. "Do what I said and write it on the board, just as you've written it in your book."

He could feel the stinging in his eyes already. He knew the number was right. Why was she saying it was wrong? Everyone else in class knew what the number looked like, too. He felt sure they would see he was right after all. He went up to the board - how huge it seemed now in front of him - and wrote a perfect number three

3

"No," Miss Farnham said. "It doesn't go like that. Do it again."

The sniggering started again. Again, she didn't stop it. He stared at the board - at the number three he'd chalked there. It was a three. It couldn't be any other number. He knew what it looked like. He'd always known what it looked like. Mum had shown it to him. So had dad. So had nan and Russell - and it was how they wrote it themselves. It was the same as the one on the clock on the mantelpiece at home. On Uncle Len's watch when he'd taught Tom to tell the time. In the numbers on the Picture Crossword in the Evening News. On the side of Thunderbird 3. It couldn't be wrong.

Why was no one else in class saying it was right?

He put the chalk to the board again and drew another perfect number three

3

"No! That's wrong as well. That's the same as the one you've just done, and it doesn't go like that."

How could this be happening? There were people laughing in class now. Still she didn't stop them.

"Do it again."

Again, he drew a perfect number three

3

Miss Farnham was incredulous - throwing up her arms and shaking her head.

"That's wrong, too. It's exactly the same as the other two. If they were wrong, how can that one be right? What's the matter with you?"

She picked the book up and rattled the number page in his face.

"Look," she yelled. "Look at the number I've written at the top."

He tried, but the page crystallised before him.

"You see it?"'

He could just see a swirl of the number threes he'd written. They were all number threes.

"Do it again!"

His eyes were streaming now and he began to sob. He put the chalk to the board again. He didn't want to write it like the others he'd done because he didn't want her telling him it was wrong again.

He tried a smaller three.

3

Wrong.

A larger three

3

Wrong.

He kept going, feeling the panic increasing with each try. He could hardly see the board now through his tears, and the sobs were making him shake. But he didn't know what else to do. He kept writing the threes as he knew them, over and over, each time with the same response, getting louder and louder

"It doesn't go like that!"

"It doesn't go like that!"

"IT DOESN'T GO LIKE THAT!"

In desperation, he wrote a three facing the other way. A three lying on its side, like a bum shape. A three lying on its other side, like he sometimes drew birds. He tried a four, a five, a two. The laughter got louder and louder behind him with each new effort. Miss Farnham was laughing now, too.

And that did it. He turned and threw the chalk at her, screaming at her. She backed away behind her desk. The laughter stopped, like someone had thrown a switch.

He ran for the door, pulled it open, ran down the corridor. Other doors were opening as he passed, teachers coming out to see what was happening, faces pressed against windows. He pushed through the big doors at the end of the corridor and down the steps and out into the alley at the side of the school, up and through the gate and across the road - a car just missing him, the tyres skidding, the horn blaring. He kept running as fast as he could, seeing just the pavement in front of him - around the corner past Gibney's Stores and down the road, not stopping until he got to the door, where he banged and banged the letter flap, still screaming, until the door opened and nan was standing there - her mouth wide.

"What the deuce...?"

He pushed past her and up the stairs - straight into mum's legs as she came out of the kitchen to find out what was going on.

"Tommy? What are you doing home?"

She reached down to grab him, but he fought against her, batting her hands away.

"WHY DID YOU LIE TO ME?"

"What?"

He finally got past her and ran into the toilet to hide.

"YOU LIED TO ME! YOU LIED TO ME! YOU LIED TO ME!"

 

Tom refused to come out of the toilet, screaming and kicking each time mum tried to get hold of him. So she had no choice but to wait until he had calmed down. She sat outside at the top of the stairs, chatting quietly to nan through the bannisters.

"What's it about, Cath?"

"I've no idea, mum. He said I'd lied to him."

"About what?"

"I don't know. I can't get him out of there."

"How did he get home?"

"He must have run home."

"Do you want me to pop up to the school and find out what happened?"

"Let's wait a bit and see. I'll find out soon enough."

 

Eventually, when he'd cried and screamed himself out, Tom came out of the toilet and saw mum sitting there. She smiled at him and held out her arms, and he went to her - sitting next to her on the stair and huddling against her.

"What's this all about, now," she said, quietly and firmly. "Why did you say I'd lied to you?"

Between sniffs, he explained what had happened. How his threes were wrong. What Miss Farnham had made him do. They got up and mum took him to the kitchen. She sat him at the table, then got a pen and a piece of paper.

"Show me how you did it."

He wrote the number for her:

3

She looked at it, puzzled.

"There's nothing wrong with that. That's a three."

Tom shook his head. "She said it wasn't. She said I'd done it wrong. She got me to write it all over the blackboard, and everyone was laughing at me. She still said it was wrong."

"Alright," she said. "We'll soon see about that."

She got her coat and shoes on and called nan up to sit with him while she went up to the school. He looked up at the clock on the wall. It showed just turned ten-past ten - a smile with the position of the hands. The minute hand moved closer to the next number. He pointed up at it.

"What's the number at quarter-past, nan."

"Three, love," she said.

"That's how I wrote it," he said. "Why did the teacher say it was wrong?"

"I don't know, love. She must be daft. That's always been a three for as long as I've known."

 

The answer, as it turned out, was simple. Tom hadn't looked hard enough at the way Miss Farnham had written the number at the top of his page. The way that she wanted it copied.

Ʒ

"But I've never seen it written that way before," Tom said, as mum showed him.

"Sometimes it's written that way. But it's alright. It's nearly always done the way you did it, so you didn't do it wrong."

"But why did she say it was?"

"I'll talk to her after school and find out."

He shook his head.

"I don't want to go back there," he said, the panic rising again.

"But Miss Newman's coming back next week."

"I'm not going back if Miss Farnham's there."

It was Thursday. Mum sighed and looked at nan.

"I'd keep him home, love," nan said. "He's so upset, and it's only a couple of days."

Tom settled again at those words.

"Please don't let me go back."

She looked at him.

"Come on. Let's get you cleaned up a bit."

As she led him out to the scullery, she turned to nan.

"Wait 'til Dan hears about this. That woman will get a piece of my mind."

(continued)