Clive's reach four inches higher than that of any other child in the school, his hands and clothes were stained with black marks. It transpired that he'd wandered into the staffroom at a time when nobody was about and had done the deed, afterwards throwing the marker away in the garden. Later, Naomi had picked it up.
"I'm afraid Mrs. Straw is a vengeful woman," Julia Musgrave confided to Diamond. "She does work hard for the school, though. I don't think we'd manage without her."
"She was right about one thing," he admitted. "I was daft to leave the marker out." In this confessional vein, he went on rashly to promise to redecorate the staffroom—a severe penance indeed. This little crisis had sidetracked them from the more vital issue of whether it was right to put Naomi on television; not for long, he was resolved.
As he was leaving, calculating how many cans of emulsion he'd need, Julia called his name and came after him into the corridor.
He stopped, uncertain what to expect.
"You can have your marker back," she told him. "Believe it or not, the ink isn't all used up yet."
He pocketed it, slightly puzzled. The marker belonged to the school anyway. She must have known.
She said,"You don't really have to go to all that trouble— over the staffroom, I mean."
"It's no sweat for me," he lied.
"I appreciate the offer, only I wouldn't want you to think it will change anything."
"Except the color of the staffroom," he said, grinning.
When he turned, he almost fell over Naomi. She must have been standing extremely close behind him, apparently waiting, because she stretched up her hand towards him. Twice in a day, he thought. This is too amazing to be true.
He extended his hand towards hers, but immediately she pulled it away. She didn't, after all, wish to renew the contact.
"Have it your way," he said, wryly reflecting that even at that tender age, women played fast and loose with decent men's affections.
Sure enough, she proffered me hand a second time, only now her palm was outstretched as if she were asking for money.
"What is it, Naomi?" he asked, bending lower. "What are you trying to say?"
Her eyes had lost that habitual glazed look. She was focusing on him intently, her forehead creased in concern. She began jabbing her hand at him repeatedly like a beggar in a Cairo bazaar.
He asked, "Are you hungry?"
Whatever the problem was, she was really trying to communicate— a huge advance after six passive weeks—and the least he could do in return was discover what she wanted.
"It can't be money."
As he bent even closer to her upturned face, she reached for his jacket, pulled it open and dipped her free hand into the inner pocket
"Young lady," he said, "you're sharper than anyone suspected."
Only it wasn't his wallet she was after. It was the marker that he'd stowed away in there after seeing Julia. Naomi whipped it out and clutched it to her chest with both hands, as if she wanted nothing so much in the world.
"God help us!" he said to her. "What do I do now?"
It was quite a dilemma. If he let her keep the thing, someone— Mrs. Straw, knowing his luck—was certain to see it and inform the rest of the school that they had a fifth columnist in their midst. Julia Musgrave would feel betrayed. If, on the other hand, he insisted on taking the marker back, the first shoots of affection he'd cultivated would be trampled upon, destroyed forever. He remembered Mrs. Straw's saying how she'd needed to pry Naomi's fingers away one by one. Clearly, that pen was a treasure to the child.
He decided to let her keep it, and run the risk that Clive might snatch it away and go on a graffiti spree again. He was pretty confident Naomi wouldn't lightly give up her prize.
Gently, he put a hand on her shoulder and steered her in the direction of the staffroom. She was as compliant as ever now that he'd made it plain that he wasn't going to take back the marker. Coming into the staffroom without thinking about Clive's
"I'm afraid Mrs. Straw is a vengeful woman," Julia Musgrave confided to Diamond. "She does work hard for the school, though. I don't think we'd manage without her."
"She was right about one thing," he admitted. "I was daft to leave the marker out." In this confessional vein, he went on rashly to promise to redecorate the staffroom—a severe penance indeed. This little crisis had sidetracked them from the more vital issue of whether it was right to put Naomi on television; not for long, he was resolved.
As he was leaving, calculating how many cans of emulsion he'd need, Julia called his name and came after him into the corridor.
He stopped, uncertain what to expect.
"You can have your marker back," she told him. "Believe it or not, the ink isn't all used up yet."
He pocketed it, slightly puzzled. The marker belonged to the school anyway. She must have known.
She said,"You don't really have to go to all that trouble— over the staffroom, I mean."
"It's no sweat for me," he lied.
"I appreciate the offer, only I wouldn't want you to think it will change anything."
"Except the color of the staffroom," he said, grinning.
When he turned, he almost fell over Naomi. She must have been standing extremely close behind him, apparently waiting, because she stretched up her hand towards him. Twice in a day, he thought. This is too amazing to be true.
He extended his hand towards hers, but immediately she pulled it away. She didn't, after all, wish to renew the contact.
"Have it your way," he said, wryly reflecting that even at that tender age, women played fast and loose with decent men's affections.
Sure enough, she proffered me hand a second time, only now her palm was outstretched as if she were asking for money.
"What is it, Naomi?" he asked, bending lower. "What are you trying to say?"
Her eyes had lost that habitual glazed look. She was focusing on him intently, her forehead creased in concern. She began jabbing her hand at him repeatedly like a beggar in a Cairo bazaar.
He asked, "Are you hungry?"
Whatever the problem was, she was really trying to communicate— a huge advance after six passive weeks—and the least he could do in return was discover what she wanted.
"It can't be money."
As he bent even closer to her upturned face, she reached for his jacket, pulled it open and dipped her free hand into the inner pocket
"Young lady," he said, "you're sharper than anyone suspected."
Only it wasn't his wallet she was after. It was the marker that he'd stowed away in there after seeing Julia. Naomi whipped it out and clutched it to her chest with both hands, as if she wanted nothing so much in the world.
"God help us!" he said to her. "What do I do now?"
It was quite a dilemma. If he let her keep the thing, someone— Mrs. Straw, knowing his luck—was certain to see it and inform the rest of the school that they had a fifth columnist in their midst. Julia Musgrave would feel betrayed. If, on the other hand, he insisted on taking the marker back, the first shoots of affection he'd cultivated would be trampled upon, destroyed forever. He remembered Mrs. Straw's saying how she'd needed to pry Naomi's fingers away one by one. Clearly, that pen was a treasure to the child.
He decided to let her keep it, and run the risk that Clive might snatch it away and go on a graffiti spree again. He was pretty confident Naomi wouldn't lightly give up her prize.
Gently, he put a hand on her shoulder and steered her in the direction of the staffroom. She was as compliant as ever now that he'd made it plain that he wasn't going to take back the marker. Coming into the staffroom without thinking about Clive's
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