the bum-bailiffs.
Mary-Ann knew whoâd shopped her, because while she was busy at the handle sheâd seen Florrie Voceâs face reflected in the glass. When tackled about it later Florrie denied it all, but called Mary-Ann an old cow for accusing her of such a thing. Normally good-natured and pacific, Mary-Ann went into the house, and came out with a cup, which she threw with full force and deadly aim at Florrie who has hanging washing up in the yard.
The group of houses abutted the school, and the silence of the classrooms was shattered by a squealing such as could only come from a pig in the process of being slaughtered, or a person whose throat was being unjustly cut. A young lady teacher, rattled by the sound, sent one of Mary-Annâs daughters out to see what was the matter.
Such noise from Bridge Yard was not unusual, but this time it was prolonged for what seemed beyond reasonâit being that the cup hurled by Mary-Ann had caught Florrie full in the eye, and cut her both above and below it. A policeman was fetched, and Mary-Ann had to appear at the Guildhall on a charge of breaching the peace and common assault, for which she was fined the sum of £2.
Not that this caused any final rupture between the two women, because a few years later Florrie Voce came to Oliverâs funeral and was the loudest wailer at it. They knew that you couldnât make enemies in your own backyard, though you had your ructions now and again. And a £2 fine would never convince Mary-Ann that sheâd paid for the cardinal sin of committing violence on a neighbour, a pass sheâd got herself into which was right out of character, and which she never did again.
She was a kind, hardworking woman, and thought more about other people than herself. Because of this she was seen as a simple personâa deceptively simple judgement which isnât worth much comment.
She used to collect the coloured cards from Burtonâs cigarettes and store them in the spice cupboard. They lay there for weeks and months until she had enough to make it worth while presenting them to me in an empty Robin packet. They were impregnated with the smell of curry and pepper, aloes and cloves, sage and thyme. A few years before she died she gave the same cupboard to me and I kept my first collection of books in it.
With a touching and solemn expression she also gave me a stick of oak about six inches long, no more than a piece of kindling, assuring me that it had been part of the ship in which the Good Lord Nelson had died. She had paid the exorbitant sum of sixpence for it to some cunning old robber who had once come to her door. I donât remember what happened to it. No doubt I treasured it for a while, then lost it on the long road my itching feet have since travelled.
It is good for the self-confidence of a child to be spoiled when young. The awful word âspoilâ only means love and care, and freedom from unreasonable restrictions so that any good qualities can develop. To do good is the only way to teach others to do good, and to spoil is not to ruin, for it gives a child a sense of his own significance that will strengthen him to face the world and survive.
The reason people donât know what they want, and therefore do not know what to do at certain vital moments of their lives, is because they were told too often as children exactly what they could have and do, and not left enough to their own usually innocent choices. Parents may spoil a child yet not ruin it, though many are too frightened to try. It is usually left to the grandparents, who need to love a child in order to go on living themselves, and who often spoil grandchildren to make up for having been too harsh with their own. They can also spoil a grandchild so as to make life hard for its parents when that child grows up and begins to assert itself, but that is another matter, and nothing to do with the relatively uncomplicated Burton morality.
On a
Mary-Ann knew whoâd shopped her, because while she was busy at the handle sheâd seen Florrie Voceâs face reflected in the glass. When tackled about it later Florrie denied it all, but called Mary-Ann an old cow for accusing her of such a thing. Normally good-natured and pacific, Mary-Ann went into the house, and came out with a cup, which she threw with full force and deadly aim at Florrie who has hanging washing up in the yard.
The group of houses abutted the school, and the silence of the classrooms was shattered by a squealing such as could only come from a pig in the process of being slaughtered, or a person whose throat was being unjustly cut. A young lady teacher, rattled by the sound, sent one of Mary-Annâs daughters out to see what was the matter.
Such noise from Bridge Yard was not unusual, but this time it was prolonged for what seemed beyond reasonâit being that the cup hurled by Mary-Ann had caught Florrie full in the eye, and cut her both above and below it. A policeman was fetched, and Mary-Ann had to appear at the Guildhall on a charge of breaching the peace and common assault, for which she was fined the sum of £2.
Not that this caused any final rupture between the two women, because a few years later Florrie Voce came to Oliverâs funeral and was the loudest wailer at it. They knew that you couldnât make enemies in your own backyard, though you had your ructions now and again. And a £2 fine would never convince Mary-Ann that sheâd paid for the cardinal sin of committing violence on a neighbour, a pass sheâd got herself into which was right out of character, and which she never did again.
She was a kind, hardworking woman, and thought more about other people than herself. Because of this she was seen as a simple personâa deceptively simple judgement which isnât worth much comment.
She used to collect the coloured cards from Burtonâs cigarettes and store them in the spice cupboard. They lay there for weeks and months until she had enough to make it worth while presenting them to me in an empty Robin packet. They were impregnated with the smell of curry and pepper, aloes and cloves, sage and thyme. A few years before she died she gave the same cupboard to me and I kept my first collection of books in it.
With a touching and solemn expression she also gave me a stick of oak about six inches long, no more than a piece of kindling, assuring me that it had been part of the ship in which the Good Lord Nelson had died. She had paid the exorbitant sum of sixpence for it to some cunning old robber who had once come to her door. I donât remember what happened to it. No doubt I treasured it for a while, then lost it on the long road my itching feet have since travelled.
It is good for the self-confidence of a child to be spoiled when young. The awful word âspoilâ only means love and care, and freedom from unreasonable restrictions so that any good qualities can develop. To do good is the only way to teach others to do good, and to spoil is not to ruin, for it gives a child a sense of his own significance that will strengthen him to face the world and survive.
The reason people donât know what they want, and therefore do not know what to do at certain vital moments of their lives, is because they were told too often as children exactly what they could have and do, and not left enough to their own usually innocent choices. Parents may spoil a child yet not ruin it, though many are too frightened to try. It is usually left to the grandparents, who need to love a child in order to go on living themselves, and who often spoil grandchildren to make up for having been too harsh with their own. They can also spoil a grandchild so as to make life hard for its parents when that child grows up and begins to assert itself, but that is another matter, and nothing to do with the relatively uncomplicated Burton morality.
On a
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