And Did Those Feet ... Read Online Free Page B

not to be. The door opened and it was the familiar shape of Constable Keith, our bulky Community Constable. He had spoken to us the previous year about shoplifting. I imagined him like a cartoon character who ran around whacking people on the head with a stick. His mission was to explain to me “the pathways” I would take if I ever repeated this behaviour
in the community.
I was lucky that this happened in a school because if it happened
in the community
(he used that expression a lot) there were no prizes for guessing where that would lead to.
    Yep, it was a pathway that led straight to the slammer.
    I remembered thinking that I was getting some good practice for that anyway, with Ada looking after me.
    Then Dad was called in. It seemed funny having him in the school, he looked out of place, like seeing a giraffe in your toilet. He’d never been there before. Hated schools he said. Looked really uncomfortable, kept trying to loosen his tie, like he was choking. But it was no good. All the talk came to nothing. Our final positions on the matter were these.
    They
called it “unprovoked assault”.
    I
called it “takin’ out the trash”.
    Which version’s correct? Who cares? The month’s suspension brought Dad to his senses though. It took this to make him sit up and take notice.
    He thought he would leave me at home with Ada. Just sort of wait the period out and then send me back, but I made it clear that I was not going to stay in the house with that woman, and that was that. If he tried that one I would be gone. You wouldn’t see me for dust. I guess I must have looked pretty determined because he didn’t do it.
    For a day or two he took me into work with him. I would read my book or play on the computer while he did his deals. Then we would get into the car and visit some guy and it was more of the same. I didn’t mind this but it was starting to cramp Dad’s style. I could tell it wasn’t going to last.
    Then one night after tea, there he was, on the phone, desperate now, begging his younger brother to take me on.
    “I’ve tried everything … the kid’s in a bad way … I’m at my wit’s end … ever since … ever since it’s been just the two of us nothing has worked out for him … aggressive, violent, untrustworthy … there’s a gun at my head … space, time to reflect, fresh air, animals, family life … they’re scared of him, scared of what he might do… That would be great … that would be amazing … just a short spell … Yeah, I owe you big time … regards to Lorna … yeah … yeah … I know … okay … yeah … promise … a couple of days, see ya …”
    That’s where Uncle Frank comes into the picture.

M Y V IEW OF THE C OUNTRY …
AND ITS I NHABITANTS
    I’VE always had this thing about the country. Not a bad place but full of thickos. Big friendly types but in the barnyard animal sort of way. Your brain, which usually operates at about 100 ks in the town has to do a steady 20–30 ks in the country otherwise you’ve got all these country types standing around saying “Eh? Eh? What’s that again?” It’s like living life in slow motion.
    I’m not one-eyed about this, though. There are good points to living in the country. There’s no law out there, so you get to drive things way before you’re fifteen. The Landrover. The tractor. The quad-bike. As well as getting to drive anything with a motor you get to ride quite a few things without motors; horses, goats and if you’re a bit on the weedy side (and I suspect that you are) sheep. Yeah you didn’t know that did you? Most farm kids ride sheep. You don’t see much of that on
Country Calendar.
You can bet it’s frowned on by the “be nice to our four-legged friends” brigade.
    I might mention at this point that you get to shoot guns too. Try doing that around your neighbourhood, they’d call out the armed offenders squad before you can say Kalashnikov .
    But