Colouring In Read Online Free Page A

stopped as soon as she heard the door. But my goodness was she storming away! Very loud. Angry, like. I was quite disturbed. I realised later it was about the time she heard her father had cancer.
    Mr. Grant I know less well, of course. But from what I can tell he’s the sort of man the English do best. A lot in common with my Bill. Very upright, dignified, charming, always a twinkle in his eye. As courteous as you could want. He’s not old-fashioned, exactly, but always nicely turned out, none of those T-shirts on a week day that so many men fancy these days. And it’s my private belief he’s something of a passionate man. Passionate at the desk, passionate in the bed as they say – well, as Bill used to say. I’m never quite sure what it is exactly Mr. Grant does in his office – though it must bring in a certain wage – but up in his study it’s my guess he’s a passionate at his desk, writing away. When I come on a Monday morning his waste-paper basket is overflowing with bits of screwed up typing paper. It’s all over the floor. As for his desk – well. Mrs. Grant says he writes plays, and they’re very good. To my knowledge he’s only had one put on but he keeps at it. Very determined. Sometimes I go for days without seeing Mr. Grant, he’s off so early. But when we do run into each other he’s always full of appreciation. ‘No one like you for polishing the fender, Gwen’, he’ll say, ‘and definitely no one like you for ironing a shirt’. He’s promised that on my next birthday (I think they’ve guessed what it is – God forbid!) – we’ll all go for a meal and see The Mousetrap , something I’ve been wanting to do for I don’t know how long.
    Sylvie: Sylvie is something else. A nice enough girl, but moody, headstrong. Not particularly spoilt, though she’s got every toy and gadget you can think of. Eighty three stuffed animals in her bedroom – I counted them. As for her bedroom itself, it’s a tip. I can only hoover when Mrs. Grant has insisted she clears up, about once a month. She’s stuck things all over the walls, too, so you can hardly see the pretty wallpaper which she told me was soppy. Over her desk she’s stuck up a list of words. I can’t help reading them because they’re in such big letters. Apparently they are her made-up words. Mrs. Grant told me she slips one occasionally into her school essays to see if her teacher will notice, and she hardly ever does.
    There’s no denying Sylvie’s a charmer, like her father. One of her smiles, with her head tipped on one side, and she can have anyone eating out of her hand. At the moment she’s got those train tracks on her teeth, but I reckon she’ll be a beauty like her mother one day, and go somewhere in the world. She’s got all these scatty ideas, and more than her fair share of energy and imagination. I reckon Mr. and Mrs. Grant will have trouble on their hands in a few years time, once she’s in her teens, just as I did with Jan. But she’ll come through. She’ll be all right in the end. Once she ran down stairs and flung her arms round my neck and said I was the best . You can’t help being won round by something like that. I said to her mother, I said ‘One day Sylvie’ll have her name in lights, mark my word’. Pity she didn’t have any brothers or sisters, really. I believe there was some trouble, though I didn’t enquire. Still, they’re a good family. I’d like to think I can keep working for them till my bones force me to stop.
BERT
    God it’s good to be home. Can’t think why I dithered for so long. New York’s all very well for a while. Exhilarating in a way that London isn’t. But for real life…
    Was a bit depressed when I came into the house. The tenants have taken their toll. Nothing specific – just an air of acute shabbiness which wasn’t there when I left. Though I suppose, nearly ten years ago, that’s not unreasonable. There was an unpleasant smell – a clash of old smoke and