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sir,’ he said, before sinking back in his seat, eyes down, chin down. Not so the mute. Her chin lifted defiantly as her eyes darted from her brother to the headmaster then back again.
    She was all points and angles this girl-child of Jack Burton. ‘Tense as sprung steel, coiled too long in unnatural bend,’ the fat man muttered, approaching her side of the desk.
    The child’s eyes obsessed him. They were the eyes of a wild thing, like two saucers, circular, incongruous amid so many angles. Eyes without trust, without hope. A feral thing, trapped in his classroom, but only for as long as she wanted to stay.
    Determinedly, he lifted the hem of her skimpy frock and studied the scabby welts crisscrossing her thigh.
    â€˜How did that happen, Burton?’ he asked the boy.
    â€˜She fell out of a tree, sir,’ Ben replied, studying the desk.
    The headmaster released the fabric, sighed. ‘You violate the truth, methinks, Burton. Do you know the meaning of the word?’
    â€˜They violate the graves of the dead, sir. Break into them and rob them, sir.’
    â€˜Indeed they do. Indeed they do, Burton. To break into, to disturb. You and yours violate my peace of mind,’ he admitted, then he wheeled again on the class.
    â€˜Rhyme, rhythm and alliteration. A poet uses musical language to make his poem easily remembered, he uses rhyme and meter, his poem becomes a song without music. However, modern poets are now leaning towards free verse. It has no meter at all. I have heard it said that the rhythm of a metrical poem can be compared to a heartbeat, but free verse is like the wind in the trees, so take up your pens and create for me a breeze, write me up a storm. Make me a poem.’
    His request was greeted by groans and the slam of desktops. His pupils had still hoped for an early release.
    Ben’s hand was raised. ‘Please, sir, can I give Annie my maths book to write in?’
    â€˜I dare say you can, Burton. What you mean is, may I give Ann my maths book.’
    â€˜May I, sir?’
    â€˜You may, Burton. Perhaps she would prefer a slate and chalk, to draw Christmas trees in the snow with Mrs Macy’s brood. Consider for a moment her needs. You may be denying her some small pleasure by your worthy desire to protect.’
    â€˜She can use a pencil, sir,’ the boy replied and Malcolm Fletcher sat again at his desk.
    The child’s hand was moving backwards and forwards across the page. She appeared to be writing. He watched her while thoughtfully massaging the bridge of his nose with his index finger. The heavy spectacles he was forced to wear irritated him, as the weather irritated him and the level of his thermos flask irritated him, as did this dark-eyed brat. Her hand was still moving, mimicking her brother’s. Finally, curiosity got the better of him.
    Approaching from the rear of the classroom, he peered at the page she protected in the curve of her arm. He frowned and leaned closer, then his hand reached out and snatched up the book.
    She sprang away from him like a startled kitten, cowering against her brother, but the headmaster had lost interest in the child; he was reading.
    A POEM FOR MY BEN
    Grey green eyes.
    Hair the colour of wheat brown dried by the summer’s sun.
    Arms thin, gum tree sapling reaching for light. Face long, sad, gentle.
    When he tells me secret dreams, his grey green eyes glow like fire,
    a tiny candle that explodes. And he laughs.
    Then I laugh too, because Ben’s happy.
    â€˜The child is literate!’ Words finally found their way through shock and self disgust at his own neglect. ‘She can write, boy.’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    â€˜I understood she was a deaf mute. Unschooled.’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    â€˜Rubbish!’
    The fat man’s near-sighted eyes again scanned the page of neat script, then he noticed every eye in the classroom was focused on him and the two Burtons.
    â€˜Scat! Depart! Get out