33 33 Thomas was a child of the dales. He was a small boy with a crown of close-cropped fair hair and large pale eyes between almost colourless lashes. I have met many a good little reader on my visits to schools and he was one of the best. He read from his book with grim determination in a loud and confident voice.
‘You’re a very good reader,’ I commented when he snapped the book shut.
‘Aye,’ he replied, nodding sagely.
‘Do you like reading?’
‘I do.’
‘And I see from your reading card you’ve read a lot of books this year.’
‘I have.’
‘Do you read at home?’
‘Sometimes.’
It was like extracting blood from a stone but I persevered. ‘And what do you like reading about?’ I asked cheerfully.
‘Animals mostly.’
‘Farm animals? Wild animals?’
‘All animals.’
‘And do you have any animals at home?’
‘A few.’
‘What sort?’ I asked.
‘Mostly black and white on green.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Cows,’ he said quietly. ‘I live on a farm.’ Then a slight smile came to his lips and his expression took on a sort of patient, sympathetic, tolerant look.
‘Do you know owt about cows, then?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said feebly. I should have left it there but I persisted. ‘Would you like to tell me about the cows on your farm?’
‘There’s not that much to tell really, cows is cows.’
‘You’re not a very talkative little boy, are you?’ I said, peering into the pale eyes.
‘If I’ve got owt to say I says it, and if I’ve got owt to ask I asks it,’ he replied casually.
