Wes was back at school, not the next day, but the day after. It was funny, when he’d seen us at his house he hadn’t said or done much. But when he saw us at school, his first day back, he raced over at full-speed and head-butted right into us—he was so excited he just didn’t bother to stop. It was pretty funny really.
In class that morning we had to go outside and find an ant and follow it for a while and write down everything we could about it—its size, its appearance, the way it moved, the way it reacted to other ants, and so on. After we’d done that we had to go and find another ant, and do the same thing again. Then we had to compare the two ants. It was amazing. They were so different; I’d never really thought about ants being different from each other before. They’d always just seemed like . . . ants. I guess it’s like people in a way—all being different, I mean. Maybe to people from outer space we look like ants.
In the afternoon we did some writing and we were allowed to choose our own topic. I couldn’t think of anything to write for a while, but then I wrote this:
SHADOWS
We were walking along the street, and it was full of sunshine. There were four of us: an old man, my father, my little brother and me. I don’t know where we were going, but I think it was to get water. We were wearing hats and carrying buckets.
As we walked we talked. The old man was showing us how to get there. My father kept going off to look at other things along the way. He collected some of them. My little brother was worried because he thought something was following us. I told him not to worry.
When we got there, the old man fell in the water and drowned. I thought my father would save him but he was nowhere to be found. My little brother was getting in too deep too, but I managed to pull him out before he got into trouble. I took him home and dried him, but we forgot our buckets, so there was no water at home that night.
It was a strange piece of writing. I didn’t understand it myself really, but it was a bit like a dream I’d had. I didn’t read it out to the class this time though.
At the end of the day, when there were still ten minutes left, we played a sort of game we sometimes played, called ‘Interviews’. Each time we played, a different kid would get asked all these crazy questions by Mr Murlin, and he or she would have to answer as quickly as possible. The rule was ‘Don’t think, just answer’. Today it was Michael Marsh and the first question was:
‘What’s your favourite finger?’
‘Fish finger.’
‘Who would you choose for Prime Minister?’
‘Inspector Gadget.’
‘What would you most like for a pet?’
‘A Walkman.’
‘What goes best with ice-cream?’
‘Liquid Paper.’
‘What’s your favourite kitchen appliance?’
‘Rocks.’
‘What’s your favourite word?’
‘Breakfast.’
‘Choose a nickname for yourself.’
‘Trogg.’
‘Who’s the best Year Five Teacher you ever had?’
‘Um . . . Pass . . .’ Michael said. Mr Murlin chucked a piece of chalk at him, then a duster, then a book, then everything he could lay his hands on—maps, pens, bags, jumpers. Michael retaliated with all those things, plus more. The air was full of missiles, as the rest of us ducked, laughed, yelled, then joined in. In the middle of it all, when we had Mr Murlin penned up behind a cupboard in the corner, and losing badly, Miss Holland walked in. There was a silence like you get in a paper bag. Mr Murlin just grinned at her and said, ‘Thank God for the cavalry.’ Miss Holland turned around and walked out. Just then the bell rang, and it was the end of classes for the day.