Giving piggybacks
The house opposite the school I work has been slapped together using nothing more than concrete blocks you find on the inside of households in England. Clearly visible is the cement fixing between each one whicha appears casual and lazy. The wall itself can be no thicker than the size of a fist. The roof, made of tin, is similar to ones found on English haybarns in the countryside. Where the roof doesn´t meet the wall, thanks to the 'U' shaped structure, the holes are filled in with cement as well. A gust of wind or a long cold night, would send shivers down your spine.
The colour you see is grey which matches the plastic tarpaulins used instead of glass for the windows. At least the tempory covering hides the iron bars used as a rather feeble way to keep out intruders.
Overall, the house could be mistaken for an abandoned building site and is aestheticaly appaualling.
The residents are a large familly prising of a mother, father and their seven children with the eldest being 18 and the youngest just seven months.
It is the middle of these children, a girl called Martha, that I have felt a particular attachment to. She is just 12 years of age but has responsibilities comparable to thats of a middle aged housewife. She is about four and a half feet tall, her shoulders coming up to the height of a door handle.
Often asked to stay at home to babysit (which involves carrying your baby sibling on your back all day), clean the house or do the laundry, Martha has incredible patience for a girl that should do no more than play. When offered fruit, she will make sure that her brothers and sisters are fed ahead of her, which often means she goes without.
And the way they treat her is disgraceful.
One day, when I was working in the school, Martha was playing Bingo with the other children. (Coming to school does not except her from her babysitting duties. She still had her baby brother on her back throughout). After a while, I saw her mother come down the from her house. Her expression was motionless. She entered the classroom without knocking and approached Martha. In one movement, she took her son away from her daughter and kicked her twice on the shin. It was not a half-hearted knock, but a devilish stinging kick that I imagine would hurt even me. But a 6ft man Martha is not, and after I calmed down from the shock I approached Martha who by now was staring glazed eyed out the window. She was so brave to fight back the tears. I pleaded with her to answer the obvious question, why? But her stubbon and strong character kept her quiet as a church. To this day, I have no idea what she had done wrong.
Watching her work whilst her friends play is also painful. Only for me, this time.
Asking where she was went I went round to her 'abandoned house', I was told she had gone for a walk. I knew the feeling so well. A walk, a think, a cure. So when I saw here sitting at the bottom of the bow of the hill with her chin in her hands, I felt an overwhealming sense of loyalty. It was her chill out moment that is so richly deserved. She had that same fixed stare that I saw the day she had been kicked by her mother. It was deep and thoughtful.
Having shouted her name from the top and waving my arms like a lunatic, she came running up the hill as fast as she could and breathing as much oxygen in as her lungs could take so as to have a big hug which I was more than pleased to give. Deciding that she had done enough carrying for one day, I offered my back as a mode the of transport back to her house. So in the afternoon twilight, where shadows are twice the length of your own height, we set off. She was laughing all the way home.
The colour you see is grey which matches the plastic tarpaulins used instead of glass for the windows. At least the tempory covering hides the iron bars used as a rather feeble way to keep out intruders.
Overall, the house could be mistaken for an abandoned building site and is aestheticaly appaualling.
The residents are a large familly prising of a mother, father and their seven children with the eldest being 18 and the youngest just seven months.
It is the middle of these children, a girl called Martha, that I have felt a particular attachment to. She is just 12 years of age but has responsibilities comparable to thats of a middle aged housewife. She is about four and a half feet tall, her shoulders coming up to the height of a door handle.
Often asked to stay at home to babysit (which involves carrying your baby sibling on your back all day), clean the house or do the laundry, Martha has incredible patience for a girl that should do no more than play. When offered fruit, she will make sure that her brothers and sisters are fed ahead of her, which often means she goes without.
And the way they treat her is disgraceful.
One day, when I was working in the school, Martha was playing Bingo with the other children. (Coming to school does not except her from her babysitting duties. She still had her baby brother on her back throughout). After a while, I saw her mother come down the from her house. Her expression was motionless. She entered the classroom without knocking and approached Martha. In one movement, she took her son away from her daughter and kicked her twice on the shin. It was not a half-hearted knock, but a devilish stinging kick that I imagine would hurt even me. But a 6ft man Martha is not, and after I calmed down from the shock I approached Martha who by now was staring glazed eyed out the window. She was so brave to fight back the tears. I pleaded with her to answer the obvious question, why? But her stubbon and strong character kept her quiet as a church. To this day, I have no idea what she had done wrong.
Watching her work whilst her friends play is also painful. Only for me, this time.
Asking where she was went I went round to her 'abandoned house', I was told she had gone for a walk. I knew the feeling so well. A walk, a think, a cure. So when I saw here sitting at the bottom of the bow of the hill with her chin in her hands, I felt an overwhealming sense of loyalty. It was her chill out moment that is so richly deserved. She had that same fixed stare that I saw the day she had been kicked by her mother. It was deep and thoughtful.
Having shouted her name from the top and waving my arms like a lunatic, she came running up the hill as fast as she could and breathing as much oxygen in as her lungs could take so as to have a big hug which I was more than pleased to give. Deciding that she had done enough carrying for one day, I offered my back as a mode the of transport back to her house. So in the afternoon twilight, where shadows are twice the length of your own height, we set off. She was laughing all the way home.
posted by Tom Nicolson at 2:17 PM
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