“Good evening, Mr Thomas,” George said, approaching with a cheerful smile and a wave of his hand. “Getting ready for planting, eh? That soil looks good. By Jove! I envy you this garden.”
“’Evening,” Mr Thomas grunted, and took off his cap to scratch his head.
“I wonder if you can spare us a moment?” George went on. “We’ve come to have a little chat about Jean and Tommy I hear they’re doing very well at school.”
Mr Thomas brightened; embarrassed suspicion left his face. “From the school, are yer?” he said. He looked round the small garden a little helplessly, and then, raising his voice, he bawled, “’Ere, Emmie! Come ’ere, can’t yer?”
Mrs Thomas and the two children joined them.
“These two gents are from the school,” Mr Thomas said, wiping his hands on the seat of his trousers. He glared at the children. “Wot ’ave you two bin up to?”
“Oh, it’s nothing like that,” George put in hastily as the two children looked sheepish. “Your kiddies are a credit to you both. They’re doing so well at school I thought you might consider helping them to do even better.”
Mr Thomas looked blankly at his wife. “I dunno about that…” he began, and, getting no support from his wife, he lapsed into silence.
“Perhaps we could go inside for a moment?” George asked, moving towards the house. “I won’t keep you long, but it’s easier to talk inside than in the garden, isn’t it?”
Rather reluctantly, Mr Thomas led the way into the squalid little house. They all crowded into the small front parlour. Mr Thomas dusted two chairs with his cap and pushed them forward, warned his children that if they didn’t sit quiet he’d knock their blocks off, and sat down himself. Mrs Thomas stood by the window.