She did so whenever their backs were turned. It became her obsession, her mission, her vocation. Most nights, she found some sort of pretext to come creeping to my bedside.
 “You aren’t allowed to read to me.”
 “Look what I found at school.”
 “Wow a comic. Can I have it?”
 “Of course not. You aren’t allowed to have comics. You know that. But you can look at the pictures and I’ll read you the words.”
    You pointed to the inscription on the open page. “Phantom. Ghost who walks.”
 “Hey, shit! You read it.”
 “Nar. I jest know that’s what it says.”
 “Well maybe you can read the whole bloody thing yourself!”
 “No! No! I only know that bit. Bucky showed me. He says it all the time. Gowan, read, please, please, please.”
In fact it proved to be a slow process, for as soon as she started, guilt would overwhelm her and she’d have to stop. But slowly, by stealth, the nightly reading sessions were resumed.
    Long after it had been clearly established that the prohibition had offered no improvement whatsoever to my reading skills and the adults turned the blind eye of resignation to the resumption to my nightly joy, still Rosely seemed to blame herself for my deficiency. Her demeanour became that of the sinner seeking repentance, which was a good thing because that seemed to encourage her to want to read to me books rather more to my liking.