She’s listening carefully, as I read the latest letter from her father. She doesn’t read well, and his letters show that he’s barely literate himself. The lined sheet is covered with disjointed sentences and misspelled words, some thickly scribbled out by black biro. Thankfully, they’re always brief.In two months Janie will be released, and the education staff have realised that she’s not equipped to deal with life on the out. To try and prepare her, they’ve organised day release for her to attend a course in basic literacy and numeracy at the further education college in Ipswich. She hates it, but she goes obediently, on the train, across town on a bus, to sit and learn lessons she should have done a decade ago. “How are the classes going?”She grimaces like a child forced to swallow medicine. “It’s so hard, Rose,” she says, “but my teacher’s nice. I’m allowed to wait in the classroom during break,’cos I don’t like to mix with the other students. Miss Reed has a kettle and a jar of coffee in her desk, and we sit and have a drink together.
