“It isn't trash, daddy, it's lovely. It's called The Red Pony. It's by John Steinbeck, an American writer. Why don't you try it? You'll love it.”
“Filth,” Mr Wormwood said. “If it's by an American it's certain to be filth. That's all they write about.”
“No daddy, it's beautiful, honestly it is. It's about...” “I don't want to know what it's about,” Mr Wormwood barked.
“I'm fed up with your reading anyway. Go and find yourself something useful to do.”
With frightening suddenness he now began ripping the pages out of the book in handfuls and throwing them in the waste-paper basket.
Matilda froze in horror. The father kept going. There seemed little doubt that the man felt some kind of jealousy.
How dare she, he seemed to be saying with each rip of a page, how dare she enjoy reading books when he couldn't? How dare she?
“That's a library book!” Matilda cried. “It doesn't belong to me! I have to return it to Mrs Phelps!”
“Then you'll have to buy another one, won't you?” the father said, still tearing out pages.
“You'll have to save your pocket-money until there's enough in the kitty to buy a new one for your precious Mrs Phelps, won't you?”
With that he dropped the now empty covers of the book into the basket and marched out of the room, leaving the telly blaring.
Most children in Matilda's place would have burst into floods of tears. She didn't do this. She sat there very still and white and thoughtful.
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