One day, Tommy came home from school in tears. His mum asked him what the matter was, but he said nothing. He didn’t want to tell her what had upset him. His mum went into the kitchen to cut up an apple for his snack, and Tommy stood in the doorway of his room watching her, still saying nothing.
“What’s up, Tommy? Did you have a bad day at school?”
Tommy still didn’t respond. His mum washed the apple, came over and crouched down in front of him. “Wouldn’t you like to help me make a pie?” she asked, and stroked his hand. So they started baking together. They peeled the apples, cut out the cores, sliced them, and arranged them in the pie dish.
“Do you know what, Mummy?” Tommy began, as he laid the apple slices carefully one overlapping another in the pie dish. “The other children in school laughed at me today, they said I have black skin…” And he started crying again.
“My little treasure,” soothed his mum, giving him a big hug. “I’ll tell you what. Look at these apples.”
Tommy was puzzled. Apples? He’d just plucked up the courage to tell his mum what was troubling him. What did apples have to do with it?
“This slice, for example,” his mum continued, picking up one of the apple slices out of the pie dish, “what colour was its skin?”
“I don’t know,” said Tommy. He remembered that the apples his mum had brought up from the cellar were all different. Some were red, some green and some yellowish. But he hadn’t paid much attention to their colour and now they were all peeled.
“Do you think this one tastes sweet? Or a bit sour?” his Mum asked.
Tommy didn’t…
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