Protecting the Princess: A Six Word Challenge

(This is a response to a challenge to write a piece that contains six words supplied by a random word generator, with each word being used exactly twice. The words are: coin, spark, planet, parish, flea, architect)

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Poole Grammar School moved in 1966 from its town site to one on the edge of Canford Heath, near Broadstone. I was one of the cohort of pupils that moved with the school, having already been there for three years.

The official opening took place in October, which was not long after we had started the new term. This was somewhat short notice, caused by the fact that Princess Margaret was scheduled to open the new General Hospital, next to Longfleet Parish Church, and it seemed sensible to get her to do two jobs on the same day. She was therefore invited to perform the opening ceremony at PGS before the place was really ready for a royal visit.

There was nothing wrong with the new building as such, but work on the grounds was not yet complete and there were still workmen on site alongside all the pupils and staff.

I was in 4 Arts, our form master being Arthur Hicks, who was also the Senior History Master. Always known as “Tusker”, for reasons that I never found out, he was highly knowledgeable and was the man who was able to spark an interest in history that has never left me to this day. He did, however, have an unfortunate skin disease that led to him constantly scratching like a dog with a flea. You can imagine the response of a class full of schoolboys.

Our classroom was designated as the History room and was therefore on the Princess’s itinerary as she toured the school. Tusker had set up a small museum at the side of the room that contained a few items that had been found by members of the school’s Archaeology Society, such as a reconstructed medieval pot, a Roman coin and some pieces of ancient preserved timber.

We all stood to attention as the Headmaster, Mr Cleave, escorted Princess Margaret into the room and introduced her to Tusker Hicks. Fortunately he was able to ignore the flea for the duration of their conversation, but we could all see that it was a struggle. My mate Chris Dunton had been stationed alongside the museum display and did his best to interest HRH in what was on show. She was clearly bored beyond measure but made all the right noises, as did Chris.

A few words were had with one or two other boys, but fortunately not with me. She asked Steve Wilton what his career plans were, and he said that he might follow in his father’s footsteps and become an architect. I don’t think he did.

The visitors left for their next port of call and we all returned to Planet Earth.

We were, not unexpectedly, imprisoned in the History room until after the Princess had left the building and so had to rely on the evidence of others for what happened next. This included the unveiling of a plaque in the foyer next to the school’s main entrance. The school’s architect had decided that this was a good place to install a large picture window, although the view it gave was only of the short expanse across to the trees that lined the main road.

As mentioned earlier, there was still work being done on the school grounds, and a number of workmen’s huts were strung in a row in front of the trees. The headmaster was concerned that the Princess might glance through the window and be offended by the vision of nasty wooden huts that could have reminded her that the working class not only existed but was only a few yards away. Some days previously Mr Cleave had asked for ideas for solving the problem and some bright spark came up with the perfect solution of which the Head cordially approved.

The entire Third Form of the school was therefore supplied with the appropriate equipment and sent on to the nearby heath to dig up and cut down as many saplings and branches as they could manage to lug back to the school and place in front of the huts to hide their presence and not cause the royal eye to open wide with horror and shock.

As it happened, HRH had her back to the window the entire time and never once glanced in its direction. That afternoon the Third Form got to work again and replanted all the saplings for which this was possible.

Nobody had thought about maybe setting up a temporary curtain or screen in front of the window. That was clearly far too obvious an answer for Mr Cleave’s ingenious mind. To coin two phrases, one had to wonder what parish he thought he was in and what planet said ecclesiastical district was on?

© John Welford

The Hottest Day: a luc bat

The following poem is a "Luc Bat". This is a Vietnamese verse form in which the lines alternate between six and eight syllables, and each rhyme sounds appears three times - as the final syllable of an 8-syllable line, the final syllable of the following 6-syllable line, and the 6th syllable of the following 8-syllable line. The final syllable of the whole poem must rhyme with the final syllable of the opening line.

The hottest day

It is the hottest day

Much hotter than in May or June

Some might call it a boon

Indeed it’s none too soon because

Summer up to now was

Not like you get in Oz or Spain -

We’ve had our share of rain.

So, to say it again, my friends,

A heatwave makes amends

However soon it ends and yet

It’s worth a tiny bet

There’ll still be cause to fret. Oh yes!

You didn’t need to guess.

More may soon turn to less I fear.

I’ve changed to Summer gear

And just got out the beer although

It is too hot to go

Outside but fine to throw out wide

All windows to provide

A cooling breeze inside the house

Or would be if some louse

Maybe told by his spouse had not

Decided that a lot

Of garden mess and rot could burn

And therefore did not spurn

To light a fire and turn the air

To foul from what was fair

Thus causing me to swear and curse

For little could be worse

Than fumes that then traverse the space

To my room from that place

I call it a disgrace. That fire

Calls forth my deepest ire

I wish it would transpire that he

Who caused this tragedy

Would think again and be a tad

More bound to good than bad.

Oh well, at least I’ve had my say.

© John Welford

A piece of cake

The final one-hour exam paper of my Philosophy degree course was due the next day. Traditionally the examiners sprung a surprise for this paper, for which it was impossible to prepare in advance. The idea was to see just how flexible and logical one’s mind was in tackling a philosophical concept. One year there had been just one line on the question paper, which was: “Is this a question?” One student got full marks by writing: “Yes, if this is an answer”, then going to sleep for the rest of the hour.

I saw one of my lecturers in the college bar that evening. He was gleefully knocking back whiskies while I consoled myself with a long-lasting half pint – not only were funds short but it would not have been a good idea to arrive hung over in the exam room the next morning. He came over to where I was and grinned at me. “You worried about the exam?” he said.

“You bet I am”, I said. “I know it’s only a few marks riding on this, but they could make all the difference”.

“Ah, don’t fret yourself”, the lecturer said. “It’ll be a piece of cake”.

That’s all right for you to say, I thought, you’re not the one who’s going to have to do the exam.

I didn’t sleep well that night. I lay awake for hours, trying to imagine what fiendish trick the Philosophy Department might play on this year’s students. “A piece of cake”, the guy had said. “A piece of cake”. All very well for him …

A vivid dream. I was there in the exam room with my five fellow finalists. The exam tables did not have the usual question papers laid on them as we walked in, but white cloths neatly spread over them. We sat down and the presiding examiner said, “You may remove the cloth on your table”.

Under each cloth was a white china plate, and on each plate was – a piece of cake. That was it. No question paper, just a few sheets for one’s answer and a piece of cake. I noticed that each piece was different – I had a reasonably generous slice of Victoria sponge and I could see that my colleague to the left had Dundee cake and to the right there was a small piece of carrot cake. The other plates contained date and walnut, lemon drizzle and chocolate sponge, some pieces being considerably larger than others.

So that was it. The exam really was a piece of cake, or six pieces to be precise. What can you do with a piece of cake? The obvious thought is to eat it, but surely there was more to it than that. The student with the carrot cake did eat his, and then looked around at the other plates with their more generous portions. Some of us clearly wondered whether we might have preferred a different kind of cake, and gave envious looks towards the other plates. One student stood up and offered the carrot cake student a broken-off piece of their own cake, while two others negotiated a direct swop.

It soon became clear to all of us that there was a lot going on here in terms of the ethics of possession and social behaviour, and maybe questions to do with the theory of knowledge, such as how one can know that one action will be more satisfying than another, or even what the mental processes are in deciding the relative qualities and quantities of different objects without having the means to perform definitive tests. This was a proper philosophy exam after all.

But then I woke up and realised that dreams do not match reality and the mystery exam still had to be faced. The six of us therefore walked into the exam room expecting nothing more than a standard question paper with a particularly nasty surprise or two.

But that was not what happened. There on the tables were six white cloths, just as in my dream. Had the lecturer really been giving me a clue, and the exam was actually a piece of cake? I lifted the cloth and discovered that this was not the case.

The exam was a ham sandwich.

© John Welford

Getting Out: a story

The recent annual cricket match between the Shakespeareans and the Chaucereans was not without its usual features of interest and controversy. Lessons were, however, learned from last year’s encounter, in that the disastrous decision to invite Hamlet to stand as umpire was not repeated. His complete indecision when asked to judge on just about anything had led to the match being slowed to a crawl and half the players falling asleep as he pondered on: “Is he out or is he not out, that is the question”, time after time.

This year’s umpires, Chaucer’s Man of Law and Shakespeare’s Portia, fulfilled their roles admirably, although too many batsmen seemed to think that appealing to the latter to be merciful was going to save their bacon.  Reminders to her that mercy, according to her own words, “droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven, upon the place beneath” only led to their wickets doing the dropping.

The aforementioned Hamlet was supposed to open the batting for the Shakespeareans, but his partner, King Lear, found himself alone at the crease while Hamlet stayed behind in the Pavilion mulling over the wisdom of whether to take part. He was heard muttering: “To bat or not to bat” before delivering a soliloquy to nobody in particular. The Man of Law knew the laws of cricket inside out and invoked the little-used three-minute rule to declare that Hamlet had forfeited his wicket by not turning up.

Apart from the Prince of Denmark, players on both sides managed to find some unusual ways of getting out. The Chaucereans made the mistake of putting the Wife of Bath, who was never the most athletic of cricketers, on to bowl, and her first effort was so slow that the ball failed to reach the batsman, who was Macbeth. Just like Hamlet he felt a soliloquy coming on and strode out to meet the red object with the words: “Is this a cricket ball which I see before me, the seam toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.” Unfortunately he did precisely that and was adjudged out “handled the ball”.

Richard III’s innings was short and his defeat was perhaps inevitable. Having been pummelled by lots of short-pitched bowling from unscrupulous Chaucereans such as the Monk and the Friar he decided that his only way of scoring any runs would be by preventing the fielders from getting close to the ball should he ever manage to hit it. When this happened at long last he called out “A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!” and three nags from a neighbouring field responded to his call by leaping on to the pitch and generally getting in the way. Portia and the Man of Law had a long debate over whether this constituted “obstructing the field”. They finally decided that it did and sent Richard on his way back to the Pavilion.

Chaucer’s Knight started his innings well enough, putting up a stout defence to anything that the Shakespearean bowlers could hurl at him. However, when he played a shot that sent the ball towards the covers he got a sudden rush of blood to the head and charged off after it. On reaching the ball he gave it another whack that sent it over the boundary but all to no avail. He was dismissed by Portia for “hitting the ball twice”.

The match might have reached a conclusion had it not been abandoned due to the riot that broke out in the beer tent. Tensions had been growing all day due to the disagreement between Harry Bailey, mine host of the Tabard Inn, Southwark, and Mistress Quickly of the Boar’s Head Tavern. The task of running the beer tent – and collecting the substantial profits - had traditionally been alternated between the two with Harry having the job in odd years and Mistress Quickly running the show in even years. However, Harry had been away on yet another pilgrimage last year so Mistress Quickly had filled the breach. Harry now expected to take his turn, but this was – as Mistress Quickly pointed out – an even year and therefore she had the right to do the job.

An uneasy truce was agreed whereby both innkeepers operated inside the tent, each selling their own beer. However, this led to considerable competition with each claiming that their beer was better than the opposition’s. Mistress Quickly was particularly incensed when Sir John Falstaff bought beer from Harry Bailey rather than herself. Sir John pointed out that he was only sampling the other side’s product so that he could make a fair comparison, but her ladyship regarded this as a form of treachery.

As it happened, most of the beer tent customers followed Sir John’s example, this including a steady stream of dismissed batsmen who sought to drown their sorrows as a way of getting over what they saw as grave injustices. Because the beer on offer at the two stalls was actually exactly the same stuff – due to a crafty supply deal organised by the Pardoner – the customers had to keep buying more from each bar before they could make up their minds which was better. The net result was that far more beer was drunk than was good for anyone – apart, that is, from the two sellers.

Hence the riot. However, as fists flew and chairs were hurled across the tent and cricket field, all the participants took the view that getting out on the field was nothing like as satisfying as getting out of one’s head in the beer tent afterwards.

And next year? Probably a repeat performance.

© John Welford