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

Serious Injury to a Soldier: a story

Stephen Collins had had a hard life. His mother had died when he was very young and his father, a sergeant-major in the Army, never thought that his son would ever come to anything. Stephen was constantly berated by his father for not being manly enough – in other words for not being a carbon copy of himself.

It was therefore out of a sense of devilment that Stephen chose his career path. He joined the Army, and was even accepted into his father’s old regiment – the Blues and Royals of the Household Cavalry – but not as a fighting soldier. Instead he trained as a nurse and became a medical orderly. His father was therefore always faced with the dilemma of whether to think of his son as a brave soldier or an effeminate nurse.

Being a nurse did not exempt Stephen from the physical training needed to accompany fighting men into battle. He would be of no use to anyone if he could not carry a wounded man back to the safety of a field hospital. He therefore went through a whole series of training exercises, on the Brecon Beacons and elsewhere, that would have defeated many a lesser man. He also learned to shoot, and was reckoned to be one of the best shots in his unit.

The training was not merely for the purpose of preparing soldiers for potential conflicts, because at that time – the early months of 1982 – big trouble was brewing in the South Atlantic. Nobody had heard of the Falkland Islands before this time, but anyone who was alive then would never forget them. The military junta that ruled Argentina invaded the islands and the British Government, led by Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, decided that the only justifiable answer was to declare war and send a large task force – comprising all the Armed Services – to seize back the islands and return them to their status as a British colony.

Stephen therefore fully expected to be part of this force, but fate was to decide differently and in a particularly bizarre way. While standing guard outside an important building at Windsor’s Combermere Barracks, he only took a passing interest in the maintenance work being done on the nearby expanse of lawn. However, as the large lawnmower passed within a few yards of him it picked up a stone that flew across and hit Stephen with the force of a bullet. It went into his right calf muscle and spun around inside his leg.

At the time he was not aware that the stone had caused so much damage, but during the night he was in so much pain that he had to be admitted to hospital where an operation was performed to cut out the dead tissue.

That put an end to any prospect of Stephen being sent to the Falklands. Indeed, he was still in hospital when casualties of the war started arriving back in the country a few weeks later. He was in Ward 10A of the Cambridge Military Hospital which specialised in dirty wounds and infections. Some of his fellow patients were in a bad way, having lost limbs or been the victims of anti-personnel mines.

Most of the patients bore their wounds with great composure and courage, despite knowing that they would never be able to resume the lives they had known. There was even room for humour, and Stephen was the unwitting cause of one of the funnier moments of the Falklands aftermath.

The Falklands War led to a huge surge of public support for the soldiers, much of it sponsored by newspapers such as the Sun and Daily Mirror. People were very generous, and items such as colour TVs and sound systems turned up on the ward as a result. Cigarettes and beer – which are not normally regarded as suitable items for hospital patients – also appeared, and it was the beer that led to the incident involving Stephen.

One day they were visited by a full colonel, who took the beer donations as his opportunity to make a name for himself as a caring, sharing commander who fully understood his men. He therefore armed himself with a couple of bottles as he approached each bed, chatted to the patient and handed over the beer. Each man told his story about where and how he had been wounded, telling the tale about what had happened at Tumbledown Mountain, or aboard the Sir Galahad that had taken a direct hit with the loss of 48 lives.

And then the colonel reached Stephen’s bed.

"Where were you hit, soldier?” he asked. “How did it happen? Were you at Bluff Cove or Goose Green?”

“Not Goose Green, sir. Windsor Green” said Stephen.

“I don’t understand”, said the colonel as he handed him the beer. “Was that a private name for one of the actions?”

“No sir. Windsor. Where the Queen lives.”

“What? So how you were wounded? A mishap on the firing range?”

“No sir. A lawnmower accident.”

“A lawnmower?” The colonel was getting cross.

“Yes sir. A large Atco. I never saw it coming.”

The colonel was clearly in no mood for timewasters. He promptly snatched back the beer and marched off down the ward.

If laughter is the best medicine, the roar of it that convulsed the ward after the colonel had left must have done as much good as Stephen might have achieved had he actually seen any Falklands action. Needless to say, Stephen did not go short when it came to sharing out the beer.

© John Welford

In the Library: a story

I was working in the university library, doing a spot of shelving, when I came across a mobile phone that somebody had left on one of the shelves. Just as I was about to pick it up, with a view to taking it to Lost Property, it started to ring. A hand reached past me and picked up the phone. A finger pressed the green button and a man started to speak into it.

 We don’t normally approve of people making and taking mobile phone calls in the library stacks, but it was too late to stop this one. The volume setting on the phone was quite high, and I was therefore able to hear both sides of the conversation that followed.

 “Hi there”, said the man, who looked to be a postgraduate student from an Arab country, of which the University had recruited a considerable number in recent years. He was well dressed and had an expensive looking diamond ring on his marriage finger. His perfect white teeth flashed as he smiled broadly on hearing a deeply accented female voice that said “Hello darling” to him.

 “I’m on the Selfridge’s website”, she said, “and I want your opinion”.

 “Sure”, he replied.

 “I’ve found this lovely bag. It’s a Valentino, just what I need, but it costs nearly £3,000. I thought I’d better check with you before I order it. It is your credit card after all”.

 “No problem”, said the man.

 “And I also thought I’d check the P&O site to see what we can do for next year’s cruise. I know you said we should economise this time, and just do seven nights in the Med, but how about 62 nights round the World, via Singapore, Sydney, Wellington, Hawaii and Barbados? I could book it now if you like, only £9,600 for each of us?”

 “Sounds great”, said the man, “You just go ahead and do that”.

 As you can imagine, I was agog at overhearing this conversation and all thoughts of interrupting it had left my head, especially as the lady with the dusky voice had not finished yet.

 “You know you said I needed a little car to run around in while you’re busy at the University?” she said.

 “Sure”, said the man. “Anything for you.”

 “Well, I’ve come across this wonderful Mercedes Roadster that would absolutely fit the bill. Mind you, it might be a bit more expensive than you were expecting, at £48,000.”

 The man did not seem to be at all perturbed. The teeth and the ring flashed in unison as he purred down the line: “Nothing’s too much for my darling wife. Of course you must have it. Only – I am in the library at the moment, and the librarian is giving me a strange look, so I’d better hang up now.”

 With that, the man ended the call and turned towards me. By this time his audience had grown somewhat, as every student within earshot had gathered round to listen to what was going on.

 “I’m so sorry”, said the man. “You were just about to take this phone to Lost Property, weren’t you? Do carry on - I’m sure the owner, whoever it is, will be very keen to get it back”.

© John Welford

The Tailor of Horsemarket

This is a story that is part fact and part fiction. My great-great-grandfather would have been at work in his tailor's shop in Horsemarket at the time of Charles Dickens's visit to Barnard Castle, but whether the two ever met is pure speculation!

The Tailor of Horsemarket

On the 2^nd of February 1838 a tailor was hard at work at the front of his shop in Barnard Castle’s Horsemarket when he looked up to see two smartly dressed young men watching him through the window. He beckoned them to come inside.

“Good morning”, he said in his strong County Durham accent, “You don’t look to be from round these parts. I’m not sure that my skills are up to making clothes like you two are wearing.”

“That’s not a problem.” said one of the visitors. “I hope you don’t mind being watched, but you reminded me of a time in my own young life when I worked in a factory window and everyone stared at me from the street. May I ask your name?”

“My name’s John Welford. And you?”

“This is Charles Dickens, the writer”, said the other young man. “Surely you have read The Pickwick Papers?”

“I don’t read”, said the tailor. “I’ve had to work hard all my life – no time for an education”.

“Please excuse my friend Mr Browne”, said Dickens, “his early years were not quite as poverty-stricken as yours or mine. He is an artist who goes by the name of Phiz and he has kindly agreed to illustrate my latest novel.”

“So what service can I give you?” asked John Welford. “I am neither a writer nor an artist, merely a tailor”.

Charles Dickens explained. “You spoke a moment ago about education, and that is what concerns us. I read recently about a court case that took place a few years ago in which a schoolmaster from around here, William Shaw, was accused of terrible cruelty to the boys at his school, some of whom went blind. I have since found out that children are sent up here because schools like Shaw’s give no holidays and parents who want to forget about their children can do so for years at a time. I want to write about these schools and get them closed down if I can, but in order to do that I need to know exactly what is going on. It is local people like you who hear stories, and so if you know anything I’d like to hear it”.

“Oh I can tell you some stories all right”, said John Welford, who had not stopped sewing since his visitors had entered the shop. “But I can tell you one thing to start with, and that is that William Shaw is by no means the worst of the schoolmasters – he’s just the only one who’s been caught.”

And so the tailor worked on while the writer and the artist sat on a bench and he told them everything he knew about the local schools, based on what his customers had passed on to him over the years. He told them about the abuse, the savage beatings, the terrible food, the starvation rations and the frequent administration of “brimstone and treacle”. He also told them that they should visit the local churchyard where they would find the graves of children who had died from their treatment.

“Some of these schools are hell-holes. I’m glad I’m a poor man and can’t afford to send my son George to one of them.

“And do the boys howl! Folk say they can hear the screams from half a mile away when the birch is being applied. Whack! Whack! Whack! For hour after hour! There’s precious little learning done, I can tell you.”

When the tailor had finished, Charles Dickens and Hablot Browne took their leave. Before he did so, Dickens turned to John Welford and asked him: “Did you say that your son George doesn’t go to school?”

“That is true, Mr Dickens. The Vicar will take pupils for reading and writing lessons at his Sunday School, and treat the youngsters as a Christian should, but I can’t even afford the few pennies he charges.”

“I hope you can do so one day, Mr Welford. Being able to read opens so many doors, and your son could have a great future ahead of him”.

As they walked over the road back to their hotel, the King’s Head, John Welford’s words went through Charles Dickens’s mind. “Do the boys howl?” he said. “That sounds like a good name for the school in my new book – how do you like the sound of ‘Dotheboys Hall’?”

“That sounds fine”, said Hablot Browne. “And what name do you propose for your schoolmaster? You can’t call him William Shaw.”

“I thought I’d call him Squeers”, said Dickens. “How about ‘Welford Squeers’ as a way of acknowledging the help of our new friend?”

“You can’t use his name for a character like Shaw!” said Browne. “How about ‘Wackford’ instead?”

So that was what Charles Dickens did. Wackford Squeers became the head teacher at Dotheboys Hall and the new novel started production before the month was out.

Not long after, a slim package arrived at the tailor’s shop in Horsemarket. It contained the first monthly part of Nicholas Nickleby and a shiny new shilling. John Welford had to ask the Vicar what was written on the accompanying note and was told that Charles Dickens had sent the shilling as payment for lessons for young George. Every month a new instalment and another shilling arrived, and George, helped by the Vicar, was soon able to read the story to his father.

Eleven years later a much less welcome visitor came to Barnard Castle. This was cholera, which killed 145 people in the town, including John Welford. He was buried in the mass grave that was eventually marked by a simple stone cross outside the parish church, and his family is recorded as having been aided by the Cholera Relief Fund that was established to replace the bedding and blankets that had to be burned in the belief that this would stop the spread of the disease.

George Welford survived and in time passed on his new love of learning to his own son, Alexander, who became a Primitive Methodist Minister and left Barnard Castle to take his ministry to other parts of England. Alexander’s clock still ticks away as his own grandson, another John, writes this story in a room lined with books, including some by and about Charles Dickens, including one with the name John Welford on the title page.

© John Welford