Lamb to the slaughter- Short story for Int 1/2 class- Work in progress

The room was warm, the curtains were closed, the two table lamps were lit. On the cupboard behind her there were two glasses and some drinks. Mary Maloney was waiting for her husband to come home from work.

Now and again she glanced at the clock, but without anxiety: She merely wanted to satisfy herself that each minute that went by made it nearer the time when he would come home. As she bent over her sewing, she was curiously peaceful. This was her sixth month expecting a child. Her mouth and her eyes, with their new calm look, seemed larger and darker than before.
When the clock said ten minutes to five, she began to listen, and a few moments later, punctually as always, she heard the car tires on the stones outside, the car door closing, footsteps passing the window, the key turning in the lock. She stood up and went forward to kiss him as he entered.
"Hello, darling," she said.
"Hello," he answered.
She took his coat and hung it up. Then she made the drinks, a strong one for him and a weak one for herself; and soon she was back again in her chair with the sewing, and he was in the other chair, holding the tall glass, rolling it gently so that the ice knocked musically against the side of the glass.
For her, this was always a wonderful time of day. She knew he didn't want to speak much until the first drink was finished, and she was satisfied to sit quietly, enjoying his company after the long hours alone in the house. She loved the warmth that came out of him when they were alone together. She loved the shape of his mouth, and she especially liked the way he didn't complain about being tired.
"Tired, darling?"
"Yes," he sighed. "I'm thoroughly exhausted. And as he spoke, he did an unusual thing. He lifted his glass and drank it down in one swallow although there was still half of it left. He got up and went slowly to get himself another drink.
"I'll get it!" she cried, jumping up.
"Sit down," he said.
When he came back, she noticed that the new drink was a very strong one. She watched him as he began to drink.

"I think it's a shame," she said, "that when someone's been a policeman as long as you have, he still has to walk around all day long." He didn't answer. "Darling," she said," If you're too tired to eat out tonight, as we had planned, I can fix you something. There's plenty of meat and stuff in the freezer." Her eyes waited to an answer, a smile, a nod, but he made no sign.
"Anyway," she went on. "I'll get you some bread and cheese."
"I don't want it," he said.
She moved uneasily in her chair. "But you have to have supper. I can easily fix you something. I'd like to do it. We can have lamb. Anything you want. Everything's in the freezer."
"Forget it," he said.
"But, darling, you have to eat! I'll do it anyway, and then you can have it or not, as you like."
She stood up and put placed her sewing on the table by the lamp. "Sit down," he said. "Just for a minute, sit down." It wasn't until then that she began to get frightened.
"Go on," he said. "Sit down." She lowered herself into the chair, watching him all the time with large, puzzled eyes. He had finished his second drink and was staring into the glass.
"Listen," he said. "I've got something to tell you."
"What is it, darling? What's the matter?"
He became absolutely motionless, and he kept his head down.
"This is going to be a big shock to you, I'm afraid," he said. "But I've thought about it a good deal and I've decided that the only thing to do is to tell you immediately." And he told her. It didn't take long, four or five minutes at most, and she sat still through it all, watching him with puzzled horror.
"So there it is," he added. "And I know it's a tough time to be telling you this, but there simply wasn't any other way. Of course, I'll give you money and see that you're taken care of. But there really shouldn't be any problem. I hope not, in any case. It wouldn't be very good for my job."
Her first instinct was not to believe any of it. She thought that perhaps she'd imagined the whole thing. Perhaps, if she acted as though she had not heard him, she would find out that none of it had ever happened.
"I'll fix some supper," she whispered. When she walked across the room, she couldn't feel her feet touching the floor. She couldn't feel anything except a slight sickness. She did everything without thinking. She went downstairs to the freezer and took hold of the first object she found. She lifted it out, and looked at it. It was wrapped in paper, so she took off the paper and looked at again --- a leg of lamb.
All right, then, they would have lamb for supper. She carried it upstairs, held the thin end with both her hands. She went into the living room, saw him standing by the window with his back to her, and stopped.
"I've already told you," he said. "Don't make supper for me. I'm going out."
At that point, Mary Maloney simply walked up behind him and without any pause, she swung the big frozen leg of lamb high in the air and brought it down as hard as she could on the back of his head. She might as well have hit him with a steel bar.
She stepped back, waiting, and the strange thing was that he remained standing there for at least four or five seconds. Then he crashed onto the carpet.
The violence of the crash, the noise, the small table overturning, helped to bring her out of the shock. She came out slowly, feeling cold and surprised, and she stood for a few minutes, looking at the body, still holding the piece of meat tightly with both hands.

All right, she told herself. So I've killed him.
It was extraordinary, now, how clear her mind became all of a sudden. She began thinking very fast. As the wife of a detective, she knew what the punishment would be. It made no difference to her. In fact, it would be a relief. On the other hand, what about the baby? What were the laws about murderers with unborn children? Did they kill them both -- mother and child? Did they wait until the baby was born? What did they do? Mary Maloney didn't know and she wasn't prepared to take a chance.
She carried the meat into the kitchen, put it into a pan, turned on the oven, and put the pan inside. Then she washed her hands, ran upstairs, sat down in front of the mirror, fixed her makeup, and tried to smile.
The smile was rather peculiar. She tried again. "Hello, Sam" she said brightly, aloud. The voice sounded peculiar, too. "I want some potatoes, Sam. Yes, and perhaps a can of bean.s." That was better. Both the smile and the voice sounded better now. She practiced them several times more. Then she ran downstairs, took her coat, and went out the back door, through the garden into the street.

It wasn't six o'clock yet and the lights were still on in the neighborhood grocery. "Hello, Sam," she said brightly, smiling at the man in the shop.
"Good evening, Mrs. Maloney. How are you?"
"I want some potatoes, please, Sam. Yes, and perhaps a can of beans, too. Patrick's decided he's tired and he doesn't want to eat out tonight," she told him. "We usually go out on Thursdays, you know, and now I don't have any vegetables in the house."
"Then how about some meat, Mrs. Maloney?" asked the grocer.
"No, I've got meat, thanks, I've got a nice leg of lamb, from the freezer."
"Do you want these potatoes, Mrs. Maloney?
"Oh, yes, they'll be fine. Two pounds, please."
"Anything else?" The grocer turned his head to one side, looking at her. "How about dessert? What are you going to give him for dessert? How about a nice piece of cake? I know he likes cake."
"Perfect," she said. "He loves it."
And when she had bought and paid for everything, she gave her brightest smile and said, "Thank you, Sam. Good night."
And now, she told herself as she hurried back home, she was returning to her husband and he was waiting for his supper. She had to cook it well and make it taste as good as possible, because the poor man was tired; and if she found anything unusual or terrible when she got home, then it would be a shock and she would have to react with grief and horror. Of course, she was not expecting to find anything unusual at home. She was just going home with the vegetables on Thursday evening to cook dinner for husband.
That's the way, she told herself. Do everything normally. Keep things absolutely natural and there'll be no need for acting at all. As she entered the kitchen by the back door, she was quietly singing to herself.
"Patrick!" she called. "How are you, darling?"
She put the package on the table and went into the living room; and when she saw him lying there on the floor, it really was a shock. All the old love for him came back to her, and she ran over to him, knelt down beside him, and began to cry hard. It was easy. No acting was necessary.
A few minutes later, she got up and went to the phone. She knew the number of the police station, and when the man at the other end answered, she cried to him. "Quick! Come quickly! Patrick's dead."
"Who's speaking?"
"Mrs. Maloney. Mrs. Patrick Maloney."
"Do you mean that Patrick's dead?"
"I think so, " she cried. "He's lying on the floor and I think he's dead."
"We'll be there immediately," the man said.
The car came very quickly, and when she opened the front door, two policemen walked in. She knew them both. She knew nearly all the men at the police station. She fell into Jack Noonan's arms, crying uncontrollably. He put her gently into a chair.
"Is he dead?" she cried.
"I'm afraid he is. What happened?"
In a few words she told her story about going to the grocer and coming back, when she found him on the floor. While she was crying and talking, Noonan found some dried blood on the dead man's head. He hurried to the phone.
Some other men began to arrive -- a doctor, two detectives, a police photographer, and a man who knew about fingerprints. The detectives kept asking her a lot of questions. They always treated her kindly. She told them how she'd put the meat into the overn -- "it's there now"--and how she had gone to the grocer's for vegetables and how she came back to find him lying on the floor.
The two detectives were exceptionally nice to her. They searched the house. Sometimes Jack Noonan spoke to her gently. He told her that her husband had been killed by a blow to the back of the head. They were looking for the weapon. The murderer might have taken it with him, but he might have thrown it away or hidden it. --- "It's the old story," he said. "Get the weapon, and you've got the murderer."
Later, one of the detectives sat down beside her. Did she know, he asked, of anything in the house that could have been used as a weapon? Would she look around to see if anything was missing.
The search went on. It began to get late -- it was nearly nine o'clock. The men searching the rooms were getting tired. "Jack," she said, "Would you like a drink? You must be extremely tired."
"Well," he answered. "It's not allowed by police rules, but since you're a friend."
They stood around with drinks in their hands. The detectives were uncomfortable with her and they tried to say cheering things to her. Jack Noonan walked into the kitchen, came out quickly, and said, "Look, Mrs. Maloney. Did you know that your oven is still on, and the meat is still inside?"
"Oh," she said. "So it is! I'd better turn it off." She returned with tearful eyes. "Would you do me a favor? Here you all are, all good friends of Patrick's, and you're helping to catch the man who killed him. You must be very hungry by now because it's long past your supper time, and I know that Patrick would never forgive me if I let you stay in the house without offering you anything to eat. Why don't you eat up the lamb in the oven?"
"I wouldn't dream of it," Noonan said.
"Please," she begged. "Personally, I couldn't eat a thing, but it'd be a favor to me if you ate it up. Then you can go on with your work."
The detectives hesitated, but they were hungry, and in the end, they went into the kitchen and helped themselves to supper. The woman stayed where she was and listened to them through the open door. She could hear them speaking among themselves, and their voices were thick because their mouths were full of meat.
"Have some more, Charlie."
"No, we'd better not finish it."
"She wants us to finish it. She said we ought to eat it up."
"That's a big bar the murderer must have used to hit poor Patrick. The doctor says the back of his head was broken to pieces.
"That's why the weapon should be easy to find."
"Exactly what I say."
"Whoever did it, he can't carry a weapon that big around with him."
"Personally, I think the weapon is somewhere near the house."
"It's probably right under our noses. What do you think, Jack?"
And in the other room, Mary Maloney began to laugh.

The Landlady by Roald Dahl- Intermediate 1/2 class- work in progress

The Landlady is a short story

Billy Weaver had traveled down from London on the slow afternoon train, with a change at Reading on the way, and by the time he got to Bath, it was about nine o’clock in the evening, and the moon was coming up out of a clear starry sky over the houses opposite the station entrance. But the air was deadly cold and the wind was like a flat blade of ice on his cheeks.
“Excuse me,” he said, “but is there a fairly cheap hotel not too far away from here?”
“Try The Bell and Dragon,” the porter answered, pointing down the road. “They might take you in. It’s about a quarter of a mile along on the other side.”

Billy thanked him and picked up his suitcase and set out to walk the quarter-mile to The Bell and Dragon. He had never been to Bath before. He didn’t know anyone who lived there. But Mr. Greenslade at the head office in London had told him it was a splendid town. “Find your own lodgings,” he had said, “and then go along and report to the branch manager as soon as you’ve got yourself settled.”
Billy was seventeen years old. He was wearing a new navy-blue overcoat, a new brown trilby hat, and a new brown suit, and he was feeling fine. He walked briskly down the street. He was trying to do everything briskly these days. Briskness, he had decided, was the one common characteristic of all successful businessmen. The big shots up at the head office were absolutely fantastically brisk all the time. They were amazing.

There were no shops on this wide street that he was walking along, only a line of tall houses on each side, all of them identical. They had porches and pillars and four or five steps going up to their front doors, and it was obvious that once upon a time they had been very swanky residences. But now, even in the darkness, he could see that the paint was peeling from the woodwork on their doors and windows and that the handsome white facades were cracked and blotchy from neglect.
Suddenly, in a downstairs window that was brilliantly illuminated by a street lamp not six yards away, Billy caught sight of a printed notice propped up against the glass in one of the upper panes. It said BED AND BREAKFAST. There was a vase of yellow chrysanthemums, tall and beautiful, standing just underneath the notice.
He stopped walking. He moved a bit closer. Green curtains (some sort of velvety material) were hanging down on either side of the window. The chrysanthemums looked wonderful beside them. He went right up and peered through the glass into the room, and the first thing he saw was a bright fire burning in the hearth. On the carpet in front of the fire, a pretty little dachshund was curled up asleep with its nose tucked into its belly. The room itself, so far as he could see in the half darkness, was filled with pleasant furniture. There was a baby grand piano and a big sofa and several plump armchairs, and in one corner he spotted a large parrot in a cage. Animals were usually a good sign in a place like this, Billy told himself; and all in all, it looked to him as though it would be a pretty decent house to stay in. Certainly it would be more comfortable than The Bell and Dragon.
On the other hand, a pub would be more congenial than a boardinghouse. There would be beer and darts in the evenings, and lots of people to talk to, and it would probably be a good bit cheaper, too. He had stayed a couple of nights in a pub once before and he had liked it. He had never stayed in any boardinghouses, and, to be perfectly honest, he was a tiny bit frightened of them. The name itself conjured up images of watery cabbage, rapacious landladies, and a powerful smell of kippers in the living room.
After dithering about like this in the cold for two or three minutes, Billy decided that he would walk on and take a look at The Bell and Dragon before making up his mind. He turned to go.

And now a queer thing happened to him. He was in the act of stepping back and turning away from the window when all at once his eye was caught and held in the most peculiar manner by the small notice that was there. BED AND BREAKFAST, it said. BED AND BREAKFAST, BED AND BREAKFAST, BED AND BREAKFAST. Each word was like a large black eye staring at him through the glass, holding him, compelling him, forcing him to stay where he was and not to walk away from that house, and the next thing he knew, he was actually moving across from the window to the front door of the house, climbing the steps that led up to it, and reaching for the bell.
He pressed the bell. Far away in a back room he heard it ringing, and then at once —it must have been at once because he hadn’t even had time to take his finger from the bell button—the door swung open and a woman was standing there.
Normally you ring the bell and you have at least a half-minute’s wait before the door opens. But this dame was like a jack-in-the-box. He pressed the bell—and out she popped! It made him jump.
She was about forty-five or fifty years old, and the moment she saw him, she gave him a warm, welcoming smile.
“ Please come in,” she said pleasantly. She stepped aside, holding the door wide open, and Billy found himself automatically starting forward. The compulsion or, more accurately, the desire to follow after her into that house was extraordinarily strong.
“I saw the notice in the window,” he said, holding himself back.
“Yes, I know.”
“I was wondering about a room.”
“It’s all ready for you, my dear,” she said. She had a round pink face and very gentle blue eyes.
“I was on my way to The Bell and Dragon,” Billy told her. “But the notice in your window just happened to catch my eye.”
“My dear boy,” she said, “why don’t you come in out of the cold?”
“How much do you charge?”
“Five and sixpence a night, including breakfast.”
It was fantastically cheap. It was less than half of what he had been willing to pay.
“If that is too much,” she added, “then perhaps I can reduce it just a tiny bit. Do you desire an egg for breakfast? Eggs are expensive at the moment. It would be sixpence less without the egg.”
“Five and sixpence is fine,” he answered. “I should like very much to stay here.”
“I knew you would. Do come in.”
She seemed terribly nice. She looked exactly like the mother of one’s best school friend welcoming one into the house to stay for the Christmas holidays. Billy took off his hat and stepped over the threshold.
“Just hang it there,” she said, “and let me help you with your coat.”
There were no other hats or coats in the hall. There were no umbrellas, no walking sticks—nothing.
“We have it all to ourselves,” she said, smiling at him over her shoulder as she led the way upstairs. “You see, it isn’t very often I have the pleasure of taking a visitor into my little nest.”
The old girl is slightly dotty, Billy told himself. But at five and sixpence a night, who cares about that? “I should’ve thought you’d be simply swamped with applicants,” he said politely.
“Oh, I am, my dear, I am, of course I am. But the trouble is that I’m inclined to be just a teeny-weeny bit choosy and particular—if you see what I mean.”
“Ah, yes.”
“But I’m always ready. Everything is always ready day and night in this house just on the off chance that an acceptable young gentleman will come along. And it is such a pleasure, my dear, such a very great pleasure when now and again I open the door and I see someone standing there who is just exactly right.” She was halfway up the stairs, and she paused with one hand on the stair rail, turning her head and smiling down at him with pale lips. “Like you,” she added, and her blue eyes traveled slowly all the way down the length of Billy’s body, to his feet, and then up again.
On the second-floor landing she said to him, “This floor is mine.”
They climbed up another flight. “And this one is all yours,” she said. “Here’s your room. I do hope you’ll like it.” She took him into a small but charming front bedroom, switching on the light as she went in.
“The morning sun comes right in the window, Mr. Perkins. It is Mr. Perkins, isn’t it?”
“No,” he said. “It’s Weaver.”
“Mr. Weaver. How nice. I’ve put a water bottle between the sheets to air them out, Mr. Weaver. It’s such a comfort to have a hot-water bottle in a strange bed with clean sheets, don’t you agree? And you may light the gas fire at any time if you feel chilly.”
“Thank you,” Billy said. “Thank you ever so much.” He noticed that the bedspread had been taken off the bed and that the bedclothes had been neatly turned back on one side, all ready for someone to get in.
“I’m so glad you appeared,” she said, looking earnestly into his face. “I was beginning to get worried.”
“That’s all right,” Billy answered brightly. “You mustn’t worry about me.” He put his suitcase on the chair and started to open it.
“And what about supper, my dear? Did you manage to get anything to eat before you came here?”
“I’m not a bit hungry, thank you,” he said. “I think I’ll just go to bed as soon as possible because tomorrow I’ve got to get up rather early and report to the office.”
“Very well, then. I’ll leave you now so that you can unpack. But before you go to bed, would you be kind enough to pop into the sitting room on the ground floor and sign the book? Everyone has to do that because it’s the law of the land, and we don’t want to go breaking any laws at this stage in the proceedings, do we?” She gave him a little wave of the hand and went quickly out of the room and closed the door.
Now, the fact that his landlady appeared to be slightly off her rocker didn’t worry Billy in the least. After all, she not only was harmless—there was no question about that—but she was also quite obviously a kind and generous soul. He guessed that she had probably lost a son in the war, or something like that, and had never gotten over it.
So a few minutes later, after unpacking his suitcase and washing his hands, he trotted downstairs to the ground floor and entered the living room. His landlady wasn’t there, but the fire was glowing in the hearth, and the little dachshund was still sleeping soundly in front of it. The room was wonderfully warm and cozy. I’m a lucky fellow, he thought, rubbing his hands. This is a bit of all right.
He found the guest book lying open on the piano, so he took out his pen and wrote down his name and address. There were only two other entries above his on the page, and as one always does with guest books, he started to read them. One was a Christopher Mulholland from Cardiff. The other was Gregory W. Temple from Bristol.
That’s funny, he thought suddenly. Christopher Mulholland. It rings a bell.
Now where on earth had he heard that rather unusual name before?
Was it a boy at school? No. Was it one of his sister’s numerous young men, perhaps, or a friend of his father’s? No, no, it wasn’t any of those. He glanced down again at the book.
Christopher Mulholland
231 Cathedral Road, Cardiff 
Gregory W. Temple
27 Sycamore Drive, Bristol 
As a matter of fact, now he came to think of it, he wasn’t at all sure that the second name didn’t have almost as much of a familiar ring about it as the first.
“Gregory Temple?” he said aloud, searching his memory. “Christopher Mulholland? . . .”
“Such charming boys,” a voice behind him answered, and he turned and saw his landlady sailing into the room with a large silver tea tray in her hands. She was holding it well out in front of her, and rather high up, as though the tray were a pair of reins on a frisky horse.
“They sound somehow familiar,” he said.
“They do? How interesting.”
“I’m almost positive I’ve heard those names before somewhere. Isn’t that odd? Maybe it was in the newspapers. They weren’t famous in any way, were they? I mean famous cricketers7 or footballers or something like that?”

“Famous,” she said, setting the tea tray down on the low table in front of the sofa. “Oh no, I don’t think they were famous. But they were incredibly handsome, both of them, I can promise you that. They were tall and young and handsome, my dear, just exactly like you.”
Once more, Billy glanced down at the book. “Look here,” he said, noticing the dates. “This last entry is over two years old.”
“It is?”
“Yes, indeed. And Christopher Mulholland’s is nearly a year before that—more than three years ago.”
“Dear me,” she said, shaking her head and heaving a dainty little sigh. “I would never have thought it. How time does fly away from us all, doesn’t it, Mr. Wilkins?”
“It’s Weaver,” Billy said. “W-e-a-v-e-r.”
“Oh, of course it is!” she cried, sitting down on the sofa. “How silly of me. I do apologize. In one ear and out the other, that’s me, Mr. Weaver.”
“You know something?” Billy said. “Something that’s really quite extraordinary about all this?”
“No, dear, I don’t.”
“Well, you see, both of these names—Mulholland and Temple—I not only seem to remember each one of them separately, so to speak, but somehow or other, in some peculiar way, they both appear to be sort of connected together as well. As though they were both famous for the same sort of thing, if you see what I mean—like . . . well . . . like Dempsey and Tunney, for example, or Churchill and Roosevelt.”

“How amusing,” she said. “But come over here now, dear, and sit down beside me on the sofa and I’ll give you a nice cup of tea and a ginger biscuit before you go to bed.”

“You really shouldn’t bother,” Billy said. “I didn’t mean you to do anything like that.” He stood by the piano, watching her as she fussed about with the cups and saucers. He noticed that she had small, white, quickly moving hands and red fingernails.
“I’m almost positive it was in the newspapers I saw them,” Billy said. “I’ll think of it in a second. I’m sure I will.”
There is nothing more tantalizing than a thing like this that lingers just outside the borders of one’s memory. He hated to give up.
“Now wait a minute,” he said. “Wait just a minute. Mulholland . . . Christopher Mulholland . . . wasn’t that the name of the Eton schoolboy who was on a walking tour through the West Country, and then all of a sudden . . .”
“Milk?” she said. “And sugar?”
“Yes, please. And then all of a sudden . . .”
“Eton schoolboy?” she said. “Oh no, my dear, that can’t possibly be right, because my Mr. Mulholland was certainly not an Eton schoolboy when he came to me. He was a Cambridge undergraduate. Come over here now and sit next to me and warm yourself in front of this lovely fire. Come on. Your tea’s all ready for you.” She patted the empty place beside her on the sofa, and she sat there smiling at Billy and waiting for him to come over.

He crossed the room slowly and sat down on the edge of the sofa. She placed his teacup on the table in front of him.
“ There we are,” she said. “How nice and cozy this is, isn’t it?”
Billy started sipping his tea. She did the same. For half a minute or so, neither of them spoke. But Billy knew that she was looking at him. Her body was half turned toward him, and he could feel her eyes resting on his face, watching him over the rim of her teacup. Now and again, he caught a whiff of a peculiar smell that seemed to emanate directly from her person. It was not in the least unpleasant, and it reminded him—well, he wasn’t quite sure what it reminded him of. Pickled walnuts? New leather? Or was it the corridors of a hospital? 
At length, she said, “Mr. Mulholland was a great one for his tea. Never in my life have I seen anyone drink as much tea as dear, sweet Mr. Mulholland.”
“I suppose he left fairly recently,” Billy said. He was still puzzling his head about the two names. He was positive now that he had seen them in the newspapers—in the headlines.
“Left?” she said, arching her brows. “But my dear boy, he never left. He’s still here. Mr. Temple is also here. They’re on the fourth floor, both of them together.”
Billy set his cup down slowly on the table and stared at his landlady. She smiled back at him, and then she put out one of her white hands and patted him comfortingly on the knee. “How old are you, my dear?” she asked.
“Seventeen.”
“Seventeen!” she cried. “Oh, it’s the perfect age! Mr. Mulholland was also seventeen. But I think he was a trifle shorter than you are; in fact I’m sure he was, and his teeth weren’t quite so white. You have the most beautiful teeth, Mr. Weaver, did you know that?”
“They’re not as good as they look,” Billy said. “They’ve got simply masses of fillings in them at the back.”
“Mr. Temple, of course, was a little older,” she said, ignoring his remark. “He was actually twenty-eight. And yet I never would have guessed it if he hadn’t told me, never in my whole life. There wasn’t a blemish on his body.”
“A what?” Billy said.
“His skin was just like a baby’s.”
There was a pause. Billy picked up his teacup and took another sip of his tea; then he set it down again gently in its saucer. He waited for her to say something else, but she seemed to have lapsed into another of her silences. He sat there staring straight ahead of him into the far corner of the room, biting his lower lip.
“That parrot,” he said at last. “You know something? It had me completely fooled when I first saw it through the window. I could have sworn it was alive.”
“Alas, no longer.”
“It’s most terribly clever the way it’s been done,” he said. “It doesn’t look in the least bit dead. Who did it?”
“I did.”
“ You did?”
“Of course,” she said. “And have you met my little Basil as well?” She nodded toward the dachshund curled up so comfortably in front of the fire. Billy looked at it. And suddenly, he realized that this animal had all the time been just as silent and motionless as the parrot. He put out a hand and touched it gently on the top of its back. The back was hard and cold, and when he pushed the hair to one side with his fingers, he could see the skin underneath, grayish black and dry and perfectly preserved.
“Good gracious me,” he said. “How absolutely fascinating.” He turned away from the dog and stared with deep admiration at the little woman beside him on the sofa. “It must be most awfully difficult to do a thing like that.”
“Not in the least,” she said. “I stuff all my little pets myself when they pass away. Will you have another cup of tea?”
“No, thank you,” Billy said. The tea tasted faintly of bitter almonds, and he didn’t much care for it.
“You did sign the book, didn’t you?”
“Oh, yes.”
“That’s good. Because later on, if I happen to forget what you were called, then I could always come down here and look it up. I still do that almost every day with Mr. Mulholland and Mr. . . . Mr. . . .”
“Temple,” Billy said, “Gregory Temple. Excuse my asking, but haven’t there been any other guests here except them in the last two or three years?”
Holding her teacup high in one hand, inclining her head slightly to the left, she looked up at him out of the corners of her eyes and gave him another gentle little smile.
“No, my dear,” she said. “Only you.”

King Billy work in progress

Link to poem and photos of Billy Fullerton- http://www.glesga.ukpals.com/profiles/billyboys1.htm

KING BILLY

Grey over Riddrie the clouds piled up,
dragged their rain through the cemetery trees
The gates shone cold. Wind rose flaring the hissing leaves,
the branches swung, heavy, across the lamps.
Gravestones huddled in drizzling shadow,
flickering streetlight scanned the requiescats,
a name and an urn, a date, a dove picked out, lost, half regained.
What is this dripping wreath, blown from its grave red, white, blue and gold
'To Our Leader of Thirty years Ago'

Bareheaded, in dark suits, with flutes and drums,
they brought him here, in procession seriously,
King Billy of Brigton, dead, from Bridgeton Cross:
a memory of violence, brooding days of empty bellies,
billiard smoke and a sour pint,
boots or fists, famous sherrickings, the word, the scuffle,
the flash, the shout, bloody crumpling in the close,
bricks for papish windows, get the Conks next time,
the Conks ambush the Billy Boys, the Billy Boys the Conks
till Sillitoe scuffs the razor down the stank -

No, but it isn't the violence they remember
but the legend of a violent man born poor,
gang-leader in the bad times of idleness and boredom,
lost in better days, a bouncer in a betting club,
a quiet man at last, dying alone in Bridgeton in a box bed.
So a thousand people stopped traffic for the hearse of a folk hero
and the flutes threw 'Onward Christian Soldiers' to the winds
from unironic lips, the mourners kept in step, and there were some who wept

Go from the grave. The shrill flutes are silent, the march dispersed.
Deplore what is to be deplored, and then find out the rest.

Edwin Morgan, 1963
A poem about the gang leader
of the Brigton Billy Boys.

In order that a reader may think deeply about a poem, it is often the intention of a poet to lead the reader along one train of thought before changing that notion radically to the exact counter (opposite) argument.


One such poem is "King Billy" by Edwin Morgan.  At first the poet makes us feel disapproval towards Billy and his actions and then twists our impression around to make him seem like a product of his time.


This is a poem with a sudden change or surprise ending!


King Billy or Billy Fullerton was a real person who you can read about here:  http://www.glesga.ukpals.com/profiles/billyboys1.htm


Stanza 1:


"Grey over Riddrie the clouds piled up,
dragged their rain through the cemetery trees."


Immediate feeling of doom/gloom/depression.
"Piled up" Lovely word choice which suggests there are so many clouds moving so slowly that they are having to wait as if they are in a traffic jam in the sky.


"Dragged" This is another lovely example of word choice creating a gloomy/depressing  atmosphere as the clouds sound as if they are really heavy with water and will not run out of rain or blow quickly on.

"The gates shone cold" = So much rain the gates are running with water which shines in the streetlights.  The image we get is of cold misery.

"Gravestones huddled in drizzling shadow."  This is an example of personification where the gravestones are having to huddle together for warmth.  It is effective because the gravestones are items we would expect to know how to put up with the cold.

"A name and an urn..."  Clever use of punctuation to imitate the effect of the light being deflected by wind and branches so that gravestones are picked out and then lost as the light changes.

"What is this dripping wreath, blown from its grave red, white, blue and gold
'To Our Leader of Thirty years Ago'"

The wreath is a clever trick to link the dramatic opening to the rest of the poem and the funeral scene. 

STANZA 1 puts the reader in a bad mood with all this horrible weather and sets the reader up to hate Billy Fullerton as we are already feeling depressed when we imagine the scene.  Therefore this dramatic opening is important to set the reader on their voyage of discovery.

Stanza 2 The flashback

The long second verse is started by flashing back to Billy Fullerton's funeral.

"Bareheaded, in dark suits, with flutes and drums,
they brought him here, in procession seriously,"

The poet uses inversion (changes the natural word order to put emphasis on the first word)
He places "bareheaded" first to show the level of respect people had for Billy at his funeral.

The people play flutes and drums which hints towards the orange order.  A group of people who celebrate the life of King William of orange who championed the protestant faith.

FURTHER FLASHBACK

"a memory of violence, brooding days of empty bellies,
billiard smoke and a sour pint,
boots or fists, famous sherrickings, the word, the scuffle,
the flash, the shout, bloody crumpling in the close,
bricks for papish windows, get the Conks next time,
the Conks ambush the Billy Boys, the Billy Boys the Conks
till Sillitoe scuffs the razor down the stank -"

Here Morgan desribes the descent from poverty to quick violence.

The 1920's was a time of great depression and Morgan uses the phrase "Brooding days" to show how people spent their time thinking in a frustrated angry way as there was nothing else to do. 

"Empty bellies" shows that people had not got enough to eat due to the high levels of unemployment.
"billiard smoke and a sour pint" shows that the young men were spending their days in the snooker halls trying to make 1 pint last all day.

"the word, the scuffle,
the flash, the shout, bloody crumpling in the close".

The frustration at not being employed leads to violence as Billy Fullerton uses these young men to fight in his gang.  The commas are used to create a sense of speed to show how quickly a word/shout turns to somebody being left crumpled and beaten in an alley way.
THIS VIOLENCE IS TOTALLY SENSLESS AND THE READER IS ANGRY AT BILLY FULLERTON FOR USES THESE YOUNG DISILLUSIONED MEN.

"get the Conks next time,
the Conks ambush the Billy Boys, the Billy Boys the Conks"

Morgan uses repetition to show the repetitive nature of the fighting as it could go on forever with no clear winner.  The reader hates what this sensless violence is doing to young men and to the city of Glasgow.  Think of how violence like this would ruin areas of the city as they would become dangerous places for your children to play or for you to live.  The reader hates Billy Fullerton and disapproves of the way he uses these young men.

"till Sillitoe scuffs the razor down the stank -"

Sillitoe is the police officer who squashes gangs.  The use of alliteration (s) shows Billy's disgust at his livelihood being taken away.

STANZA 3

Links to past papers and essay questions for revision.

Past papers for Intermediate 1 candidates.  This could also be useful for Intermediate 2 candidates looking to practice-

http://www.sqa.org.uk/sqa/controller?p_service=Content.show&p_applic=CCC&pContentID=38940&searchQtext=Loading...

Click on the above link and then scroll down to past papers and answer booklets, mark your work to check how you are progressing.

Intermediate 2 candidates-

http://www.sqa.org.uk/sqa/38942.html

Click on the above link and then scroll down to past papers and answer booklets, mark your work to check how you are progressing.

For people worried about how to start revising literature

Try and break it down so that you are looking at just one poem each day to begin with.  I would start with 'Glasgow 5th of March'- Try the following today:

1)  Read the poem and the notes and pick out anything you don't understand.  There is no point trying to push on until you understand the poem inside out.

2) If there is any part you don't understand, focus on what the notes say about it.  It is sometimes useful to put the notes into your own words or try and explain that part of the poem to one of your friends or family.

3) Once you understand the poem as a whole I would pick out 6 or 7 key quotations (words or phrases you think tell you something interesting about the poem or story).

4) Write these important quotes out on individual posters to stick up around your revision area and they will slowly seep into you mind.

5)Test yourself by getting somebody at home to hold up the qoutes one by one and tell them everything you can about these lines ie. techniques, why the line is so effective etc.

6)Only once you are confident you know the poem well should you tackle an essay question.  The SQA website has lots of good past papers with useful essay questions.  Alternatively you can use the questions from class or at the end of each texts notes.- http://www.sqa.org.uk/sqa/controller?p_service=Content.show&p_applic=CCC&pContentID=38940&searchQtext=Loading...

7) Once you feel confident with 'Glasgow 5th of March' try repeating the process with 'In the snack bar' and then 'at the bar'/'Landlady'/'Lamb to the Slaughter'.  'King Billy' notes will be up soon as well.

Don't panic!  It takes time and effort to become confident with all the literature-  You have all the resources appearing online and enough to get started.   Take it one step at a time and get people to help you as suggested above.  You have the ability and all the resources at your fingertips.  Good Luck! Mr Crawford

'At the Bar' by William McIlvanney

'At the Bar' by William McIlvanney

Key questions you will be looking to answer are about:

1) Climax

2) Turning point

3) Moment of realisation
4)Surprise ending

Remember the big man has two moments of realisation; first when he realises the denim man has drunk his pint.  He decides to ignore this and buy the denim man a pint.  The second realisation comes when the denim man continues to be cheeky and the big man realises he will have to be violent to regain his pride.

The moment of climax is when the big man punches the denim man.  This is the surprise at the end of the story!

You should have a copy of this short story (If you don't you will need to get one from me before the prelim)

If you are studying Intermediate 2 you will need to answer two essay questions (Likely one on short story and one on poetry).
If you are studying Intermediate 1 you will only have to answer one essay question on one text.

It is therefore important that you know your short story as well as your poems.

Below I have simply listed key qoutations from the short story which you will have in your jotters but may have missed/mislayed. 

I have used the page numbers from the handout we used in class.

Page 73- 76

'At the Bar' by William McIlvanney notes and quotes:

At the start of the short story the atmosphere is quiet and dull:

Line one:  "The pub was quiet."

This set the atmosphere early on.  The poet uses sentence structure to emphasise how quiet and dull the bar is. The kind of sentence he uses is a short sentence.  This grabs our attention and lets this important piece of information sink in straight away.

The big man appears to have recently come out of prison because of his outdated and overlarge clothes:

Line 3: "The suit was slightly out of fashion yet looked quite new and it was too big for him."

The Big man seems to fit in with the quiet and placid environment as he seems quiet and innocent:

Line 11"He looked along the gantry with a bemused innocence, like a small boy in a sweet shop"

Here the poet uses a sinile to compare the big man to a small innocent child in a sweet shop.

Just as a small child would be happy and excited with the choice of sweets on offer in a sweet shop so the big man is in awe at the amount of drinks he has to choose from.  This simile makes him seem quiet and makes the moment when he flips out more surprising.

The poet uses a great metaphor to describe the skin tone of the big man:

"His pallor suggested a plant kept out of the light."

"Pallor" is the colour and look of his skin.  Here the poet compares the big man's unhealthy pale skin to a plant that has been kept of of the light. This is a good metaphor to use as a plant kept out of the light would be yellow and unhealthy looking.  The man may look yellow and unhealthy as he has spent so much time locked up away from the outdoors.

All of these techniques used to describe the big man are examples of 'Characterisation'.  This is a good word to use when discussing how the poet has created a quiet and well behaved character.

Then the denim man enters and tries to get people to look at him so that he can accuse them of something and start a fight.  The characterisation of the big man is very different.

Line 15 "Nasty hard"

Line 16 "Fidgety drinker"

Line 19 "He kept glancing along at the big man and seemed annoyed no reaction."

Line 20 "His eyes were a demonstration loking for a place to happen."

This makes the reader dislike this unpredictable and violent character.  The big man seems to ignore him which winds the denim man up even more.

The atmosphere of the bar is still very quiet, calm and placid. 

Line 28:  "The barman was relieved to see Old Dave come towards the bar as if he was walking across America"

This is a good simile to show how slowly the pace of life is in the bar. It compares the amount of time Old Dave takes to reach the bar with the amount of time it would take to walk across America.

When the denim man does not get a reaction out of the big man he drinks his pint to cause tension.

 

The moment of realisation and the climax.

The big man remains calm and polite when he finds his pint is gone:

"Excuse me.  Ah had a pint there"

This shows the big man's quiet manner in the short sentences and polite word choice.  He does not blame the denim man or anyone else and he is not looking for trouble.  This shows that he is not thinking of violence before his moment of realisation.  However when the denim man owns up to it in a very sarcastic way the atmosphere changes from dull to electrically charged.

"The moment crackled like an electrical storm"

This is the moment the big man realises what has happened and turns from being quiet and polite to angry.  This simile shows the friction and possibility as the big man has to think about how to react.  The situation is made even more tense when the denim man challenges and provokes him further.  The poet then uses a great image that would be prefectly at home in a western film:

"The silence prolonged itself like an empty street with a man at either end of it."

This shows the tense atmospher between the two men and how the big man feels this tension also as he is silent while deciding what he should do.  The reader realises there may be violence as the connotations (what the words or images make us think of) suggest two cowboys across a deserted street with some locals about to watch a gun fight where one dies and one is victorious.  The big man continues to rise above the situation and appears to make his decision to defuse the situation.

"The big man stared and lowered his eyes, looked up and smiled.  It wasn't convincing.  Nonchalant surrender never is."

The big man tries to be pleasant and take it as a joke although the reader feels that he does not truy feel this.  He continues to joke when he offers to buy the denim man a drink:

"Get the man a pint of heavy"

This seems to be the end of the moment of realisation where he decides that violence is not worth it and he seeks to avoid conflict.  However, that changes when the denim man keeps pushing.  He has already been very cheeky to the big man:

"Ye had a pint there but I drank it.  That's the dinky dory"

When the denim man continues to be cheeky the big man has a second moment of realisation and realises he has to do something to get the denim man back.

The denim man continues to wind the big man up by saying:"Your good health.  You obviously value it."

He is deliberatly trying to make a fool of the big man and is assuming the role of the victorious person.  He makes remarks like this which make the big man look like a coward.  This statement and his wink to the bar man end the big mans second moment of realisation as he realises that he needs to do something to regain his pride. 

He realises now that he must teach the denim man a lesson in a language he will understand (violence). 

The climax scene

The climax of the stroy is when the big man punches the denim man. 

The poet's explosive language and imagery of the climax scene show the outcome of the big man's second moment of realisation for both characters.  The big man suddenly attacks the denim man:

"...big man's clenched right fist had hit the base of the glass like a demolition ball"

This simile compares the big man's fist with a demolition ball and shows the reader the force at which the fist hits the glass.  The notion of sudden violence is clear. 

"Splintered scream among the shards of volleying glass and exploding beer..."

The verbs volleying and exploding show the force of the scene and the alliteration (repetition of 's' and 'sh') makes the glass seem all the sharper.  The reader realises the outcome of the short story has suddenly changed and we have an unexpected ending.  The big man has now come out as the clear winner.  The most impressive thing is that the big man switches back to self contro and restraint:

"The name's Rafferty.  Cherio.  Nice shop you run."

He is willing to take control and responsibility for his own actions and leaves his name in case the denim man pursues him.  The reaction of the bar man lets us know that the big man did the right thing and left victorious:

"'You're barred', he said"

Essay questions for 'At the Bar'

1)  Choose a novel or short story in which there is an obvious turning point or climax.

Show how the writer leads up to this turning point or climax, and say what its significance is for the overall story. 

In your answer you must refer to the text and two at least two of the following:  Structure, plot, key incident(s), or any other appropriate feature.

2)  Choose a novel or short story in which one of the main characters has to struggle with difficulties in order to reach a satisfactory outcome.

Outline the difficulties which face the character you have chosen and show how her or his strengths and weaknesses affect the course of the story and how a satisfactory ending is reached. 

In your answer you must refer to the text and two at least two of the following:  Characterisation, plot, climax, dialogue, or any other appropriate feature.

In the snack bar by Edwin Morgan poem/notes and revision ideas.

THE SNACK BAR
A cup capsizes along the formica,
slithering with a dull clatter.
A few heads turn in the crowded evening snack-bar.
An old man is trying to get to his feet
from the low round stool fixed to the floor.
Slowly he levers himself up, his hands have no power.
He is up as far as he can get. The dismal hump
looming over him forces his head down.
He stands in his stained beltless garberdine
like a monstrous animal caught in a tent
in some story. He sways slightly,
the face not seen, bent down
in shadow under his cap.
Even on his feet he is staring at the floor
or would be, if he could see.
I notice now his stick, once painted white
but scuffed and muddy, hanging from his right arm.
Long blind, hunchback born, half paralysed
he stands
fumbling with the stick
and speaks:
‘I want –to go to the-toilet.’


It is down two flights of stairs, but we go.
I take his arm. ‘Give me-your arm-it’s better,’ he says.
Inch by inch we drift towards the stairs.
A few yards of floor are like a landscape
to be negotiated, in the slow setting out
time has almost stopped. I concentrate
my life to his: crunch of spilt sugar,
slidy puddle from the night’s umbrellas,
table edges, people’s feet,
hiss of the coffee-machine, voices and laughter,
smell of a cigar, hamburgers, wet coats steaming,
and the slow dangerous inches to the stairs.
I put his right hand on the rail
and take his stick. He clings to me. The stick
is in his left hand, probing the treads
I guide his arm and tell him the steps.
And slowly we go down. And slowly we go down.
White tiles and mirrors at last. He shambles
uncouth into the clinical gleam.
I set him in position, stand behind him
and wait with his stick.
His brooding reflection darkens the mirror
but the trickle of his water is thin and slow,
an old man’s apology for living.
Painful ages to close his trousers and coat –
I do up the last buttons for him.
He asks doubtfully, ‘Can I- wash my hands?’
I fill the basin, clasp his soft fingers round the soap.
He washes, feebly, patiently. There is no towel.
I press the pedal of the drier, draw his hands
gently into the roar of the hot air.
But he cannot rub them together,
drags out a handkerchief to finish.
He is glad to leave the contraption, and face the stairs.
He climbs, and steadily enough.
He climbs, we climb. He climbs
with many pauses but with that one
persisting patience of the undefeated
which is the nature of man when all is said.
And slowly we go up. And slowly we go up.
The faltering, unfaltering steps
take him at last to the door
across that endless, yet not endless waste of floor.


I watch him helped on a bus. It shudders off in the rain.
The conductor bends to hear where he wants to go.
Wherever he could go it would be dark
and yet he must trust men.
Without embarrassment or shame
he must announce his most pitiful needs
in a public place. No one sees his face.
Does he know how frightening he is in his strangeness
under his mountainous coat, his hands like wet leaves
stuck to the half-white stick?
His life depends on many who would evade him.
But he cannot reckon up the chances,
having one thing to do,
to haul his blind hump through these rains of August.
Dear Christ, to be born for this!


By Edwin Morgan

The second of our URBAN poems about Glasgow life.  Morgan has stated that this poem developed out of something that actually happened.  It deals with an old disabled man in a busy snack bar.  The poem explores the character of the old man and his disabilities.  It goes on to examine the effect they have on his life and society’s attitude to the disabled.

Stanza 1:

Technique:  Alliteration (The repetition of a sound or letter throughout a line):

“A cup capsizes along the Formica slithering with a dull clatter”

The alliterative use of the letter ‘C’ sounds like the cup falling.  Poetry should be spoken and felt.  When you read this line aloud the hard “C” sound gives the reader an idea of how loudly the cup clatters of the hard formica surface- this is important to remember in the next line.

“A few heads turn in the crowded evening snack-bar.”

Even after such a loud noise has been made only a small number of people look over to help the old disabled man.  This represents the lack of care a large society shows its more vulnerable members.

The rest of Stanza 1 is devoted to describing the old man’s disabilities through the eyes of an outside observer.  This is where we are judging the book by its cover and produces a series of disturbing descriptions of the old disabled man.

Technique:  Transferred epithet

“The dismal hump”

Dismal means rather gloomy or depressing.  However, it is not the hump which is depressed but the old man.  His feelings of depression are transferred to the cause of his depression (the hump).  It makes the hump seem like it has the control over how the man feels.

Technique:  Word choice:

“looming over him forces his head down.”

The word ‘looming’ has connotations of an unbeatable, large monster looking down on somebody weak.  The hump is like that powerful monster looking down on the weak man and making him depressed.  It is an effective word to choose. 

Technique:  Double meaning:

“Forces his head down”

The hump literally forces the old man’s head down but also mentally forces his head down by making him feel sad.  Think of players on a football pitch who shout “Keep your heads up” when they are trying to be positive.

“He stands in his stained beltless garberdine…
…I notice now his stick, once painted white
but scuffed and muddy”

A stained jacket with missing belt implies the man is uncared for and may have no family to help him.  It makes him seem more vulnerable and makes us feel sorrier for him.  This is backed up by the state of his cane.

Technique Word Choice:

“like a monstrous animal caught in a tent”

This description makes the man seem like a sub-human oddity.  Nobody would like to be described as an animal or monstrous.

The word “caught” reminds us that the old man is trapped in a body that does not work.

“Long blind, hunchback born, half paralysed”

This line describes his disabilities and is a useful quote to remind you of the extent of his problems.


Technique:  Sentence structure

‘I want –to go to the-toilet.’

The poet uses dashes to act as pauses at points we would not expect one to pause.  This shows that the old man has difficulty in speaking.

STANZA 2

In the long second verse the poet enters the poem and sympathises with the old man.  We now see how difficult his life is and go from feeling scared of the old man to feeling pity for him. 

Technique: Simile

“A few yards of floor are like a landscape”

This compares a few simple yards of floor to a vast landscape.  Remember how you would lay this out in a close reading question using Just as…….So……..

Example Just as a landscape takes a long time to cross so the disabled man will take a long time to cover these simple few yards.  This is a good comparison to make as it emphasises the old man’s disabilities by showing how long it would take him to do something we would consider to be very easy.

“I concentrate
my life to his: crunch of spilt sugar,
slidy puddle from the night’s umbrellas,
table edges, people’s feet,
hiss of the coffee-machine, voices and laughter,
smell of a cigar, hamburgers, wet coats steaming,
and the slow dangerous inches to the stairs.”

A gorgeous piece of poetry as the poet imagines the situation from the old man’s point of view.  The reader thinks about how difficult we make life for people with disabilities.

Technique:  Repetition

“And slowly we go down. And slowly we go down.”

“And slowly we go up. And slowly we go up.”

Repetition is a valuable technique in drawing your attention to something.  In both cases he draws our attention to the word slowly.

Technique:  Contrast (A difference between two things)

“He shambles
uncouth into the clinical gleam.”

The dishevelled old man looks even more vulnerable and uncared for when we put him in a pristine clean environment.  All of these small chunks of description build up our overall image of a man we feel sympathy for.

Technique:  Word Choice

“the trickle of his water is thin and slow,
an old man’s apology for living.”

Physically decrepit.  An action that people take for granted.  Trickle is an effective word to choose as it implies there is little strength or volume to his flow.

Technique:  Metaphor

“the trickle of his water is thin and slow,
an old man’s apology for living.”

It compares his trouble with going to the toilet to the old man apologising for even being alive.  Sympathy is high!

Technique:  Word Choice
“I fill the basin, clasp his soft fingers round the soap.
He washes, feebly, patiently.”

Lots of words used which make the old man seem childlike and increase our pity and sympathy.

SYMPATHY GIVES WAY TO RESPECT AS WE SEE HIS DETERMINATION!

Determination= No obstacle will stop you!

“He climbs, and steadily enough.
He climbs, we climb. He climbs”

This quote shows that the old man will not give up and we respect him for that!

“with that one
persisting patience of the undefeated
which is the nature of man when all is said.”

Persisting = Will not stop

Patience = Always calm and waiting

Undefeated = Cannot be beaten

Nature of man = Personality of people/human spirit.

Humans are resilient (tough) and can achieve great things when they patiently and persistently try their hardest at something.  The old man is a great example of this and somebody who we respect a great deal as a result.

NOT FROM THE POEM!! “We will rise and rise again until lambs become lions”

Technique:  Paradox (two statements which can’t both be true (Contradict one another))

“The faltering, unfaltering steps”

Although his steps are uneasy and misplaced his determination to keep going drives him to the top of the stairs.

Faltering = steps
Unfaltering = his desire to reach the top.

STANZA 3

In stanza 3 Morgan draws back to explore the old man’s situation.  Our journey as a reader:

1)      fearing the old man

2)      Feeling pity and sympathy for the old man

3)      Feeling respect towards the old man’s determination

4)      Feeling angry and sad that he must live his life in such a terrible way.

“Wherever he could go it would be dark
and yet he must trust men.
Without embarrassment or shame
he must announce his most pitiful needs
in a public place”
There is a contrast here between the dark world in which the blind man lives and his need to rely on strangers he cannot see.  HE IS VERY VULNERABLE!

“His life depends on many who would evade him”

Evade = avoid

The poem draws to a close by summing up the painful reality of the old man’s life and his daily struggle:

“having one thing to do,
to haul his blind hump through these rains of August.”

The tone of COMPASSIONATE INDIGNATION of Morgan’s last line:

“Dear Christ, to be born for this!”

Compassionate = loving
Indignation= anger at the unfairness.

The poem leaves the reader sympathising with the old man, admiring his determination and questioning society’s treatment of the disabled.

REMEMBER “It’s not your life that matters, it’s what you do with it.”

Essay practice question number 1

choose a poem which describes a person in an interesting way

Show how the poet describes the person or place and explain how the poet's use of poetic techniques make the person or place interesting.

Remember poetic techniques include any technique the poet uses ie Simile metaphor, word choice, sentence structure etc.

Revision:

Make sure you understand the notes and the message of the poem.

Pick out the key quotations- at least 6.

Write out the key quotations and make sure you know them off by heart.

Take each quotation in turn and write as much as you can about it without referring to your notes.

Check what your notes say about the quote and learn anything you could not remember the first time.

Go to the SQA website and use the notes on essay writing to practice answering different questions. 

Once you are confident with this focus on your timekeeping.  45 minutes from opening paper and choosing question to putting your pen down at the end of the conclusion.

Good Luck- Preparation is 99% of the battle.