English Summer Learning for Years 7 and 8 Exploring Stories ...

English Summer Learning for Years 7 and 8

Exploring Stories from Other Cultures

This summer, the English department at Isaac Newton Academy has put together a little

anthology of short stories from writers across the globe to enrich your summer reading

experience.

There are six short stories in total – one for each week of the break – though the order you

read them in is completely up to you!

The first is set in India and is called ‘Games at Twilight’ by Anita Desai

The second is set in Wales and is called ‘The Bicycle and the Sweet Shop’ by Roald Dahl

The third is set in Barbados and is called ‘Pieces of Silver’ by Karl Sealey

The fourth is set in America and is called ‘When I Lay My Burden Down’ by Maya Angelou

The fifth is set in Nigeria and is called ‘Dead Men’s Chest’ by Chinua Achebe

The sixth returns us to India and is called ‘The Postmaster’ by Rabindrath Tagore

At the very least, we expect every student to read at least two stories and to complete the

tasks associated with these. But, whether you read two or more short stories, we’re expecting

you to spend 6 to 8 hours in total.

As each story is written by a renowned writer, you will be given a short introduction to them

first, which we hope will encourage you to read more of their work and to find out more

about the themes and ideas that they explore.

You’ll then find a short pre-reading task, which is then followed by the actual story, and some

writing tasks that will allow you to get creative!

You’ll find that we’ve included space for you to write in the booklet if you’d like to, but if you

don’t have a printer or don’t to want to print it out, we’re more than happy for you to do the

writing tasks either on Word or on a piece of A4 paper, which you can decorate if you wish!

We hope you enjoy your reading and writing adventure, and look forward to receiving two

‘postcards’ from each of you in your first lesson back after summer, based on your favourite

written responses!

Exploring India with ‘Games at Twilight’ by Anita Desai

About the author

Anita Desai was born in 1937 in India to a German

mother and an Indian father.

She has written many novels, short stories and

children’s books- including Clear Light of Day, In

Custody and Fasting, Feasting - exploring tensions

within the family, amongst other themes.

Her novel The Village by the Sea won The Guardian Award for Children's Fiction in 1982.

But the story we’ve got for you here, which is called Games at Twilight, focuses on a game of

hide and seek that, tragically, goes wrong…

Pre-reading exercise:

Below you will find some key words from the story, use them to predict what you think will

happen – remember, it’s about a game of hide and seek that goes wrong…

1. Veranda – another word for a balcony or outdoor space protected by a roof and propped up by pillars.

2. Bougainvillea – a climbing plant, which usually has vibrant pink or red flowers

3. Jamun – another word for a black plum, which are juicy and sweet

4. Twilight – the time of day when the sun starts to disappear and night approaches

Based on these images, I predict that…

The story starts with the words: “It was still too hot to play outdoors.” Can you find three short

quotes or phrases that show that it was indeed a hot afternoon?

Let’s look closely at language. Earlier on, we were told that the children ‘burst out like seeds

from a crackling, over-ripe pod into the veranda.’ This simile shows the energy with which the

children escaped from the confines of the house. They seem to be tumbling over each other

and running at full neck speed.

But how has the dog been described in the summer afternoon’s heat? See if you can find the

simile in the long paragraph above, and explain what it makes you think/feel about the dog.

‘Games at Twilight’ by Anita Desai

It was still too hot to play outdoors. They had had their tea, they had been washed and had

their hair brushed, and after the long day of confinement in the house that was not cool but

at least a protection from the sun, the children strained to get out. Their faces were red and

bloated with the effort, but their mother would not open the door, everything was still

curtained and shuttered in a way that stifled the children, made them feel that their lungs

were stuffed with cotton wool and their noses with dust and if they didn’t burst out into the

light and see the sun and feel the air, they would choke.

"Please, ma, please,'' they begged. "We’ll play in the veranda and porch—we won’t go a step

out of the porch.''

"You will, I know you will, and then——''

"No—we won’t, we won’t,'' they wailed so horrendously that she actually let down the bolt

of the front door so that they burst out like seeds from a crackling, overripe pod into the

veranda, with such wild, maniacal yells that she retreated to her bath and the shower of

talcum powder and the fresh sari that were to help her face the summer evening.

They faced the afternoon. It was too hot. Too bright. The white walls of the veranda glared

stridently in the sun. The bougainvillea hung about it, purple and magenta, in livid balloons.

The garden outside was like a tray made of beaten brass, flattened out on the red gravel and

the stony soil in all shades of metal—aluminum, tin, copper, and brass. No life stirred at this

arid time of day—the birds still drooped, like dead fruit, in the papery tents of the trees;

some squirrels lay limp on the wet earth under the garden tap. The outdoor dog lay stretched

as if dead on the veranda mat, his paws and ears and tail all reaching out like dying travelers

in search of water. He rolled his eyes at the children—two white marbles rolling in the purple

sockets, begging for sympathy—and attempted to lift his tail in a wag but could not. It only

twitched and lay still.

Then, perhaps roused by the shrieks of the children, a band of parrots suddenly fell out of the

eucalyptus tree, tumbled frantically in the still, sizzling air, then sorted themselves out into

battle formation and streaked away across the white sky.

The children, too, felt released. They too began tumbling, shoving, pushing against each

other, frantic to start. Start what? Start their business. The business of the children’s day

which is— play.

"Let’s play hide-and-seek.'' "Who’ll be It?''

"You be It.''

"Why should I? You be——''

"You’re the eldest——'' "That doesn’t mean——''

The shoves became harder. Some kicked out. The motherly Mira intervened. She pulled the

boys roughly apart. There was a tearing sound of cloth, but it was lost in the heavy panting

and angry grumbling, and no one paid attention to the small sleeve hanging loosely off a

shoulder.

"Make a circle, make a circle!'' she shouted, firmly pulling and pushing till a kind of vague

circle was formed. "Now clap!'' she roared, and, clapping, they all chanted in melancholy

unison: "Dip, dip, dip—my blue ship——'' and every now and then one or the other saw he

was safe by the way his hands fell at the crucial moment—palm on palm, or back of hand on

palm—and dropped out of the circle with a yell and a jump of relief and jubilation.

Raghu was It. He started to protest, to cry "You cheated—Mira cheated—Anu cheated——''

but it was too late, the others had all already streaked away. There was no one to hear when

he called out, "Only in the veranda—the porch—Ma said—Ma said to stay in the porch!'' No

one had stopped to listen, all he saw were their brown legs flashing through the dusty shrubs,

scrambling up brick walls, leaping over compost heaps and hedges, and then the porch stood

empty in the purple shade of the bougainvillea, and the garden was as empty as before; even

the limp squirrels had whisked away, leaving everything gleaming, brassy, and bare.

Only small Manu suddenly reappeared, as if he had dropped out of an invisible cloud or from

a bird’s claws, and stood for a moment in the center of the yellow lawn, chewing his finger

and near to tears as he heard Raghu shouting, with his head pressed against the veranda

wall, "Eighty-three, eighty-five, eighty-nine, ninety . . .'' and then made off in a panic, half of

him wanting to fly north, the other half counseling south. Raghu turned just in time to see

the flash of his white shorts and the uncertain skittering of his red sandals, and charged after

him with such a bloodcurdling yell that Manu stumbled over the hosepipe, fell into its rubber

coils, and lay there weeping, "I won’t be It—you have to find them all—all—All!''

"I know I have to, idiot,'' Raghu said, superciliously kicking him with his toe. "You’re dead,'' he

said with satisfaction, licking the beads of perspiration off his upper lip, and then stalked off

in search of worthier prey, whistling spiritedly so that the hiders should hear and tremble.

Ravi heard the whistling and picked his nose in a panic, trying to find comfort by burrowing

the finger deep—deep into that soft tunnel. He felt himself too exposed, sitting on an

upturned flowerpot behind the garage. Where could he burrow? He could run around the

garage if he heard Raghu come—around and around and around—but he hadn’t much faith

in his short legs when matched against Raghu’s long, hefty, hairy footballer legs. Ravi had a

frightening glimpse of them as Raghu combed the hedge of crotons and hibiscus, trampling

delicate ferns underfoot as he did so. Ravi looked about him desperately, swallowing a small

ball of snot in his fear.

The garage was locked with a great heavy lock to which the driver had the key in his room,

hanging from a nail on the wall under his workshirt. Ravi had peeped in and seen him still

sprawling on his string cot in his vest and striped underpants, the hair on his chest and the

hair in his nose shaking with the vibrations of his phlegm-obstructed snores. Ravi had wished

As Ravi sits hiding in the shed, he goes through a range of different emotions. He goes from

feeling trapped, confined, frustrated and towards the end he feels bit elated with the idea that

he has won the game and defeated Raghu.

he were tall enough, big enough to reach the key on the nail, but it was impossible, beyond

his reach for years to come. He had sidled away and sat dejectedly on the flowerpot. That at

least was cut to his own size.

But next to the garage was another shed with a big green door. Also locked. No one even

knew who had the key to the lock. That shed wasn’t opened more than once a year, when

Ma turned out all the old broken bits of furniture and rolls of matting and leaking buckets,

and the white anthills were broken and swept away and Flit sprayed into the spider webs and

rat holes so that the whole operation was like the looting of a poor, ruined, and conquered

city. The green leaves of the door sagged. They were nearly off their rusty hinges. The hinges

were large and made a small gap between the door and the walls—only just large enough for

rats, dogs, and, possibly, Ravi to slip through.

Ravi had never cared to enter such a dark and depressing mortuary of defunct household

goods seething with such unspeakable and alarming animal life but, as Raghu’s whistling

grew angrier and sharper and his crashing and storming in the hedge wilder, Ravi suddenly

slipped off the flowerpot and through the crack and was gone. He chuckled aloud with

astonishment at his own temerity so that Raghu came out of the hedge, stood silent with his

hands on his hips, listening, and finally shouted, "I heard you! I’m coming! Got you——'' and

came charging round the garage only to find the upturned flowerpot, the yellow dust, the

crawling of white ants in a mud hill against the closed shed door—nothing. Snarling, he bent

to pick up a stick and went off, whacking it against the garage and shed walls as if to beat out

his prey.

Ravi shook, then shivered with delight, with self-congratulation. Also with fear. It was dark,

spooky in the shed. It had a muffled smell, as of graves. Ravi had once got locked into the

linen cupboard and sat there weeping for half an hour before he was rescued. But at least

that had been a familiar place, and even smelled pleasantly of starch, laundry, and,

reassuringly, of his mother. But the shed smelled of rats, anthills, dust, and spider webs. Also

of less definable, less recognizable horrors. And it was dark. Except for the white-hot cracks

along the door, there was no light. The roof was very low. Although Ravi was small, he felt as

if he could reach up and touch it with his fingertips. But he didn’t stretch. He hunched himself

into a ball so as not to bump into anything, touch or feel anything. What might there not be

to touch him and feel him as he stood there, trying to see in the dark? Something cold, or

slimy—like a snake.

Snakes! He leapt up as Raghu whacked the wall with his stick—then, quickly realizing what it

was, felt almost relieved to hear Raghu, hear his stick. It made him feel protected.

But Raghu soon moved away. There wasn’t a sound once his footsteps had gone around the

garage and disappeared. Ravi stood frozen inside the shed. Then he shivered all over.

Something had tickled the back of his neck. It took him a while to pick up the courage to lift

his hand and explore. It was an insect—perhaps a spider—exploring him. He squashed it and

wondered how many more creatures were watching him, waiting to reach out and touch

him, the stranger.

There was nothing now. After standing in that position—his hand still on his neck, feeling the

wet splodge of the squashed spider gradually dry—for minutes, hours, his legs began to

tremble with the effort, the inaction. By now he could see enough in the dark to make out

the large solid shapes of old wardrobes, broken buckets, and bedsteads piled on top of each

other around him. He recognized an old bathtub—patches of enamel glimmered at him, and

at last he lowered himself onto its edge.

He contemplated slipping out of the shed and into the fray. He wondered if it would not be

better to be captured by Raghu and be returned to the milling crowd as long as he could be

in the sun, the light, the free spaces of the garden, and the familiarity of his brothers, sisters,

and cousins. It would be evening soon. Their games would become legitimate. The parents

would sit out on the lawn on cane basket chairs and watch them as they tore around the

garden or gathered in knots to share a loot of mulberries or black, teeth-splitting jamun from

the garden trees. The gardener would fix the hosepipe to the water tap, and water would fall

lavishly through the air to the ground, soaking the dry yellow grass and the red gravel and

arousing the sweet, the intoxicating scent of water on dry earth—that loveliest scent in the

world. Ravi sniffed for a whiff of it. He half-rose from the bathtub, then heard the despairing

scream of one of the girls as Raghu bore down upon her. There was the sound of a crash, and

of rolling about in the bushes, the shrubs, then screams and accusing sobs of "I touched the

den——'' "You did not——'' "I did——'' "You liar, you did not'' and then a fading away and

silence again.

Ravi sat back on the harsh edge of the tub, deciding to hold out a bit longer. What fun if they

were all found and caught—he alone left unconquered! He had never known that sensation.

Nothing more wonderful had ever happened to him than being taken out by an uncle and

bought a whole slab of chocolate all to himself, or being flung into the soda man’s pony cart

and driven up to the gate by the friendly driver with the red beard and pointed ears. To

defeat Raghu—that hirsute, hoarse-voiced football champion—and to be the winner in a

circle of older, bigger, luckier children—that would be thrilling beyond imagination. He

hugged his knees together and smiled to himself almost shyly at the thought of so much

victory, such laurels.

There he sat smiling, knocking his heels against the bathtub, now and then getting up and

going to the door to put his ear to the broad crack and listening for sounds of the game, the

pursuer and the pursued, and then returning to his seat with the dogged determination of

the true winner, a breaker of records, a champion.

It grew darker in the shed as the light at the door grew softer, fuzzier, turned to a kind of

crumbling yellow pollen that turned to yellow fur, blue fur, gray fur. Evening. Twilight. The

sound of water gushing, falling. The scent of earth receiving water, slaking its thirst in great

gulps and releasing that green scent of freshness, coolness. Through the crack Ravi saw the

long purple shadows of the shed and the garage lying still across the yard. Beyond that, the

white walls of the house. The bougainvillea had lost its lividity, hung in dark bundles that

quaked and twittered and seethed with masses of homing sparrows. The lawn was shut off

from his view. Could he hear the children’s voices? It seemed to him that he could. It seemed

Describe how Ravi is feeling initially as he enters the shed to avoid capture and when a spider

tickles his neck, using a quote if you can.

Anita Desai describes Ravi come tearing out of the shed overcome with emotions, but why do

you think Ravi is crying?

to him that he could hear them chanting, singing, laughing. But what about the game? What

had happened? Could it be over? How could it when he was still not found?

It then occurred to him that he could have slipped out long ago, dashed across the yard to

the veranda, and touched the "den.'' It was necessary to do that to win. He had forgotten. He

had only remembered the part of hiding and trying to elude the seeker. He had done that so

successfully, his success had occupied him so wholly, that he had quite forgotten that success

had to be clinched by that final dash to victory and the ringing cry of "Den!''

With a whimper he burst through the crack, fell on his knees, got up, and stumbled on stiff,

benumbed legs across the shadowy yard, crying heartily by the time he reached the veranda

so that when he flung himself at the white pillar and bawled, "Den! Den! Den!'' his voice

broke with rage and pity at the disgrace of it all, and he felt himself flooded with tears and

misery.

Out on the lawn, the children stopped chanting. They all turned to stare at him in

amazement. Their faces were pale and triangular in the dusk. The trees and bushes around

them stood inky and sepulchral, spilling long shadows across them. They stared, wondering at

his reappearance, his passion, his wild animal howling. Their mother rose from her basket

chair and came toward him, worried, annoyed, saying, "Stop it, stop it, Ravi. Don’t be a baby.

Have you hurt yourself?'' Seeing him attended to, the children went back to clasping their

hands and chanting, "The grass is green, the rose is red. ''

But Ravi would not let them. He tore himself out of his mother’s grasp and pounded across

the lawn into their midst, charging at them with his head lowered so that they scattered in

surprise. "I won, I won, I won,'' he bawled, shaking his head so that the big tears flew. "Raghu

didn’t find me. I won, I won——''

It took them a minute to grasp what he was saying, even who he was. They had quite

forgotten him. Raghu had found all the others long ago. There had been a fight about who

was to be It next. It had been so fierce that their mother had emerged from her bath and

made them change to another game. Then they had played another and another. Broken

mulberries from the tree and eaten them. Helped the driver wash the car when their father

returned from work. Helped the gardener water the beds till he roared at them and swore he

would complain to their parents. The parents had come out, taken up their positions on the

cane chairs. They had begun to play again, sing and chant. All this time no one had

remembered Ravi. Having disappeared from the scene, he had disappeared from their minds.

Clean.

"Don’t be a fool,'' Raghu said roughly, pushing him aside, and even Mira said, "Stop howling,

Ravi. If you want to play, you can stand at the end of the line,'' and she put him there very

firmly.

The game proceeded. Two pairs of arms reached up and met in an arc. The children trooped

under it again and again in a lugubrious circle, ducking their heads and intoning

"The grass is green, The rose is red; Remember me When I am dead, dead, dead, dead''

Now that you’ve read the rest of the story, what conclusions have you come to about why Ravi

crying?

- Do you think he’s crying because the game ended a long time ago and his friends completely

forgot about him, so that now he feels insignificant and embarrassed?

- Or do you think he’s crying because the realisation that his friends had forgotten him has led

him to an even bigger realisation, which is that no-one is as significant as they think they are,

and the world can easily forget them?

And the arc of thin arms trembled in the twilight, and the heads were bowed so sadly, and

their feet tramped to that melancholy refrain so mournfully, so helplessly, that Ravi could not

bear it. He would not follow them, he would not be included in this funereal game. He had

wanted victory and triumph—not a funeral. But he had been forgotten, left out, and he

would not join them now. The ignominy of being forgotten—how could he face it? He felt his

heart go heavy and ache inside him unbearably. He lay down full length on the damp grass,

crushing his face into it, no longer crying, silenced by a terrible sense of his insignificance.

Writing Tasks

Do you have a childhood memory, which involved you being treated unfairly by your friends

or your peers? Have you ever felt ignored or isolated? If so, you could use this as inspiration

for your own short story.

Or, if you’d rather, you could write a piece of non-fiction, like an advice column or guide

maybe, to support anyone who’s experienced bullying.

Or, finally, if you’d like to, you could write an essay paragraph either evaluating the pros and

cons of this story, or analysing the writer’s use of language, form, and structure. For tips on

how to do this see the stretch section at the end.

Whatever you choose, you can complete your writing on the next page as your ‘postcard from

India’ to us!

Writing inspired by Anita Desai’s story

‘Games in Twilight’

Exploring Wales with ‘The Bicycle and the Sweet Shop’ by Roald

Dahl

About the author

We all are familiar with the name Roald Dahl, the author of Charlie and the Chocolate

Factory, Matilda, The BFG and numerous other children’s books, but we might not know as

much about his life.

Roald Dahl was born in Wales in 1916 to Norwegian parents. He went to a boarding school

and many of his bizarre and funny experiences are recounted in his books. He remains for

many the world’s No. 1 storyteller. He was also a spy, an ace fighter pilot, a chocolate

historian and a medical inventor!

The following excerpt is from Roald Dahl’s autobiographical novel Boy: Tales of Childhood,

published in 1984. It is quite amusing and after reading it you might want to read the whole

novel. Roald Dahl tells us about his experiences at school in England and summer holidays in

Norway.


Bull’s-Eye

Humbugs

Acid- drops

Pear drops

As you read the names of all these old sweets, can you predict the year in which the story might be set?

https://www.roalddahl.com/roald-dahl/about





Roald Dahl uses an analogy here to show how important the sweetshop was to him: ‘a bar is to

a drunk, or a church is to a Bishop’. Now try writing a couple of your own comparisons. A

sweetshop is to me as a is to a .

Do you think that the children would be deterred by Mrs Pratchett’s attitude?

‘The Bicycle and the Sweet Shop’ by Roald Dahl

When I was seven, my mother decided I should leave kindergarten and go to a proper boy’s

school. By good fortune, there existed a well-known Preparatory School for boys about a mile

from our house. It was called Llandaff Cathedral School, and it stood right under the shadow

of Llandaff cathedral. Like the cathedral, the school is still there and still flourishing. ...

Llandaff Cathedral My second and only other memory of Llandaff Cathedral School is

extremely bizarre. It happened a little over a year later, when I was just nine. By then I had

made some friends and when I walked to school in the mornings I would start out alone but

would pick up four other boys of my own age along the way. After school was over, the same

four boys and I would set out together across the village green and through the village itself,

heading for home. On the way to school and on the way back we always passed the sweet-

shop. No we didn’t, we never passed it. We always stopped. We lingered outside its rather

small window gazing in at the big glass jars full of Bull’s-eyes and Old Fashioned Humbugs and

Strawberry Bonbons and Glacier Mints and Acid Drops and Pear Drops and Lemon Drops and

all the rest of them. Each of us received sixpence a week for pocket-money, and whenever

there was any money in our pockets, we would all troop in together to buy a pennyworth of

this or that. My own favourites were Sherbet Suckers and Liquorice Bootlaces. ...

The sweet-shop in Llandaff in the year 1923 was the very centre of our lives. To us, it was

what a bar is to a drunk, or a church is to a Bishop. Without it, there would have been little to

live for. But it had one terrible drawback, this sweet-shop. The woman who owned it was a

horror. We hated her and we had good reason for doing so.

Her name was Mrs Pratchett. She was a small skinny old hag with a moustache on her upper

lip and a mouth as sour as a green gooseberry. She never smiled. She never welcomed us

when we went in, and the only times she spoke were when she said things like, ‘I’m watchin’

you so keep yer thievin’ fingers off them chocolates!’ Or ‘I don’t want you in ’ere just to look

around! Either you forks out or you gets out!’

But by far the most loathsome thing about Mrs Pratchett was the filth that clung around her.

Her apron was grey and greasy. Her blouse had bits of breakfast all over it, toast-crumbs and

tea stains and splotches of dried egg-yolk. It was her hands, however, that disturbed us most.

They were disgusting. They were black with dirt and grime. They looked as though they had

been putting lumps of coal on the fire all day long. And do not forget please that it was these

very hands and fingers that she plunged into the sweet-jars when we asked for a pennyworth

of Treacle Toffee or Wine Gums or Nut Clusters or whatever. There were precious few health

laws in those days, and nobody, least of all Mrs Pratchett, ever thought of using a little shovel

for getting out the sweets as they do today. The mere sight of her grimy right hand with its

black fingernails digging an ounce of Chocolate Fudge out of a jar would have caused a

starving tramp to go running from the shop. But not us. Sweets were our life-blood. We

would have put up with far worse than that to get them. So we simply stood and watched in

sullen silence while this disgusting old woman stirred around inside the jars with her foul

fingers.

Write a list of all the negative traits (qualities) of Mrs Pratchett. Which one do you find most

revolting and write down your reasons as to why?

The other thing we hated Mrs Pratchett for was her meanness. Unless you spent a whole

sixpence all in one go, she wouldn’t give you a bag. Instead you got your sweets twisted up in

a small piece of newspaper which she tore off a pile of old Daily Mirrors lying on the counter.

So you can well understand that we had it in for Mrs Pratchett in a big way, but we didn’t

quite know what to do about it. Many schemes were put forward but none of them was any

good. None of them, that is, until suddenly, one memorable afternoon, we found the dead

mouse.

Writing Tasks

We hope that you have enjoyed the narrative so far. But if you want to continue with the

excitement then you must write a brief narrative like Roald Dahl and tell us what happens

next. Start with the words: One memorable afternoon, we found the dead mouse.

Alternatively, you can write about a humorous autobiographical experience of something that

happened in or around your own school that also involved your friends.

Or you could write a letter of complaint to the head-teacher from the point of view of Mrs

Pratchett, complaining about how the boys in the school have been stealing sweets from the

shop and been a nuisance.





Wales’ to us!

Writing inspired by Roald Dahl’s story

‘The Bicycle and the Sweet Shop’

About the author

‘The Pieces of Silver’ by Karl Sealey

Karl Sealy was born in 1922 on the

Caribbean island of Barbados, the son

of an engine-fitter and one of eight

children. He excelled at school and

went to on to train to be a teacher.

He published a number of stories and

poems and became a writer and poet

that enjoyed international

reputation.

The following story tells us of a time when the relationship between teachers and pupils was

far from what it is today.


The following contextual notes will make the reading and understanding of the story easier.

Pieces of Silver Brutus and his ingratitude

The words ‘pieces of silver’ can have different connotations. For some, it can just mean silver coins, while for others it can refer to a pirate’s bounty or treasure. Alternatively, it can link to the Biblical story that sees Judas, one of Jesus Christ’s 12 followers or disciples, betray Jesus for thirty pieces of silver.

Brutus was the name of a Roman senator, who served the Emperor Julis Caesar. However, as the emperor’s power grew, Brutus became concerned, and he eventually decided to strip Caesar of power by assassinating him. Historians say that Caesar was more hurt by Brutus’ disloyalty that he was by the knife that Brutus turned on him, as he’d seen Brutus as a loyal friend and had not expected him be a part of the conspiracy against him. In Shakespeare’s play Julius Caesar, Caesar’s last words are ‘et tu Brute?’ meaning ‘and you too Brutus?’, as though he can’t believe his eyes before he dies.

Based on what you have read what do you think might happen in the story?

What impression do you get of the school so far where pupils are routinely checked for clean hands, teeth and even if hair has been properly brushed? How would you feel if you were in a school that was strictly regimented?

‘Pieces of Silver’ by Karl Sealey

When, at five minutes to ten, the bell started to ring, a pall of silence settled over the noisy playfield.

Reluctantly games of cricket and pickups were abandoned; climbers came slithering down from the old tamarind tree on the school grounds or dropped quickly from its branches, making haste to clear their mouths of the green, acid fruit they had been enjoying.

The school of four hundred odd boys assembled in ranks across the pebbled playfield, waiting for inspection before they could file into the red-walled school. Some glanced apprehensively at their dusty, naked feet, while others tried feverishly to make their nails and hands presentable.

The teachers came from the school-room in a leisurely bunch, laughing and joking in quiet voices as they sauntered towards the boys.

The stout, pompous, acting Headmaster came to the window that opened off his platform on to the playfield, still making an unnecessary clangour with his bell, and looked sternly over the assembled rows of scholars. The smaller boys straightened and stiffened under his cold gaze.

As the teachers passed slowly along the ranks the boys turned their hands back and forth and grinned to show their teeth. A number of boys who failed to pass the teachers’ inspection of health were hailed out of the ranks and ordered in to the acting Head. There were three strokes with his cane of plaited tamarind stalks for unclean hands; four for improperly brushed teeth and six for an uncombed head.

After the inspection the boys filed quietly into school and to their different classes. When you could have heard a pin drop the schoolmaster, rapped out the order: “Shun!” The entire school of boys flung their hands to their foreheads and chanted: “Good morning to our teachers.”

The schoolmaster announced a hymn, and emitting an untrue, faltering note, invited the scholars to take it. The boys rendered a rich improvement of the sound, and when the schoolmaster flung his hand up and stamped his foot they tore full-throatily into the hymn.

At the conclusion of the hymn the boys sang Amen, bringing their hands up to their faces in an attitude of prayer. The schoolmaster submitted a long, impromptu supplication, rambling and ill-worded, at the end of which the boys said Amen once more. Again the schoolmaster ordered “‘Shun!” The boys came to attention, and school was ready to begin.

But this morning the schoolmaster did not order the school to be seated as was the normal custom after prayers. Instead he fixed the school with his cold eyes and said:

How has the acting Headmaster been described? How does he treat the pupils in the school?

“Those who have brought contributions to Mr. Megahey’s purse will give them to their teachers.”

Hands delved into pockets, while, in the lower classes, a number of small, moist fists closed still more tightly over the pieces of silver which had been wrapped in paper and pressed carefully into their palms.

The teachers drew chairs and stools to their respective desks and sat down. Each produced a foolscap sheet on which were recorded the names of those of his class who had contributed to the purse for the retiring Head, Mr. Megahey.

No commendation seemed due to the donor of threepence. A sixpence was held up between the thumb and forefinger of the receiving teacher and displayed before the class, while the name of the boy who had presented it was repeated some half a dozen times. Still more ado was made of the bestower of a shilling. In addition to being patted on the shoulder and beamed on by his teacher, and basking in the envy of his class, he was sent up to be thanked by the acting Head who shook his hand heartily and showed the gleaming gold of his teeth, and who, with a grave gesture, bestowed upon him the fag-end of a stick of chalk with the injunction that it be not used about the school.

The receipt of the contributions was over, and the last boy bad returned to his seat. On the platform the acting Head cleared his throat for attention and said:

“Those who have contributed to our retiring Head’s purse will now sit. Those who have not will remain standing.”

When the scuffling tumult of a school of boys taking their seats had subsided, here and there about the school-room a scattered few stood with downcast eyes.

The acting Head was a squat jug of a man, fierce-eyed and unsmiling. He now sauntered along the edge of his platform and fixed, one after the other, each of the standing boys with a look of complete scorn. Then, mopping his brow, he ordered those who had brought no gifts to come up and mount the platform where the dozen of them were lined up.

Taking a stick of chalk he scrawled an X upon the forehead of each boy, to the huge delight of the rest of the school. When he had imprinted this symbol of shame upon the brow of each unhappy child, he turned to the laughing school, and holding his hand up to check the gusts of merriment, said,

“Look! They bear the symbol of ingratitude!”

The cruel laughter went up to the rafters. The schoolmaster permitted it free swell for a few moments before raising his hand once more.

“Ingratitude,” he went on “ingratitude, more strong than human hand... Come, Clement. You’re in the fourth. Step forward and let’s hear Mark Anthony on ingratitude. Surely our old

What picture of the Dovecot household has been painted so far? Does the description arouse a feeling of pity or empathy in the mind of the reader as to how difficult the day to day affairs of running uch a household might be?

Head would expire if he knew that in his school he harboured so many thankless Brutuses. Come, Clement, let us hear you recite the piece, and well.”

Clement stepped forward, shabby and barefoot, and with eyes downcast, began to recite the passage in a choked, monotonous tone. Now and again the schoolmaster threatened him with his rod, exhorting him to speak up. The boy would then raise his voice and quicken his words under the threat of the lash, but soon his voice sank back and the recitation resumed its muttered vein.

At last, however, the passage was finished. The acting Headmaster then spent some minutes more making the hapless boys the laughing-stock of their school friends. Only when he thought the school on the verge of becoming unmanageable did he dismiss the tormented boys with the words:

“Now go to your places. But bear in mind: Every morning, until you show some appreciation for your resigning Headmaster, you shall come up here and stand in shame before the whole school.”

It was dusk, and the Dovecots were taking their one substantial meal of the day.

No one could think, looking at their home, that three penny pieces, or even halfpennies, were to be had there for the asking.

The house was a poor, wretched coop of a room, through the black, water-stained shingles of which you could count a dozen blue glimpses of sky. The walls of the shack were papered with old newspapers and magazines, discoloured with age and stained and spotted from roof to floor, torn in a score of places to reveal the rotting, worm-eaten boards beneath. The small room was divided by a threadbare cotton screen depicting seagulls soaring up from a sea of faded blue. In the midst of this drab poverty the free, scaring seagulls, and the once gay pictures of the magazine pages were an unkind comment.

The Dovecots were a family of four: Dave and his wife Maud, Clement and his older sister Evelina.

Clement sat on the sanded floor of the poor sitting room, his plate of rice between his legs; Evelina lolled over the one battered, depreciated mahogany table, picking at the coarse food with an adolescent discontent; Dave Dovecot, a grizzled, gangling labourer, held his plate in his left hand, while with his right he plied his mouth from a peeling metal spoon; at the propped- open window of the room sat Mrs. Dovecot a long thread of a woman whose bones want had picked like an eagle. Her plate was resting on her lap, and she scraped and pecked and foraged her food like a scratching hen, while she took stock of the passers-by.

When Clement had finished, he took up his empty plate and getting to his feet, went and stowed it away in the dark box of a kitchen. Returning, he slumped down beside his mother’s chair and rested his head against her bony thigh.

The writer here has used a lot of direct speech to make the account sound realistic and bring the story to life. Clément’s family has no money? What implications would this have on Clement?

After a time he said:

“Ma, I could have the threepence I‘s been asking for Mr. Megahey?”

“Hmn. Wa’ threepence boy? Why In de name of de Lord must poor starving people got to find threepences for Jim Megahey what’s got his belly sitting so pretty wi’ fat’” parried Mrs. Dovecot, though she knew well enough.

“I’s told you and tol you and told you Ma. He’s resigning and we’ve all got to take threepence to give him,” explained Clement patiently once more.

“Hmn. Threepence is a lot o’ money for us poor folk. Hmn. Go ax your Father. See what he

says.”Clement got to his feet reluctantly and moved slowly, over to where his father was 15 sitting, for he knew from experience that, in parting with money, his father was a far harder nut to crack than his mother.

Dave Dovecot utilized the approach of his son by extending his empty plate. Clement took the plate to the kitchen. Then he turned once more to tackle his father.

“Can I have a threepence Papa?” he shouted in his father’s ear, for the old man was pretty nigh stone deaf.

“Eh-eh! What’s that about a fence, Clement?”

This time Clement put his mouth completely into his father’s ear and shouted until his dark face grew darker.

“Eh-eh Don’t shout at me,” was all he got for his pains. “Don’t you deafen me. What’s thet the young varmint says, Maud?”

Mrs. Dovecot came over, and got him to understand after two or three attempts.

“Three pence, Maudie,” he cackled, “three pence! Did yo’ hear thet Maud? Did yo’ ever hear the like? I’ll bet you ain’t never did. Three pence! The lad’ll have money what l’s got to sweat blood for, just to gi to thet Megahey what’s got his bread so well buttered off ‘pon both sides not to mention the middle. Three pence! ha ha!... oh Maudie….. And he broke down once more in helpless laughter. Clement went out and sat under the breadfruit tree that grew before the door, resting his back against the trunk.

Evelina came to him there when the dusk was thick and sat beside him.

There was a close band of understanding and companionship between these two. Clement leaned against her so that he could feel the cheering warmth of her arms, warm as the still warm ground beneath him. Biting his nails he told her of his morning’s shame.

She listened as attentively as a mother, and as she listened, she put her hand around his neck and drew his head gently down upon her young bosom.

When he had finished talking she put her lips down to his harsh, curls, and thought for a long

time. Then she said, with a little sigh:

“I know what we’ll do, Clemmie. ‘Member how ‘fore I was took from school we big girls used to go out singing at Christmas? Well we’ll play waits. Only tonight there’ll be only you and me.”

Clement raised his head and gazed into her face in the starlight.

“Oh Eve,” he said, “but it ain’t anyways near Christmas.”

“Never you mind,” she said; “There’s still some who’ll give us a penny or two. You wait. I’ll get our hats and then we’ll be off.”

She got to her feet and slipped quickly into the house. She returned in a few moments carrying his cap in her hand, her own hat of straw on her head. She settled his cap, then produced a comb.

‘When we come to the shop we’ll ask for a piece of bread paper,” she said; “then you’ll play the sax while I sing.’

They roamed far that night. Evelina’s voice rose clear and true to the accompaniment of the paper and comb, long after the moon came up and laid white hands upon the countryside.

At last Evelina said, jingling the coins which they had earned in the pockets of her dress:

‘Let’s make this our last and call it a day.”

The house with which they proposed to round off their tour had a pretentious front of red brick. The greater part of the house was in darkness, but from the street the two children could see a couple sitting in the open veranda.

Bravely, Evelina unlatched the street gate and led the way up the steps to the veranda.

“Good night,” she greeted the pair in the shadows. “We would like to sing for you.”

The woman chuckled softly and Evelina could see the white gleam of the man’s teeth when he said: “Sure.”

The children rendered their song. When they had finished the man got to his feet and approached them, delving in his pocket.

“Thanks for your singing,” he said kindly. “It was very nice. May, give us some light for a moment.” The woman got from her chair and, leaning through a window pressed a light switch.

And as the light flooded the veranda little Clement was turned to stone for the tall, greying man foraging the handful of coins was the retiring Headmaster Mr. Megahey.

There are several plot twists and dramatic moments in the last section of the story. Which one

do you like the best? Pick one from the following and write down your reasons for it to be most

effective and touching.

-The irony of a boy like Clement giving money to a man like Mr Megahey.

-The moment when Clement is turned to stone.

-The irony of Mr Megahey giving money to Clement.

-The fact that Clement delays handing over the money until on the platform.

-The fact that Clement manages to ‘fix’ Mr Chase- as Evelina puts it?

-The fact that the last words, ‘clear and thrilling as a star’s light’ end on such a satisfying note.

Clement’s scrambled retreat after Evelina had made her little curtsey which was perhaps unnecessary, since Mr. Megahey had his glasses off and he didn’t seem to recognize him. Out in the road, Evelina let out the laughter that had been welling inside her.

“Just think how we never thought of where your old Head might’ve moved to after he left the Schoolmaster house,” she laughed. “But he’s gi’n us our biggest taking for the night, anyway. He’s gi’n us sixpence.”

They counted their takings in the middle of the white road in the moonlight. When they had finished, Evelina poured the coins back into her pocket and said:

“Now I going tell you how we’ll fix that brute Mr. Chase.”

On the following morning the acting Head, Mr. Chase kept his word. Immediately after prayers the boys who had brought no silver were lined up across the platform. They were but eight of them this morning. Two had somehow managed their three penny pieces, white two or three others had absented themselves. Clement counted the line of boys as he took his place among them.

As the Mr. Chase eyed their bowed heads in enjoyment Clement stepped forward, the eight pieces of silver upon his extended palm.

“There are eight,” he told the gaping schoolmaster. ‘One for each of us.”

His voice struck through the silent school, clear and thrilling as a star’s light.

Writing tasks

Write a short account of a time when you exercised some entrepreneur skills and was able to

make some money.

Or write a short narrative of a time when you believed that you had come to a dead end like

Clement and believed nothing good was going to come and then miraculously your fortunes

changed.

Or, were you aware that corporal punishment or physical discipline is still allowed in many

schools in America and in many parts of the world. Write a newspaper article saying that all

forms of physical punishment should be banned in schools.





Barbados’ to us!

Writing inspired by Karl Sealey’s story

‘Pieces of Silver’

Exploring America with ‘When I Lay my Burden Down’ by Maya

Angelou

About the Author

Maya Angelou was born in 1928, St. Louis, America. She was a

civil rights activist, poet and award-winning author. The

following excerpt is taken from her world-famous

autobiographical novel, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings,

written in 1969. In it, she recounts her experience as an

African-American growing up in racist America in the 1930s.

Her books center on themes such as racism, identity, family

and travel.

Angelou had a difficult childhood. Her parents split up when

she was very young, and she and her older brother were sent

to live with their paternal grandmother, Annie Henderson, in

Arkansas, whom we meet here.

This story does contain some mature and difficult themes that some readers may find

upsetting, but others may find it interesting from a historical perspective.

Pre-reading task:

Read the following quotes by Maya Angelou and and see if can you guess the main idea or theme that

surfaces in all of them:

With this in mind, what do you predict the story will be about?

What does this above line make you think of? Are you reading a piece of fiction or is this a real

account of someone’s life?

‘When I Lay My Burden Down’ by Maya Angelou

In Stamps, the segregation was so complete that most Black children didn’t really, absolutely

know what whites looked like. Other than that they were different, to be dreaded, and in that

dread was included the hostility of the powerless against the powerful, the poor against the

rich, the worker against the worked for and the ragged against the well dressed.

I remember never believing that whites were really real.

Many women who worked in their kitchens traded at our Store, and when they carried their

finished laundry back to town they often set the big baskets down on our front porch to pull

a singular piece from the starched collection and show either how graceful was their ironing

hand or how rich and opulent was the property of their employers.

I looked at the items that weren’t on display. I knew, for instance, that white men wore

shorts, as Uncle Willie did, and that they had an opening for taking out their “things” and

peeing, and that white women’s breast weren’t built into their dresses as some people said,

because I saw their brassieres in the baskets. But I couldn’t force myself to think of them as

people. People were Mrs. LaGrone, Mrs. Hendricks, Momma, Revered Sneed, Lillie B, Louise

and Rex. Whitefolks couldn’t be people because their feet were too small, their skin too

white and see-throughy, and they didn’t walk on the balls of their feet the way people did—

they walked on their heels like horses.

People were those who lived on my side of town. I didn’t like them all, or, in fact, any of them

very much, but they were people. These others, the strange pale creatures that lived in their

alien unlife, weren’t considered folks. They were whitefolks.

"Thou shall not be dirty” and “Thou shall not be impudent” were the two commandments of

Grandmother Henderson upon which hung our total salvation.

Each night in the bitterest winter we were forced to wash faces, arms, necks, legs, and feet

before going to bed. She used to add, with a smirk that unprofane people can’t control when

venturing into profanity, “and wash as far as possible, then wash possible.”

We would go to the well and wash in the ice-cold, clear water, grease our legs with the

equally cold, stiff Vaseline, then tiptoe into the house. We wiped the dust from our toes and

settled down for schoolwork, corn bread, clobbered milk, prayers, and bed, always in that

order. Momma was famous for pulling the quilts off after we had fallen asleep to examine

our feet. If they weren’t clean enough for her, she took the switch (she kept one behind the

bedroom door for emergencies) and woke up the offender with a few aptly placed burning

reminders.

The area around the well at night was dark and slick, and boys told about how snakes love

water, so that anyone who had to draw water at night and then stand there alone and wash

knew that moccasins and rattlers, puff adders and boa constrictors were winding their way to

the well and would arrive just as the person washing got soap in her eyes. But Momma

convinced us that not only was cleanliness next to godliness, dirtiness was the inventor of

misery.

How are the white folks (or ‘powhitetrash’) different to the Grandmother (‘Momma’)? Why is

the writer emphasising the difference?

The impudent child was detested by God and a shame to its parents and could bring

destruction to its house and line. All adults had to be addressed as Mister, Missus, Miss,

Auntie, Cousin, Unk, Uncle, Buhbah, Sister,

Brother, and a thousand other appellations indicating familial relationship and the lowliness

of the addressor. Everyone I knew respected these customary laws, except for the

powhitetrash at children.

Some families of powhitetrash lived on Momma’s farmland behind the school. Sometimes a

gaggle of them came to the Store, filling the whole room, chasing out the air, and even

changing the well-known scents. The children crawled over the shelves and into the potato

and onion bins, twanging all the time in their sharp voices like cigar-box guitars. They took

liberties in my Store that I would never dare. Since Momma told us that the less you say to

whitefolks (or even powhitetrash) the better, Bailey and I would stand, solemn, quiet, in the

displaced air.

But if one of the playful apparitions got close to us, I pinched it. Partly out of angry frustration

and partly because I didn’t believe in its flesh reality.

They called my uncle by his first name and ordered him around the Store. He, to my crying

shame, obeyed them in his limping dip-straight-dip fashion.

My grandmother, too, followed their orders, except that she didn’t seem to be servile

because she anticipated their needs.

“Here’s sugar, Miz Potter, and here’s baking powder. You didn’t buy soda last month, you’ll

probably be needing some.”

Momma always directed her statements to the adults, but sometimes, Oh painful sometimes,

the grimy, snotty- nosed girls would answer her.

“Naw, Annie . . .”—to Momma? Who owned the land they lived on? Who forgot more than

they would ever learn? If there was any justice in the world, God should strike them dumb at

once!—“Just give us some extry sody crackers, and some more mackerel.”

At least they never looked in her face, or I never caught them doing so. Nobody with a

smidgen of training, not even the worst roustabout, would look right in a grown person’s

face. It meant the person was trying to take the words out before they were formed. The

dirty little children didn’t do that, but they threw their orders around the Store like lashes

from a cat-o’-nine-tails.

When I was around ten years old, those scruffy children caused me the most painful and

confusing experience I had ever had with my grandmother.

One summer morning, after I had swept the dirt yard of leaves, spearmint-gum wrappers,

and Vienna-sausage labels, I raked the yellow-red dirt and made half-moons carefully, so that

the design stood out clearly and masklike. I put the rake behind the Store and came through

the back of the house to find Grandmother on the front porch in her big, wide white apron.

What does this washing ritual make you think of the Grandmother and the children?

Why does Angelou feel the urge to reach for the rifle? What is it that is disturbing her so

greatly?

The apron was so stiff by virtue of the starch that it could have stood alone. Momma was

admiring the yard, so I joined her. It truly looked like a flat redhead that had been raked with

a big-toothed comb. Momma didn’t say anything but I knew she liked it. She looked over

toward the school principal’s house and to the right at Mr. McElroy’s. She was hoping one of

those community pillars would see the design before the day’s business wiped it out. Then

she looked upward to the school. My head had swung with hers, so at just about the same

time we saw a troop of the powhitetrash kids marching over the hill and down by the side of

the school.

I looked to Momma for direction. She did an excellent job of sagging from her waist down,

but from the waist up she seemed to be pulling for the top of the oak tree across the road.

Then she began to moan a hymn. Maybe not to moan, but the tune was so slow and the

meter so strange that she could have been moaning. She didn’t look at me again. When the

children reached halfway down the hill, halfway to the Store, she said without turning,

“Sister, go on inside.”

I wanted to beg her, “Momma, don’t wait for them. Come on inside with me. If they come in

the Store, you go to the bedroom and let me wait on them. They only frighten me if you’re

around. Alone I know how to handle them.”

But of course I couldn’t say anything, so I went in and stood behind the screen door.

Before the girls got to the porch, I heard their laughter crackling and popping like pine logs in

a cooking stove. I suppose my lifelong paranoia was born in those cold, molasses-slow

minutes. They came finally to stand on the ground in front of Momma. At first they

pretended seriousness. Then one of them wrapped her right arm in the crook of her left,

pushed out her mouth, and started to hum. I realized that she was aping my grandmother.

Another said, “Naw, Helen, you ain’t standing like her. This here’s it.” Then she lifted her

chest, folded her arms and mocked that strange carriage that was Annie Henderson. Another

laughed, “Naw, you can’t do it. Your mouth ain’t pooched out enough. It’s like this.”

I thought about the rifle behind the door, but I knew I’d never be able to hold it straight, and

the .410, our sawed-off shotgun, which stayed loaded and was fired every New Year’s night,

was locked in the trunk and Uncle Willie had the key on his chain. Through the fly-specked

screen door, I could see that the arms of Momma’s apron jiggled from the vibrations of her

humming. But her knees seemed to have locked as if they would never bend again.

She sang on. No louder than before, but no softer either. No slower or faster.

The dirt of the girls’ cotton dresses continued on their legs, feet, arms, and faces to make

them all of a piece. Their greasy uncolored hair hung down, uncombed, with a grim finality. I

knelt to see them better, to remember them for all time. The tears that had slipped down my

dress left unsurprising dark spots and made the front yard blurry and even more unreal. The

world had taken a deep breath and was having doubts about continuing to revolve.

The girls had tired of mocking Momma and turned to other means of agitation. One crossed

her eyes, stuck her thumbs in both sides of her mouth, and said, “Look here, Annie.”

Grandmother hummed on and the apron strings trembled. I wanted to throw a handful of

What are the undignified and degrading acts of the girls telling us about them?

Why is the Grandmother’s face beautiful? What has she just achieved through her polite

composure?

black pepper in their faces, to throw lye on them, to scream that they were dirty, scummy

peckerwoods, but I knew I was as clearly imprisoned behind the scene as the actors outside

were confined to their roles. One of the smaller girls did a kind of puppet dance while her

fellow clowns laughed at her. But the tall one, who was almost a woman, said something very

quietly, which I couldn’t hear.

They all moved backward from the porch, still watching Momma. For an awful second I

thought they were going to throw a rock at Momma, who seemed (except for the apron

strings) to have turned into stone herself. But the big girl turned her back, bent down, and

put her hands flat on the ground—she didn’t pick up anything. She simply shifted her weight

and did a handstand. Her dirty bare feet and long legs went straight for the sky. Her dress fell

down around her shoulders, and she had on no drawers. She hung in the vacuum of that

lifeless morning for only a few seconds, then wavered and tumbled. The other girls clapped

her on the back and slapped their hands.

Momma changed her song to “Bread of Heaven, bread of Heaven, feed me till I want no

more.”

I found that I was praying too. How long could Momma hold out? What new indignity would

they think of to subject her to? Would I be able to stay out of it? What would Momma really

like me to do?

Then they were moving out of the yard, on their way to town. They bobbed their heads and

shook their slack behinds and turned, one at a time:

“’Bye, Annie.”



Momma never turned her head or unfolded her arms, but she stopped singing and said,

“’Bye, Miz Helen, ’bye, Miz Ruth, ’bye, Miz Eloise.”

I burst. A firecracker July-the-Fourth burst. How could Momma call them Miz? The mean,

nasty things. Why couldn’t she have come inside the sweet, cool store when we saw them

breasting the hill? What did she prove? And then if they were dirty, mean, and impudent,

why did Momma have to call them Miz?

She stood another whole song through and then opened the screen door to look down on

me crying in rage. She looked until I looked up. Her face was a brown moon that shone on

me. She was beautiful. Something had happened out there which I couldn’t completely

understand, but I could see that she was happy. Then she bent down and touched me as

mothers of the church “lay hands on the sick and afflicted” and I quieted.

“Go wash your face, Sister.” And she went behind the candy counter and hummed, “Glory,

glory, hallelujah, when I lay my burden down.”

Why do you think the Grandmother is singing this hymn: ‘glory, hallelujah, when I lay my

burden down’?

-This episode affirms the dignity of the Grandmother that she has the ability maintain her

composure in the face of racist cruelty.

-Her knowledge that her religious beliefs and principals have helped and guarded her in times

of trial and have made her emerge even stronger.

-Her sense of pride that she has not let herself be affected by the insulting behaviour and

prejudice of the children.

I threw the well water on my face and used the weekday handkerchief to blow my nose.

Whatever the contest had been out front, I knew Momma had won.

I took the rake back to the front yard. The smudged footprints were easy to erase. I worked

for a long time on my new design and laid the rake behind the wash pot. When I came back

in the Store, I took Momma’s hand and we both walked outside to look at the pattern.

It was a large heart with lots of hearts growing smaller inside, and piercing from the outside

rim to the smallest heart was an arrow. Momma said, “Sister, that’s right pretty.” Then she

turned back to the Store and resumed, “Glory, glory, hallelujah, when I lay my burden down.”

Writing tasks

Write a short story based on someone who is powerless that comes out victorious and

stronger at the end.

Or write a speech on the topic of ‘Black Lives Matter’.

Or finally, if you’d like to, you could write an essay paragraph either evaluating the pros and




America’ to us!

Writing inspired by Maya Angelou’s

story ‘When I Lay My Burden Down’

Exploring Nigeria with ‘Dead Men’s Path’ by Chinua Achebe

About the Author

Chinua Achebe was born in Nigeria in 1930. His best-

known novel, ‘Things Fall Apart’ has been translated

into over 50 languages. Achebe is proud of his African

background and identity. He was educated in Christian

schools, was the son of a missionary school teacher

and he has chosen to write his books in English.

Achebe knows about the effect of European customs

and beliefs on traditional African society. ‘Dead Men’s

Path’ also mirrors a clash of cultures.

Pre-reading task:

Can you guess what the key words are from the definitions below? The pictures are there to

help up you. The answers are at the end of the story

1 A place regarded as holy because of its associations with a divinity or a sacred person or relic, marked by a building or other construction

2 A person who was in someone's family in past times: one of the people from whom a person is descended.

3 A belief or behaviour (folk custom) passed down within a group or society with symbolic meaning or special significance with origins in the past.

4 A widely held but irrational belief in supernatural influences, especially as leading to good or bad luck, or a practice based on such a belief.

Based on the images above and the title ‘Dead Men’s Path’, what do you think the story will turn out to be about?

Already we see a clash between the old and the new systems. The young couple have new and progressive ideas. Do you think that the headmaster will be able to build the school the way he wants to?

‘Dead Men’s Path’ by Chinua Achebe

Michael Obi's hopes were fulfilled much earlier than he had expected. He was appointed headmaster of Ndume Central School1 in January 1949. It had always been an unprogressive school, so the Mission authorities decided to send a young and energetic man to run it. Obi accepted this responsibility with enthusiasm. He had many wonderful ideas and this was an opportunity to put them into practice. He had had sound secondary school education which designated him a "pivotal teacher" in the official records and set him apart from the other headmasters in the mission field. He was outspoken in his condemnation of the narrow views of these older and often less-educated ones.

"We shall make a good job of it, shan't we?" he asked his young wife when they first heard the joyful news of his promotion.

"We shall do our best," she replied. "We shall have such beautiful gardens and everything will be just modern and delightful . . ." In their two years of married life she had become completely infected by his passion for "modern methods" and his denigration of "these old and superannuated people in the teaching field who would be better employed as traders in the Onitsha market." She began to see herself already as the admired wife of the young headmaster, the queen of the school.

The wives of the other teachers would envy her position. She would set the fashion in everything . . . Then, suddenly, it occurred to her that there might not be other wives. Wavering between hope and fear, she asked her husband, looking anxiously at him.

"All our colleagues are young and unmarried," he said with enthusiasm, which for once she did not share. "Which is a good thing," he continued.

"Why?"

"Why? They will give all their time and energy to the school."

Nancy was downcast. For a few minutes she became skeptical about the new school; but it was only for a few minutes. Her little personal misfortune could not blind her to her husband's happy prospects. She looked at him as he sat folded up in a chair. He was stoop- shouldered and looked frail. But he sometimes surprised people with sudden bursts of physical energy. In his present posture, however, all his bodily strength seemed to have retired behind his deep-set eyes, giving them an extraordinary power of penetration. He was only twenty-six, but looked thirty or more. On the whole, he was not unhandsome.

"A penny for your thoughts, Mike," said Nancy after a while, imitating the woman's magazine she read.

"I was thinking what a grand opportunity we've got at last to show these people how a school should be run."

List all the qualities that show Mr Obi is a good man and he wants to make things better for the school.

According to the Village Priest what does the village path symbolise?

Ndume School was backward in every sense of the word. Mr. Obi put his whole life into the work, and his wife hers too. He had two aims. A high standard of teaching was insisted upon, and the school compound was to be turned into a place of beauty. Nancy's dream-gardens came to life with the coming of the rains, and blossomed. Beautiful hibiscus and allamanda hedges in brilliant red and yellow marked out the carefully tended school compound from the rank neighbourhood bushes.

One evening as Obi was admiring his work he was scandalized to see an old woman from the village hobble right across the compound, through a marigold flower-bed and the hedges. On going up there he found faint signs of an almost disused path from the village across the school compound to the bush on the other side.

"It amazes me," said Obi to one of his teachers who had been three years in the school, "that you people allowed the villagers to make use of this footpath. It is simply incredible." He shook his head.

"The path," said the teacher apologetically, "appears to be very important to them. Although it is hardly used, it connects the village shrine with their place of burial."

"And what has that got to do with the school?" asked the headmaster.

"Well, I don't know," replied the other with a shrug of the shoulders. "But I remember there was a big row some time ago when we attempted to close it."

"That was some time ago. But it will not be used now," said Obi as he walked away. "What will the government Education Officer think of this when he comes to inspect the school next week? The villagers might, for all I know, decide to use the schoolroom for a pagan ritual during the inspection."

Heavy sticks were planted closely across the path at the two places where it entered and left the school premises. These were further strengthened with barbed wire.

Three days later the village priest of Ani called on the headmaster. He was an old man and walked with a slight stoop. He carried a stout walking-stick which he usually tapped on the floor, by way of emphasis, each time he made a new point in his argument.

"I have heard," he said after the usual exchange of cordialities, "that our ancestral foot-path has recently been closed . . ."

"Yes," replied Mr. Obi. "We cannot allow people to make a highway of our school compound."

"Look here, my son," said the priest bringing down his walking-stick, "this path was here before you were born and before your father was born. The whole life of this village depends on it. Our dead relatives depart by it and our ancestors visit us by it. But most important, it is the path of children coming in to be born. .... "

Why does the Headmaster not agree with the Village Priest? Do you think that his reasons are valid?

The ending has an ironic twist as Mr Obi’s dreams for his school suffer a crushing setback. Pick one of the following statements and comment:

-Mr Obi is too ambitious for his own good and his pride is his own undoing.

-It is important to respect the ideas, beliefs and practices of other people and cultures.

-Old customs and practices have deep primitive roots and can work in strange and mysterious ways especially if anyone tries to tamper with them.

Mr. Obi listened with a satisfied smile on his face.

"The whole purpose of our school," he said finally, "is to eradicate just such beliefs as that. Dead men do not require footpaths. The whole idea is just fantastic. Our duty is to teach your children to laugh at such ideas."

"What you say may be true," replied the priest, "but we follow the practices of our fathers. If you reopen the path we shall have noth-ing to quarrel about. What I always say is: let the hawk perch and let the eagle perch." He rose to go.

"1 am sorry," said the young headmaster. "But the school compound cannot be a thoroughfare. It is against our regulations. I would suggest your constructing another path, skirting our premises. We can even get our boys to help in building it. I don't suppose the ancestors will find the little detour too burdensome."

"I have no more words to say," said the old priest, already outside.

Two days later a young woman in the village died in childbed. A diviner was immediately consulted and he prescribed heavy sacrifices to propitiate ancestors insulted by the fence.

Obi woke up next morning among the ruins of his work. The beautiful hedges were torn up not just near the path but right round the school, the flowers trampled to death and one of the school buildings pulled down . . . That day, the white Supervisor came to inspect the school and wrote a nasty report on the state of the premises but more seriously about the "tribal-war situation developing between the school and the village, arising in part from the misguided zeal of the new headmaster."

Answers for the pre-reading task: 1: Shrine 2: Ancestors 3: Traditions 4: Superstitions

Writing tasks

Do some initial research on the customs and traditions of a group of people from another area. Create a leaflet or fact-file on the different aspects of their beliefs and practices.

Or write an essay on why cultural practices and traditions are an important part of one’s life.

Or write a report as if you were the Supervisor who inspects Mr Obi’s school.





Nigeria’ to us!

Writing inspired by Chinua Achebe’s

story ‘Dead Men’s Path’

Exploring India (again) with ‘The Postmaster’ by Rabindrath

Tagore

About the Author

Rabindranath Tagore was born in 1861 Calcutta, India. He was

educated at home; and although at seventeen he was sent to

England for formal schooling, yet he did not finish his studies there.

Rabindranath Tagore was a multitalented personality in every

sense. He was a Bengali poet, philosopher, artist, playwright,

novelist, painter and a composer. He composed the National

Anthem of India and won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1913, the

first non-European to do so.

The following story is about a postmaster who is sent to a remote post office in a small rural

Indian village, where a poor orphan girl finds short lived happiness in serving him.

Pre-reading task:

It is important to understand the themes that Tagore explores in his short stories in order to appreciate them and to understand the times under the British Raj.

Modernisation: Just as during the 1800’s England was undergoing industrialisation, India too was experiencing change. India had started to modernise under the colonial rule of the British. Tagore loves to explore the tensions that this modernisation is bringing: pitting the newly educated bureaucrats against the traditional Bengalis living in villages and far- flung areas.

Class: India is historically an hierarchal society, built on a caste system . While Tagore explores how class differences affect the relative humanity of people in his stories. In "The Postmaster," for example, members of the upper class are depicted as opportunists whilst people belonging to the lowest class do not have a voice.

Money: something that Tagore clearly finds absurd. He sees it as the tool by which the higher classes exert their influences, and as a resource which makes lives of those lacking it miserable. But Tagore often makes the subtle move of showing the value of his characters outside of their monetary wealth. The orphaned girl in the story refuses the money, hence Tagore is showing that money probably does not fix problems.

Why does the Postmaster feel like a ‘fish out of water’?

‘The Postmaster’ by Rabindranath Tagore

The postmaster first took up his duties in the village of Ulapur. Though the village was a small one, there was an indigo factory near by, and the proprietor, an Englishman, had managed to get a post office established.

Our postmaster belonged to Calcutta. He felt like a fish out of water in this remote village. His office and living-room were in a dark thatched shed, not far from a green, slimy pond, surrounded on all sides by a dense growth.

The men employed in the indigo factory had no leisure; moreover, they were hardly desirable companions for decent folk. Nor is a Calcutta boy an adept in the art of associating with others. Among strangers he appears either proud or ill at ease. At any rate, the postmaster had but little company; nor had he much to do.

At times he tried his hand at writing a verse or two. That the movement of the leaves and the clouds of the sky were enough to fill life with joy—such were the sentiments to which he sought to give expression. But God knows that the poor fellow would have felt it as the gift of a new life, if some genie of the Arabian Nights had in one night swept away the trees, leaves and all, and replaced them with a macadamised road, hiding the clouds from view with rows of tall houses.

The postmaster's salary was small. He had to cook his own meals, which he used to share with Ratan, an orphan girl of the village, who did odd jobs for him.

When in the evening the smoke began to curl up from the village cowsheds, and the cicalas chirped in every bush; when the mendicants of the Baül sect sang their shrill songs in their daily meeting-place, when any poet, who had attempted to watch the movement of the leaves in the dense bamboo thickets, would have felt a ghostly shiver run down his back, the postmaster would light his little lamp, and call out "Ratan."

Ratan would sit outside waiting for this call, and, instead of coming in at once, would reply, "Did you call me, sir?"

"What are you doing?" the postmaster would ask.

"I must be going to light the kitchen fire," would be the answer.

And the postmaster would say: "Oh, let the kitchen fire be for a while; light me my pipe first."

At last Ratan would enter, with puffed-out cheeks, vigorously blowing into a flame a live coal to light the tobacco. This would give the postmaster an opportunity of conversing. "Well, Ratan," perhaps he would begin, "do you remember anything of your mother?" That was a fertile subject. Ratan partly remembered, and partly didn't. Her father had been fonder of her than her mother; him she recollected more vividly. He used to come home in the evening after his work, and one or two evenings stood out more clearly than others, like pictures in her memory. Ratan would sit on the floor near the postmaster's feet, as memories crowded in upon her. She called to mind a little brother that she had—and how on some bygone cloudy day she had played at fishing with him on the edge of the pond, with a twig for a make-believe fishing-rod. Such little incidents would drive out greater events from her mind. Thus, as they talked, it would often get very late, and the postmaster would feel too lazy to do any cooking at all. Ratan would then hastily light the fire, and toast some unleavened bread, which, with the cold remnants of the morning meal, was enough for their supper.

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Why does the Postmaster like the company of a ‘simple little’ village girl, Ratan?

The Postmaster is doing an act of kindness by teaching the poor girl how to read. Do you think that this is going to benefit Ratan in the long run?

How does Ratan become an important person in the Postmaster’s life?

On some evenings, seated at his desk in the corner of the big empty shed, the postmaster too would call up memories of his own home, of his mother and his sister, of those for whom in his exile his heart was sad,—memories which were always haunting him, but which he could not talk about with the men of the factory, though he found himself naturally recalling them aloud in the presence of the simple little girl. And so it came about that the girl would allude to his people as mother, brother, and sister, as if she had known them all her life. In fact, she had a complete picture of each one of them painted in her little heart.

One noon, during a break in the rains, there was a cool soft breeze blowing; the smell of the damp grass and leaves in the hot sun felt like the warm breathing of the tired earth on one's body. A persistent bird went on all the afternoon repeating the burden of its one complaint in Nature's audience chamber.

The postmaster had nothing to do. The shimmer of the freshly washed leaves, and the banked- up remnants of the retreating rain-clouds were sights to see; and the postmaster was watching them and thinking to himself: "Oh, if only some kindred soul were near—just one loving human being whom I could hold near my heart!" This was exactly, he went on to think, what that bird was trying to say, and it was the same feeling which the murmuring leaves were striving to express. But no one knows, or would believe, that such an idea might also take possession of an ill-paid village postmaster in the deep, silent mid-day interval of his work.

The postmaster sighed, and called out "Ratan." Ratan was then sprawling beneath the guava- tree, busily engaged in eating unripe guavas. At the voice of her master, she ran up breathlessly, saying: "Were you calling me, Dada?" "I was thinking," said the postmaster, "of teaching you to read." And then for the rest of the afternoon he taught her the alphabet.

Thus, in a very short time, Ratan had got as far as the double consonants.

It seemed as though the showers of the season would never end. Canals, ditches, and hollows were all overflowing with water. Day and night the patter of rain was heard, and the croaking of frogs. The village roads became impassable, and marketing had to be done in punts.

One heavily clouded morning, the postmaster's little pupil had been long waiting outside the door for her call, but, not hearing it as usual, she took up her dog-eared book, and slowly entered the room. She found her master stretched out on his bed, and, thinking that he was resting, she was about to retire on tiptoe, when she suddenly heard her name—"Ratan!" She turned at once and asked: "Were you sleeping, Dada?" The postmaster in a plaintive voice said: "I am not well. Feel my head; is it very hot?"

In the loneliness of his exile, and in the gloom of the rains, his ailing body needed a little tender nursing. He longed to remember the touch on the forehead of soft hands with tinkling bracelets, to imagine the presence of loving womanhood, the nearness of mother and sister. And the exile was not disappointed. Ratan ceased to be a little girl. She at once stepped into the post of mother, called in the village doctor, gave the patient his pills at the proper intervals, sat up all night by his pillow, cooked his gruel for him, and every now and then asked: "Are you feeling a little better, Dada?"

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Ratan waits patiently for a week before her master calls her. What impressions do you form of Ratan as a girl and as a servant?

It was some time before the postmaster, with weakened body, was able to leave his sick-bed. "No more of this," said he with decision. "I must get a transfer." He at once wrote off to Calcutta an application for a transfer, on the ground of the unhealthiness of the place.

Relieved from her duties as nurse, Ratan again took up her old place outside the door. But she no longer heard the same old call. She would sometimes peep inside furtively to find the postmaster sitting on his chair, or stretched on his bed, and staring absent-mindedly into the air. While Ratan was awaiting her call, the postmaster was awaiting a reply to his application. The girl read her old lessons over and over again,—her great fear was lest, when the call came, she might be found wanting in the double consonants. At last, after a week, the call did come one evening. With an overflowing heart Ratan rushed into the room with her—"Were you calling me, Dada?"

The postmaster said: "I am going away to-morrow, Ratan."

"Where are you going, Dada?"

"I am going home."

"When will you come back?"

"I am not coming back."

Ratan asked no other question. The postmaster, of his own accord, went on to tell her that his application for a transfer had been rejected, so he had resigned his post and was going home.

For a long time neither of them spoke another word. The lamp went on dimly burning, and from a leak in one corner of the thatch water dripped steadily into an earthen vessel on the floor beneath it.

After a while Ratan rose, and went off to the kitchen to prepare the meal; but she was not so quick about it as on other days. Many new things to think of had entered her little brain. When the postmaster had finished his supper, the girl suddenly asked him: "Dada, will you take me to your home?"

The postmaster laughed. "What an idea!" said he; but he did not think it necessary to explain to the girl wherein lay the absurdity.

That whole night, in her waking and in her dreams, the postmaster's laughing reply haunted her—"What an idea!"

On getting up in the morning, the postmaster found his bath ready. He had stuck to his Calcutta habit of bathing in water drawn and kept in pitchers, instead of taking a plunge in the river as was the custom of the village. For some reason or other, the girl could not ask him about the time of his departure, so she had fetched the water from the river long before sunrise, that it should be ready as early as he might want it. After the bath came a call for Ratan. She entered noiselessly, and looked silently into her master's face for orders. The master said: "You need not be anxious about my going away, Ratan; I shall tell my successor to look after you." These words were kindly meant, no doubt: but inscrutable are the ways of a woman's heart!

Ratan had borne many a scolding from her master without complaint, but these kind words she could not bear. She burst out weeping, and said: "No, no, you need not tell anybody anything at all about me; I don't want to stay on here."

Nature is personified in this paragraph. The forces of the earth and water seem to unite to show the grief and torment in girl’s heart. What effect does this create on the reader?

Which of the following points to you agree with the most, and why:

-It is loneliness that brings the Postmaster and the girl closer.

-Ratan is too disillusioned to think that the Postmaster would take her along with him.

-The divide between the educated elite and the uneducated masses can never be crossed.

-One should accept that all endings are not happy as this is a fact of life.

The postmaster was dumbfounded. He had never seen Ratan like this before.

The new incumbent duly arrived, and the postmaster, having given over charge, prepared to depart. Just before starting he called Ratan and said: "Here is something for you; I hope it will keep you for some little time." He brought out from his pocket the whole of his month's salary, retaining only a trifle for his travelling expenses. Then Ratan fell at his feet and cried: "Oh, Dada, I pray you, don't give me anything, don't in any way trouble about me," and then she ran away out of sight.

The postmaster heaved a sigh, took up his carpet bag, put his umbrella over his shoulder, and, accompanied by a man carrying his many-coloured tin trunk, he slowly made for the boat.

When he got in and the boat was under way, and the rain-swollen river, like a stream of tears welling up from the earth, swirled and sobbed at her bows, then he felt a pain at heart; the grief-stricken face of a village girl seemed to represent for him the great unspoken pervading grief of Mother Earth herself. At one time he had an impulse to go back, and bring away along with him that lonesome waif, forsaken of the world. But the wind had just filled the sails, the boat had got well into the middle of the turbulent current, and already the village was left behind, and its outlying burning-ground came in sight.

So the traveller, borne on the breast of the swift-flowing river, consoled himself with philosophical reflections on the numberless meetings and partings going on in the world—on death, the great parting, from which none returns.

But Ratan had no philosophy. She was wandering about the post office in a flood of tears. It may be that she had still a lurking hope in some corner of her heart that her Dada would return, and that is why she could not tear herself away. Alas for our foolish human nature! Its fond mistakes are persistent. The dictates of reason take a long time to assert their own sway. The surest proofs meanwhile are disbelieved. False hope is clung to with all one's might and main, till a day comes when it has sucked the heart dry and it forcibly breaks through its bonds and departs. After that comes the misery of awakening, and then once again the longing to get back into the maze of the same mistakes.

Why is Ratan so heartbroken? Why does she no longer want to work ?

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Writing tasks

Write a speech arguing for or against the idea that ‘One should listen to the heart and not the

head when making important decisions in life’.

Or write a letter from the point of view of Ratan to the Postmaster telling him how she feels

about suddenly being abandoned and her studies being left part-way through.





India’ to us!

Writing inspired by Rabindrath

Tagore’s story ‘The Postmaster’

evidence

point

Effect on reader

evidence

Stretch Section

For those of you who’ve chosen to stretch yourselves by writing either evaluative essay

paragraphs or analytical essay paragraphs, see the example below and on the following page.

Evaluation: Model paragraph

This is a top-level paragraph and should be used to help you structure your own response.

See the next page if you’d rather write an analytical essay paragraph, as both are important

GCSE skills!

Throughout ‘The Landlady,’ Dahl successfully utilises the character of the landlady

to create a sense of growing tension. This first becomes apparent when Billy meets

the landlady and she is described as both having a ‘warm welcoming smile’ while

simultaneously being compared to a ‘jack-in-the-box.’ These contrasting images

successfully create a sense of unease and contradiction in the mind of the reader;

we are left to wonder if she is as kind as she seems.

Basic

This eerie feeling that the reader has about the landlady is only amplified later when

she tells him that she was ‘beginning to get worried’ that he would not appear. This

is successful in creating tension because it makes the reader think that perhaps the

landlady was expecting Billy and that she somehow knew that he would arrive. As

readers, we are left wondering how the landlady could have possibly known this and

curious about what other plans she may have for Billy.

Good

As we continue to read, we slowly uncover more and more about the landlady, until finally we discover that she ‘stuff[s] all of [her] little pets when they pass away.’ This

revelation at the end of the story allows all of the suspicions that the reader has had

about the landlady throughout to come full circle. We finally know exactly what the

landlady has been doing with her ‘pets.’ The gradual nature of Dahl’s narrative

successfully creates a strong sense of gradual tension throughout, finally resulting

in this final confession from the landlady.

Impressive

Effect on reader

evidence

Effect on reader

Stretch Section

For those of you who’ve chosen to stretch yourselves by writing either evaluative essay

paragraphs or analytical essay paragraphs, see the example below and on the following page.

Analysis: Model paragraph

This is a top-level paragraph and should be used to help you structure your own response.

Throughout ‘The Landlady’ Dahl presents the titular character of the landlady as remorseless. This becomes clear through the repetitive questions that the

landlady asks Billy about his name. At the beginning of the story, she mistakenly

calls Billy ‘Mr Perkins’ and later on calls him ‘Mr Wilkins.’ This suggests that the

landlady does not view Billy as important; as we read on, we realise that she

may just see him as another one of her victims. It may be that she has killed so

many young men that she is unable to remember all of their names. The

repetition of this simple mistake may make the reader feel very wary of the

landlady. We are left wondering if she is unable to remember this simple fact

about Billy or if she just does not believe that he is important enough to

remember his name.

Good

Furthermore, when Billy asks about the parrot and dachshund, the landlady reveals that they are no longer living and that ‘stuff[s] all [her] little pets

[herself] when they pass away.’ The landlady’s use of the noun ‘pets’ is

particularly important here. The implication of this is that she is not only

referring to her animal pets, but is also metaphorically referring to Mr

Mulholland and Mr Temple. This will inevitably create a sense of fear and shock

for the readers and puts more emphasis on the fact that the landlady is, indeed,

entirely remorseless as she views these young men as mere ‘pets.’

Impressive

point

technique

evidence

analysis

technique

effect on reader

evidence

technique

analysis

technique

effect on reader

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English Summer Learning for Years 7 and 8 Exploring Stories ...

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