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COMPETITION

Tales in school

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 1990 you were invited to provide an extract from a school story by a well-known novelist whom one cannot easily imagine venturing into this area.

This idea, proposed by G.J. Blundell, won a prize in a 'suggestions for a competi- tion' competition in this magazine nearly 30 years ago, but was never put into prac- tice. Walter Scott, Raymond Chandler and Anita Brookner were three of the least expected performers. Less surprising was Graham Greene's 'nature ramble' (Alyson Nikiteas): 'Miss Broadley looked at the eager faces, unmarked by the knowledge that so often troubled the sleepless night. "It is human nature that we are to explore today. It starts here. This", she said, "is a brothel."' The prizewinners, printed below, get £25 each, and the bottle of Isle of Jura Single Malt Scotch whisky goes to Tim Hopkins.

Franz Kafka P entered the playground of State School Num- ber 97. Groups of children appeared to include him in their loosely informal gatherings, but whenever he spoke they would ignore him, turn their backs on him or move away. Everyone fell silent when the duty teacher blew his whistle. P's anxiety intensified when he remembered it was Monday: this was the day when class allocations were changed (or not changed), according to the whim of the Principal. Children were never informed of these changes, but severe penalties awaited anyone late for registration. P decided to register with the previous week's teacher. On reaching the form room his worst fears were confirmed. The teacher gave a look of exaspera- tion, and slammed the door in his face. A screech of rage came from the other end of the now empty corridor: 'You're late, boy!' P walked briskly towards his new teacher. (Tim Hopkins) Henry James By dint of aestival meteorological vicissitudes, the fledgling alumni of the Blessed Henry James Preparatory School, topographically located in a county decreed to be one of the more favourably aspected regions of what assuredly is, or, rather, has, for immensurable aeons, been styled Eng- land, sought variously to engage in recreational pursuits, of a nature neither deleterious to their advancement nor derogatory of the established ordinances of the institution.

It could, accordingly, be observed that a num- ber of boys, although the precise quantity is unascertainable, had elected to manifest their diligence through the assiduous composition of hebdomadal correspondence. Installed in a dis- tant corner of the oak-wainscotted study, two doughty Trojans strove, each seeking to compro- mise the intellect of his fellow at chess; and, at an adjacent escritoire, Jennings and Darbishire, companions dissimilar in every wise, investigated the opportunities afforded by the racing of gas- tropods. (Mike Morrison) Ed McBain West Point, Homer thought, would have done fine. But no. Oh no. They had aspirations back home. So here he was, watching this weird English stickball, with two masters in white coats prancing around and doing things with their forefinger his pop would have welted him for. Simpering alongside was the spotty kid, angling for handouts as usual. Homer saw red. He might have reflected he and the spotty kid were brothers, victims under the same lousy oppression, but he wasn't in the mood.

Homer Vance III had had a gutful. Homer Vance III took the spotty kid, and spun the spotty kid around, and dealt the spotty kid such a kick up his fancy pants as sent him yowling off like he always did. Screw the old grey

stones, Homer thought viciously, and screw the highfalutin' crap they talk here. What the hell was a 'smidgen of tuck' anyway? (Chris Tingley) D.H. Lawrence At the sight of the unattended plum cake, Bunter felt a quickening in the depths of his solar plexus. He desired it with a dark, ineffable longing. All of a sudden he knew, with his queer, feminine kind of intuition, that this longing placed him beyond the reach of the milk-and- water Christianity preached by the contemptible Quelch and his ilk. 'Thou shalt not steal' — what had biblical injunctions to do with this urgent, consuming need that stirred his blood? Transfigured by his dark gluttony, he bit long and deep into the cake. At the same moment he sensed its brooding owner, Bob Cherry, approaching his rear. His broad, curiously silky buttocks quivered in anticipation of the manly boot.

`Yarool Oh, crikey, Cherry!' Bunter's ejacula- tions were primal shouts of thwarted pain. He lay prostrate, his dark, hungry passion now utter- ly spent. (Peter Norman) James Kellman Tuckin' hell, the bloody bell!' Wee McClarty grabbed the paper bag for a final inhalation, simultaneously signalling to the prefects to lean off the door. Desperate voices came through the broken pane. `Ah'm burstin', so Ah am.' `It's no ferr. We'll be late for Soggy.' `Gonny let's in? Pleeeese!'

The two doormen held out their hands to col- lect the 10p pieces. One lad, braver or maybe less in need than the others, kept his hands in his pockets.

`Bugger youse,' he shouted in trembling falset- to. `Ah'm tellin', so Ah am.'

Wee Mac raised his head. 'Whit d'ye say, ye wee bastard?' He clamped slightly unsteady fin- gers round the junior's protruding left ear and tweaked viciously.

`Ah said Ah'm no tellin', McClarty. Ye ken me. Ah nivver tell.'

The School Captain gave a fmal twist and shoved the kid's head hard against the stained