Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

It wasn’t really what you’d call a school or, at least, it wasn’t just a school or even mostly a school. Nonetheless there were exams. These were held twice a year: winter and summer. The children always looked forward to them, particularly the winter one which signalled the beginning of Christmas time. The date of the exam was announced on the morning of the date of the exam - usually over breakfast. There was no set form of announcement. It might be that while reading the paper Mrs Bean would suggest that Molly really should eat all her scrambled eggs as there was an exam that day. It might be that one of the candidates would overhear a conversation in the hail conducted in a repetitive stage whisper between two of the grown—ups (‘There’s an exam today, dear.’ ‘Yes, there is an exam, isn’t there?’ ‘I don’t think they’ll be able to do the exam, will they, dear?’ and so on). It might be that someone would find a printed announcement in their breakfast cereal.

In any event, question papers were collected from Marie in the library at around ten o’clock. She would ceremonially unlock the old fashioned bureau with a small brass key, push up the full curve of the mahogany slats and distribute the papers, each typed on plain sheets yellowing at the edges on the sort of type-writer that only prints in grey and leaves spaces in the middle, although not always at the end of words.

Candidates could spend as long as they wished on the paper. This might be ten minutes or three hours or a month: it all depended on what they felt was appropriate. They could sit the exam wherever they wanted although, of course, some of the questions might involve looking for things or dressing up or making something in the workshop. If they wanted their papers marked, they left them in the cocktail cabinet in the library. Uncle Cutenius marked all the papers. So, for that matter, did anyone else who wanted to, including the candidates. Marks were awarded such as ‘907’ or ‘two doughnuts and a peanut brittle’.

Some years before the really hot summer when the weather was as it should be, Orlando, Molly, Webster and Eugenie had been sitting in the kitchen when there was an announcement on the wireless. ‘This is the Home Service. Here is a special announcement. Today is exam day.’ Bang went the kitchen door and off they ran, nearly knocking over the stuffed monkey on their way to the library.

Eugenie took her paper to the green-house and began to read ..

‘Winter Examination

Rules: Candidates may do nothing, cheat, tell lies, work together, dispense false information to other candidates, run away. Do as many questions as you wish.

Question 1: How can I find the following -
a) The boiling point of mercury.
b) The radius of the dome above the green-house.
c) Humbolt.
d) Unlimited power and wealth.
e) My past?

Question 2: Why do gooseberry tarts contain gooseberries? Would your answer differ if they contained loganberries?

Question 3: What is 1256/8? Work out your answer in your head in Roman numerals. Give your answer in ordinary numbers.

Question 4: ‘It is not fair.’ Discuss.

Question 5: What is in the ninth room on the left-hand side of the east passage in the cellars? Give as many answers as you can. Torches and iced buns may be collected from the pantry.

Question 6: Using the plasticene provided, outline the history of the Kings and Queens of Britain.

Question 7: It is 1830. You are standing on the ornamental bridge. A volcano has exploded in the shrubbery. The paths and flower beds are covered in molten lava. To set foot on them is to die horribly. The lake is infested with sharks and there are two fierce leopards at large on the far shore. You must reach the safety of the walled garden by one o’clock today.

Question 8: Read the diaries of Edwin Maitland attatched. What is the Art of Memory?’

Eugenie tugged at the wisp of hair which engagingly and calculatedly had been allowed to escape from between the rim of her high collar and the tight lustrous ball of her hair kept in place with the yellowed ivory needles she’d found in Allony’s room. The last question seemed familiar. She couldn’t quite remember but thought that it had been asked before, on the last paper. How boring of them to ask the same question twice. It hadn’t looked very interesting the first time, which, no doubt, was why no-one had attempted it the first time.

She thought for a while. There were no diaries attatched. The exam paper was one single sheet of foolscap with nothing typed on the back and nothing clipped or tied to it.

Perhaps ‘Attatched’ was Edwin’s surname — but then it hadn’t been spelt with a capital. That could be a mistake — but they were always very particular about that sort of thing.

‘Of course,’ Eugenie considered, ‘that might be part of the question, that I’ve got to find the diaries first before I can answer the question.’

From what she knew about diaries — her own dealt exhaustively with the weather and her feelings, in that order - she could not see how any diaries could help to explain ‘what is the art of memory?’

‘Maybe it’s that type of question where you’re supposed to answer it without doing the work — but question three’s one of those and there’s never more than one.’ Cutenius was fond of setting questions which demonstrated the importance of not doing what you were told, and of laziness. Even if it was one of those types of question, she didn’t know what the art of memory was. She couldn’t look it up in a dictionary — it was more than one word long. She could look up ‘art’ or ‘memory’ but not both together. She pondered. Now that she thought about it, she could recall that Edwin Maitland was something to do with the house, someone who’d lived there a long time ago, so long ago that Albany hadn’t been born then, but she’d never heard that he’d written a diary. She decided to ask for a clue. She went to Marie.

‘Marie — I want a clue.’

‘To which question?’

‘To question 8.’

‘Go on then.’

‘What’s the art of memory?’

‘It’s what the house is all about!’ she said without pausing.