Budding journalists produce their own newspaper

That one word ‘English’ denotes a subject full of cultural riches which can provide interests for life. At one level, English involves all the techniques and skills needed to foster literacy and it is therefore a subject which serves both pupils and other subjects. In various ways, it focuses on both language and literature and can provide a rich diet of stories, thoughts, feelings, characters, dramas, tones and motives. English is one subject which naturally promotes the discussion of people, ideas and opinions, among many other many things.

Our teaching tends to be led by the literature we study which often has its own built-in interests. We generally try to choose books and texts which provide a challenge, reward study and are worth remembering.

According to members of the UIII  (Year 7), English is:  

• ‘a subject that is very interesting and helps with every other subject’ 
• ‘a subject that everyone loves because your imaginations jump’
• ‘a fun subject that lets you go outside the boundaries.’

One sixth former said:

• ‘If you liked English at GCSE you’ll love it at A Level.’

According to one teacher here:

• ‘The study of English encourages students to be at once creative, analytical, logical, comfortable with philosophical concepts and able to empathise. Each part is a vital skill and the combination is constantly challenging and rewarding to teach.’

Currently, the English curriculum at the school moves in graded stages from 11+ through to A Level English Literature and beyond. The prime aim of the English department is to promote literacy in the school and a discriminating love of literature. We also hope to impart a sense of the history of language and literature. A play by Shakespeare features in a number of year groups and we mix literary and modern classics, including poetry, novels and plays, along with more topical titles and some recent journalism.

From time to time, writers are invited into the school to speak and we arrange visits to the theatre.

‘The best moments in reading are when you come across something – a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things – which you had thought special and particular to you. Now here it is, set down by someone else, a person you have never met, someone even who is long dead.’

Alan Bennett in The History Boys

Creative Writing Anthology

In the Easter term the English Department set the students in the junior years, UIV, LIV and UIII, a considerable challenge: to create a set of vivid characters, a strong sense of place, a compelling situation and to convey and resolve all these in only five hundred words.

There were, as we hoped, a wide range of ideas, genres and styles, reflecting the different and considerable talents in the school.

Here are a few examples reproduced with the girls' permission:

The Night

Some nights are cool and clear; there is a soft, sweeping breeze that plays and dances with the weeping willow in the garden. These are summer nights.

Autumn nights are different; the wind whistles, whines and whispers, while I cower, shivering in my bed. The magnolia tree bent double with the force of the gale, her waxy white and pink flowers strewn around her.

‘The wind heralds the rain.’ That saying, so true for soon after the wind howls, the rain starts to pound and hammer. The crisp, starched leaves that seem to have been dipped in gold and liquid amber and that had fluttered off the trees in the day had softened to a pulp in the night autumn showers.

Spring nights are carefree and young. In spring, for me, the night starts when the peachy sunset fades away over the meadows full of bleating baby lambs. As the navy blue turns to black, the stars come out flashing and sparkling in the jet black darkness of the sky. As much as the stars shine, they will never outshine Venus, the planet I see at night, the planet I can tell apart from the millions of others, the brightest planet.

My favourite nights are winter nights, when I sit curled up in my duvet, the fire crackling merrily around me red and orange, filling the room with warmth, light and hope. I pull back the curtains to see outside. The ground is covered in snow that’s still falling, peppermint snowflakes cart-wheeling out of the sky.

But this night is different, so silent that you could hear the slightest sound. But there is no sound, no owl hooting, no mouse claws scrabbling on the tiles, no soft padding of a witch’s cat as it places one paw in front of the other, its honey coloured eyes darting all around. Only silence as I lie here enveloped in the darkness of the night.

Ayesha Ahmed UIII

The Strawberry Girl

It was the middle of summer in 1834. The fields were bright with corn and the men, women and children of the village were all helping with harvest. Everyone was happy, except one little girl. She stood on the edge of the field alone, a single tear rolling helplessly down her plump cheek.

She was wearing a large straw sun hat and a white muslin dress. Although her face was in shadow you could imagine her expression. Her name was Mary and she was six years old. She was cross and upset. Her mother had said she could not go and play among the hay like the other village children. Her mother had said she would spoil her dress. What Mary didn’t know was that her mother did not approve of the village children, they weren’t of their class. 

Mary was a stubborn soul. She wanted to help with the harvest, but she couldn’t so she decided to do a harvest of her own. Her sister Abigail was playing with her dolls quietly in their house’s garden, so Mary went round to the side of the house to the vegetable garden and picked up the basket that the gardener had been using earlier that morning to collect flowers. She picked it up and walked around the house again, across the road and into the wood opposite. She had been there once before with her nurse, but not alone. She trotted into the wood and started her ‘harvesting’. What she was harvesting were small, sweet, wild strawberries. She picked and picked for many hours, until her chubby legs were tired. She sat down, leaning against a mossy log, and fell fast asleep.

Her nurse was the first to find she was missing. She had gone to get Abigail and Mary from the garden about an hour after Mary had gone. According to Abigail, Mary had just ‘gone’, but the child was two so she couldn’t say much. She went and told Mary’s mother who immediately sent the gardener to look for her. Jones, the gardener, went quickly on his way, taking only his dog, Shep, an old, lumbering sheepdog who spent most of his days asleep in the rose garden. He loved Mary and gaily bounded beside Jones, sniffing the ground in the hope of picking up a scent.

It was dusk and Jones, Shep and the many other men who were looking for her, began to tire. They had spent five long hours looking for Mary, with no success. As it grew slowly darker and the rosy sun sank lower to the horizon they gave up. Jones gave one more glance at the deserted wood and walked over the road to the house. Then Shep, who had disappeared for a while, came at full tilt, barking and yelping out of the wood, scattering dust on the empty road. Behind him followed a short, stocky figure with a basket and a petticoat full of ripe, red, strawberries.

Romilly Beddow UIII

The Truth

My name is Max. I have one brother, Mickey, and two sisters, Lucy and Puddy. We all live together at Pamborne Grange and have a very peaceful life – most of the time.

Everyday I wake up when I like and eat when I am hungry. I spend most of the day lying on the sofa but sometimes have fights with Mickey and Lucy. Puddy spends all day out. She’s different from the rest of us; she loves to hunt and never lies on the sofa. I go out hunting about three times a week and always catch something. When Mickey goes out with me whatever he catches is bigger than mine. Lucy hates hunting and she just eats what she’s given. After hunting I return to my bed and (following a tasty, sizeable meal) turn in for the night.

One night, after going on a particularly long hunt, I returned to my bed and fell straight asleep. I’d seen Puddy whilst I was out and she looked very dishevelled. I’d thought nothing of it so had returned to the house and gone to sleep. During the night, I realised how wrong it was of me to leave Puddy …

I’d woken up in the night as I’d heard scratching at the door. I walked downstairs, terrified, and saw Puddy scraping her nails along the door. She didn’t seem able to open it so I stepped in and helped. She was making a terrible din.

“Puddy, what’s wrong?” I asked.

“Follow me,” she replied. So I did. She led me to a muddy area with a barbed wire fence running along one side. It was very cold so we huddled together for warmth.

We fought our way against the wind to a small shelter. We sat down and she told me everything: how she wasn’t really our sister – I didn’t want to believe her but the more she told me, the more it seemed true. She told me how she loved hunting and finding places which could be her own. She told me that she remembered spending a whole week out in some woods once and everyone had come to look for her. When they’d found her she told them that she thought it had only been two hours – everyone was livid with her!

I must say I didn’t remember this and the more I think about it the more I don’t remember seeing Puddy at all when I was little. She said how she loved rocket and tomatoes (things Mickey, Lucy and I all hate) and how she couldn’t stand fish (our favourite dish). She started to cry but I comforted her and soon everything was sorted out.

She seemed a lot happier after our talk so we returned to the house. When we got back it was already morning and everyone was awake. We broke the news to the others and they took it really well.

“It doesn’t matter; we still love you for who you are – our sister!” we purred …

Jinni Watsham LIV

The Guardian Angel

Two gargoyles were sitting motionless on the edge of a church’s rooftop. Sitting on the cold stony floor was a small abject creature that had large watery eyes and a sad weary expression hanging on his face. He was clutching his knees tightly to himself and staring emptily into the sky. On the right was a dragon-like creature that had a big smirk across his face. He sat upright, gazing at the city beneath him. They were Angilan and Arogen.

In the early hours of the morning, the sun was hiding behind the mountains, unwilling to get up. The sky was dim, the weather gloomy. The whole city seemed to be hibernating from the cold, or just reluctant to believe it was a Monday morning again. The gargoyles however, had always been up, surveying the city.

Angilan wished he could be a beautiful angel, shining with dazzling white light. An angel who could not only watch, but actually guard, protect and love the city. But God somehow didn’t seem to have answered his prayers. It started to rain, heavy drops of water beating on his back.

‘God, please let me be an angel,’ beseeched Angilan for the thousandth time. He did not understand at all. He knew he had been good. He always listened to the priests’ preaching and teachings. He learnt everything he could about God. He prayed incessantly. The blast was suddenly so strong he could be blown over any second.

Arogen suddenly exclaimed with a frown, ‘Angilan, do you still believe in God? God does not exist.’ Arogen shook his head with disapproval. Angilan ignored him. He knew God had heard all his prayers. He knew God was always up there, watching over him… But why hadn’t God answered to his prayers? Why did he exist in this world anyway? He had so many questions. ‘WHY?’ he cried out at last. At this point, tears were already streaming down his face. He was so tired, tired of all this. He held his tension in abeyance. There were a few seconds of utter silence.

‘Stop being so negative all the time. Let it be!’ Arogen blurted out.

Angilan suddenly felt as if he had just been struck by lightening. He never realised how depressed he was. Let it be. He wanted to be happy too. Was being an angel the only route to being happy?

Angilan was beginning to accept the fact that he was a gargoyle. He was grateful for what God had given him. He realised there would always be some things he could never change, no matter how hard he had tried. He loved his people. He blessed the poor. He prayed for the sick. He prayed and prayed that there would be peace in the world. He guarded the city with all his heart.

He was the guardian angel, inside his heart. He started to smile. He felt … happy. All his goodness seemed to be pouring out of him. Everything in the world seemed better.

Suddenly, the sun shone through the clouds, as if God was smiling at him …

Clara Fung UIV