In the September of 1921, at the age of six years old, Cornelius Arthur Thryke was sent away to school. It was to come as something of a shock to a child more used to roaming freely through the soft countryside, playing pirates and soldiers as he went. A similar plan had been laid out for Henry a few years earlier, but such had been the elder brother’s consistent escape attempts, that he was, by then, home schooled with mother, Vera.
Augustus would accept no such outcome for Cornelius. “One of your sons will receive an education!” he is recalled as crying at Vera. “Cornelius shall go away to school!”
The establishment chosen was Greyowls Preparatory School for Boys, which itself was a three-hour steam train journey from the comfort of Little-Sodbury on the Wode. Cornelius’ school days feature heavily with his writings, so much so that I am able to pass the baton onto our host for the time being.
“In 1921, I was sent to Greyowls Preparatory School for Boys. I was kitted out in my grey flannel shorts, blazer and cap, with a bright red tie clutching at my throat. Mother walked me to the station, carrying my small case for me. It was still sunny and warm, and I longed to throw off the shackles of my new, itchy uniform and dash off into the fields and copses behind the station house. But I could not. Mother was holding my hand tightly and looking straight ahead, as she strode.
We arrived somewhat early for the train, though I could only tell the time from the sky back then. Mother took me into the tearoom. She ordered a pot of breakfast tea and two small macaroons. We sat in the corner table, so that we might observe the platform from the comfort of our seats. I am not sure, to this day, whether I knew what was happening, or not, but I remember the silent tears that rolled down her powdered face. A pipe-smoking man leant out from behind an enormous newspaper to gaze upon her. I felt a flush of anger. This was my time with her.
“You do remember where you should alight the train?” she enquired, presently.
“Yes mother, I replied.” I looked at the tag, tied to the handle on my case. I was to become this label. Whatever and wherever it was. Would I ever come back here? To the warmth of mother’s gingham folds and floral pastry scents? Even Father had shaken my hand this morning and pressed a penny into it. Was I coming back? I felt the hotness of tears upon my cheek.
“You must so try to be brave, my soldier,” said Mother, trying to soothe us both. “It will soon be the holidays and you will come back for a while.”
For a while? A couple of days before, in the fading light of a late summer eve, I had had a similar conversation with my brother, Henry. How worldly wise he had seemed to me at that time. We were sitting in our den, deep into the woods. Reflecting here and now, as that sun was lowing, my childhood, blissful as it had been, was also fading.
“Will I like school, Henry?”
Henry raised himself up onto his elbows and looked long at me. I wondered if I has misspoken. Presently, he removed the straw from his mouth and gave a reply.
“Perhaps you shall.”
I was heartbroken! Even at that young age, his words shook me! Were we not of the same cloth? He had run away so many times, would not I?
“I shall not!” I spat, indignantly. “Shan’t so! I shall be back here, the very next day! Even if I must run all night!”
Henry reclined once more and cupped his head in his hands.
“Then I will wait for you here.”
And there was venom and intent in my words, but as I bade Henry farewell on that morning, some of that strength left me. As Mother and I sat in that station tearoom, quietly sobbing into our macaroons, the rest of it faded into nothingness. I was to be an unwilling school-boy, as if there was ever any other kind?
Presently, Old Jack, the Stationmaster, poked his head around the peeling red door.
“Ma’am?” he said, gruffly. Mother bowed her head. I climbed down from my chair and grabbed for the handle of my case. Her hand came down on top of mine and our eyes met.
I’m not sure how long we remained there, but Old Jack coughed loudly to gain our attention. Behind him steam was billowing onto the platform.
“It’s time, ma’am.”
As I began to drag my case along the floor, she collapsed back into her chair and let out a shrill wail. Jack placed a hand on my shoulder. “Let me help you with that, young master,” he purred, in a kindly drawl. “Be a brave lad for your mother.”
I did not dare to look back. The world had scooped me up and I was bundled onto the train.”
The beginning is ‘telling’ – strike off the first 4 paragraphs and reword the fifth something like:
I squirmed on the hard wood seat of the station tearoom, my new grey flannel shorts itched, my equally new blazer and cap felt stiff and formal, a far cry from my well-worn short pants and always stained favorite shirt with the pockets. I hated the bright red tie clutching at my throat like a noose waiting to tighten further. Mother sat across from me, too stiff, like an eggshell ready to crack and spill. Could mother’s break open? I didn’t want mother to break open so I forced myself to choke down the special macaroon sold in the tearoom, terror of the unknown creeping up on me like the monsters Henry and I chased in the woods. Boarding school. The words loomed with the intensity of a prison sentence. Banished. I was being tossed out. I was seven. What had I done to be sent away? I would repent or grovel if only mother would stop threatening to break open and spill herself. I swallowed nearly as eager to see the approaching train simply to end this torturous wait. Father had said to be brave. Go without a scene. Could I manage that? Would it keep mother together?
Below this part in your story you move more into showing and less into telling. The word ‘was’ is often a key to identifying passive telling. Move directly into the story and the action, step over the was as much as is doable. Otherwise your story is engaging and very readable.
Hi Fay, thank-you so much for popping by, and for your amazing feedback. It’s always good to have a reminder about the “show versus tell” element of good writing, so your comments are tremendously appreciated.