Piccalilli Winter 2020/21

Winter 2020-2021

Editorial This was the year that Covid-19 vastly impacted our day to day lives, and we had to learn to adapt to this almost dystopian world we now live in.

Something that we have missed throughout 2020 is the faces of our peers. Whether it’s because we haven’t seen our friends in months or because their faces are concealed by the barrier of a mask, the simple idea of looking and smiling at one another is a comfort we unknowingly seek. This is prevalent among the pages of this term’s issue of Piccalilli. With the majority of artists depicting the faces of their friends and family, it is clear that the notion of familiarity, of coming together again, has heavily influenced their creativity.

The lack of the ability to travel seems also to have had inspired writers in their work. Tallis Montgomerie and Naomi Hughan, among others, explore and reminisce about adventures abroad and draw us into foreign lands that we long to go to.

This has been a tough year for all of us in different ways, but it is important to remember just how fortunate we are here at Marlborough. Millions of people have had their lives turned upside down by the physical, financial and emotional impacts of the Coronavirus and the return to normality may seem to be in the distant future. Although it is not a cure, I believe art can be a powerful emotional outlet to help us get through trying times. Covid-19 has certainly affected the editorial process of Piccalilli but the result of this is an enchanting collection of poetry, prose and fine art that exhibits the talent and creativity of Marlborough students across the year groups.

Honor Aspbury

Tiggy Lee

New York Sitting up high, looking at the busy world below, taking a mental picture for my brain to show, the electric city sings. I like it.

There is nowhere quite like it. Following one person after another into the city of dreams all leading different lives. Inspired, I sit.

An hour goes by as I sit and watch, jet lagged, the early birds come and go.

The city that never sleeps is just waking up.

My thoughts run away with the rest of the city, like watching it all on a movie screen.

Above I sit in silence; below, the restless buzz of New York flows.

Intertwining stories of people’s hectic lives overlap, nothing is ever still.

Golden taxis scuttle through the streets, taking people to their next destination; no one ever thinks about the journey. High speed with no brakes, the life of a New Yorker. It’s a busy place with a busy vibe: the atmosphere is electric.

I know I want to come back to this window, in a couple of years or so, one of my favourite places where constant energy flows.

I like the constant groove of the people below.

There’s good vibrations here and music comes and goes.

The harmonious streets sing out to the city. The cars are in constant conversation like civilians in continuous chatter.

The buildings dance in the dappled sunlight, and the vibrant colours shine.

Flashes of inspiration upon every street corner.

Tallis Montgomerie

1

Big Apple It is the stranger who gets lost; the visitor or tourist: those who, once on the subway, must hide their excitement at being in such a vibrant and famous city. Their eyes bulge under the huge buildings and skyscrapers, their noses twitching in the fumes of bright yellow taxis and brown Bloomingdales bags heavy on their arms. They can’t help but gaze in wonder at everything that surrounds them, ignorant of all of us who are just trying to get to work.

You might guess that people like this have become daily annoyances to me as I live through my every working day in the city, increasing my journey times and interrupting my path as they stop randomly and abruptly to work out where they are going or as they realise that they have taken completely the wrong route. But they never do; they make me proud of where I live and they make me feel lucky that I do. I like the way we are blatantly ignored by them whilst they absorb this vast city, their minds whirring in astonishment whilst they take thousands of photos. They want to remember this. They are trying to capture how they are feeling as they stand, in that exact moment, in New York City, The Big Apple, so that when they have left they can show everyone they come across and brag about everything they did and saw on their trip. They somehow want to be able to present to their friends an atmosphere in which everything is in motion, busy, surrounded by innovation like no other.

All this changes on the subway. It is the only part of my spectacular city that I am not proud of. I dread using it. Even when it could be twenty minutes faster to use the subway, I choose to walk. Anything to avoid those dank passageways and the leering stares of balding men; the dirty seats and the constantly wafting stench of urine. There always seems to be a feeling of fear, the automatic response to this being people trying desperately to mind their own business with straight faces and eyes cast down. Women pull down their skirts and hug their bags close to their stomachs. Children forget their make-believe worlds and wrap their chubby arms around their mother’s legs. The subway is full of an infectious disease - its symptoms: the death of every smile or expression of joy the moment you step inside.

And, of course, every other virus humans can contract.

So on October 11 when I realised I had an appointment at 11am in Lower Manhattan, much too far across town to avoid the subway, I began to prepare myself for yet another miserable journey. Walking down the gum-spotted steps and attempting to breathe through my mouth to avoid sniffing the pungent subway smell, I pulled up my mask. Once I was sat inside one of the train’s cars, a group of laughing young travellers fell in through the doors and stood in front of me. Their British accents instantly gave away their nationality and I was relieved to have a distraction from the rest of the subway. On deciding that I was the least likely to attack, mug or stalk them, one of the girls asked me for help with their directions: “Excuse me, please could you help us on how we can get to Times Square?” After telling them the fastest way to go and them continuously thanking me, I asked them about New York. Apart from repeatedly using the words “huge”, “amazing” and ‘’cool’’ to describe all the things they had seen or done, they told me without even needing the prompt that they hated using the subway. One blonde girl said, “I don’t know why, but it just seems so much scarier than the tube” then tried to brush off what she must have thought to be a childish comment with “maybe its just because we don’t live here”.

They were shocked by the dirtiness and how difficult the navigation of it is. Another said “The idea of us getting lost down here is terrifying.” This conversation with four strangers to New York proved to me that my assumptions were right: the subway is a nasty way of travelling.

Emily Edgington

Freya Hogevold

3

Taba Reed

5

Through The Bazaar We get off the tram at Beyazit Square and make our way to the Bazaar.

The sky mirrors the grey concrete, grey pigeons linking the two fluttering from air to ground creating an ocean of steel. We trundle towards the entrance. We turn the corner past a Kebab shop and see the entrance. The beige stone scripted with Turkish and Arabic towers above us as we walk through the arch.

Once you step inside there is a yellow tint to the light which reflects off the beige walls and cracked marble floor. Its yellow also gives off warmth just as the crowds of people surrounding you give off. The Bazaar is like a high street with lots of different alleyways branching off the main entrance’s sides. The Bazaar is like a maze with twists and turns and all the shops look the same even though all the goods are different. The bright colours become overwhelming as they are everywhere you turn, whether it be patterned cloth bags, tiles, carpets, hijabs, or dresses hanging from all the shops entrances. The light flickers off the gold coins attached to the belly dancing outfits, or off the dozens of rings and bracelets creating a shimmering aurora on the celling. The stained-glass lamps add to the murmur of light on the dark celling.

The smell of apple tea, olive soap and cumin lingers in the air.

It is hard to breathe in the air as it seems to be recycled with constant use of all the people inside. The sneezes of the foreigners echo through the halls as they step into the spice stalls; however we, as glorified locals can now cope with the addition of pepper to the oxygen. As I am pulled by my arm through the sea of rushing people the smells change, one second it is sweet the next is savoury. My stomach rumbles as we pass the smit bakery; the toasted sesame draws me in, but there is no time to stop as we are on a mission.

As we make our way past the dozens of hagglers, we are met with men calling, ‘You pretty ladies,’ trying to lure us into their shops; they mean no harm, they just want our money. The shop that we are headed to is a towel shop. Even though we have passed multiple towel shops, this is the best. We are met with ‘Ahh you like buy towel? Best in Istanbul.’

Though we can speak a bit of Turkish, both we and the shop owner know that his English is better. Whilst my mother scours the shop for the perfect combination of colours, the shopkeeper stands watching us, asking the inevitable question “Sisters?” The classic tactic of flattering a mother. My mother brings her towel to the till. The shopkeeper offers a price way too high and mum offers one way too low; they eventually meet in the middle.

As we depart, we head back out into the rushing sea of people going about their day-to-day business in this extravagant market..

Naomi Hughan

Vietnam: a Sestina Singing, screaming behind the barrier to the man.

Drifting in a righteous, purposeful daze.

Crowds violently swelled under a clean pure light crawling, drifting through the streets like thick smoke.

The date was nineteen sixty seven October twenty-four.

The man’s eyes hide behind walls of glass, ready to fight.

Far away a man awakes in the jungle, ready to fight.

He is young, a boy anywhere else but here a man.

A head filled with straw ready to return to the fore.

Today, the boulder will rise above the hill.

Today the smoke will settle and fade.

The smoke will leave and be replaced by a pure light.

Like Tantalus to water or a fly to light the crowd moves peacefully towards the fight.

Behind the barrier they clutch grenades of smoke.

“Hey, hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids you kill today?”

By midday, seventy-three soon to be seventy-four, The barrier cracks and the crowd face the man.

Fighting for freedom, fighting for America, fighting for something: a peacekeeper, a hero, an agent of light.

His hand trembles as the clock approaches midday, ready to fight the good fight or just any fight.

He guides the flock of steel harpies to the other man; a guilty Prometheus sees villages turn to ash and smoke.

Wildly swinging their batons, blinded by their own smoke bodies fall, arms frail as tear gas crawls out from the fore; the crowd sprawls over the barrier towards the man.

There is refracted, reflected, distorted light, broken by smoke and the gas, and they fight as the crowd slowly, softly sinks into the day.

The steel beasts are retired for the day.

Men seep out from them, filled with smoke.

The day has ended but the steady fight must go on, or else what are they for?

Into darkness retire the agents of light.

The boulder rolls down; it is watched by a man.

Alone in darkness rests the man.

A peacekeeper, a hero, an agent of light?

Who knows what he is against or what he is for?

Max Baldock

7

Daisy Krens

Identical People When I look out of my window, directly opposite me is a red brick semi-detached house. Two grey cars are nestled in the driveway, both slightly askew although one much more so than the other. It makes me wonder about the characters of the elderly couple who live there and if by the state of their parking they should even be allowed to drive.

It is an affable-looking house, protected on either side by full and vibrant trees, stretching out their limbs as if to welcome visitors into the warmth that is inside. Plastered onto the very top window is an oddly shaped sticker that takes up almost the whole pane. It’s evidence of a child. A child who was perhaps one of multiple who has long left home, only to return for family obligations when he is lovingly embraced by rustling branches and welcomed home as if he were a missing brick in the wall.

The house is almost identical to all the others on the street and if I crane my neck I can gaze out across London and there are houses upon houses not dissimilar to the one opposite me.

Just like the houses are copies of each other, their inhabitants are too. I observe them every day, parading down the road towards the park with cockapoos and scooters in tow. They smile and sigh outwardly in a way that seems to portray happiness to their sticky-handed children but is really an inward cry, begging for the day the children can take themselves to the park.

Later they’ll collapse into the open arms of their home and next door an identical family will arrive at their identical home. They’ll melt into their mattresses and recharge like a drained smart phone preparing to perform identical tasks the very next day.

Similar events would’ve occurred in the house opposite. Now the elderly couple are alone and perhaps, without children, are imitating their days even more closely than before. They will always be protected by the dusty, misshapen bricks and the mossy slate tiles of the roof, woven tightly together to shelter them from the rain. The tired floorboards will squeal with delight at every delicate step and the towering trees will stand tall and be proud that they have been chosen to guard this particular house.

Years will fall away with rust-coloured leaves, but spring will come again and with it a new family.

A family that closely resembles the one next door and who will mould the house too until they’ve consumed the last sliver of uniqueness and it will finally be identical. Another identical family in an identical house being watched over by its two gallant gatekeepers who over the years have never wavered in their identicality either.

When I look out of my window I wonder if I too am identical. I wonder if the elderly couple in the house opposite have swept me into the into the parade to the park.

Honor Aspbury

3 9

Clemmie Meadon

11

Charlie Stafford

Against Time Breathless. Trying to hail a taxi, having no luck. Heavy bags burning at our shoulders.

At last, a black cab: ‘Paddington, please.’

‘Bad traffic today,’ he sighs.

Resigned to missing it, check the timetable.

A three hour wait. Panic.

Sitting on Park Lane – ten minutes on a good day.

Seven minutes to the train.

Painfully slow.

‘Praed Street okay?’

We get out and run. Bags heavier.

Burning hotter.

Platform Three.

Thumbs fumbling on the train app, have to get that ticket.

One minute.

Scanned barcode. I’m through.

Train door open.

Wait.

Haven’t said goodbye. Turn around – his face disappearing into the crowd, a hand waving above the heads.

Too late.

He’s gone.

Whistle blows. Doors close.

Train pulls away. Tears.

Blaming myself; there’s never enough time.

Christabel Chauveau

13 3

How It’s Done You thought you could kick the football.

It was actually a bowling ball rolling down the hill from the bowling alley.

You thought you could play the xylophone.

Pianos and xylophones are easy to get mixed up.

You thought you could win the race in the relay.

Coming second you thought you could throw the baton over the line. Your throw wasn’t strong enough.

You were subbed on in the football match. You get the ball and score a goal! You run off celebrating – feel like Ronaldo. Why are your teammates annoyed?

You finish your biology homework. You hand it in on your teacher’s desk thinking that she would be amazed by the worms you’d collected from your garden.

You get your first job. You watched a film saying people like you more if you play ‘hard to get’ so you don’t turn up.

You try your hand in art. You decide to draw animalistic, instinctive pictures – sometimes wild sometimes gentle. You show people your paintings.

They laugh. You cower. You hide from it. A man visits you, speaking sounds and speaking eviction.

He looks at the art, picks it up and he smiles.

You now stop and think to yourself, ‘Yes, this is how it is done’.

Oliver Lamont

Ava Stuart

15 3

Issie Raper

eMagazine, the magazine for English sixth-form students, shadowed the Forward Prize for Poetry this year by challenging students to write in response to one of the short-listed poems. Maddy Smith and Emily Edgington (on p.18) both chose to write back to ‘Breakfast in Shanghai’ by Nina Mingya Powles.

Breakfast in Winter for awaking on a winter’s day Through the night, cold has crept between the sheets. Windowpanes flushed with a white frost blush.

The crystal-warped world is quiet, peaceful, elegant. The cold keeps me tucked in, but my hunger pushes me up and out of bed. My nose reddens and my feet are soon aching from the chill floorboards. for a frost The white sparkles on the world. A frozen fantasy. Delicate, the frost is woven between bush and bramble, crystalising and preserving the vivacious colours of midwinter. The air is icy chill and fragile to my touch. When I step into its glacial kingdom its sharp teeth will nip at my face. for a warm breakfast Sweet smell of seasoned tea seeps from the kitchen. The sounds of sizzling foods in the saucepan excite my appetite. The table is laden with hot foods, an attempt to fight the skulking cold. The feast produces a cacophony of aromas. I plunge into this buffet and almost instantly scorch my tongue on the still steaming tea. for a fire The house is now infused from within with a cosy glow. The faint smell of wood burning and warmth is surrounding me, dispelling any remaining chills left inside. My hands are held near the flaming glass pane, tempting danger for the promise of heat. I feel them heat up beyond comfort and see the palms begin to redden. Extreme heat mixes with extreme cold and I forget which is which, before dropping my hands, to feel heat burst through my arms. The soft sounds of cracking wood and the spluttering flames are enough to send one into a deep and blissful sleep.

Maddy Smith

Babushka My vision is blurred by the constant falling of the snow. I hobble slowly through the gathering drifts, my left hip aching and burning. The ground is ghostly white; trunks emerge from areas of the nothingness, like moles emerging to air. Layers of powder settle on the slender silver birch; they lean and sway very slightly in the gentle breeze. Moscow is a city built around birch trees. I stop for a moment to catch my breath, feeling very warm within the several layers of wolfskin barring me from the raw, biting cold.

Inhaling deeply, I smell the fresh, clean, icy coldness, the purest of all winter smells. I hear the crunch of the snow beneath my boot, a dog barking in the distance, then silence.

I continue through the woods, now starting to limp. The silence is ruptured by children’s voices; I must be nearing the playground. I scarcely pay attention to the path these days for it is so familiar to me, I let it carry me all the way. The blizzard has weakened now but snow continues to tumble from way up high, falling down and down. There are remains of splendid creations of forts and figures on the snow-swept ground. I emerge into the clearing where the playground lies, the source of the shrieks of delight. I sit down to observe from the hefty bench which sits to the edge of the playground clearing.

Katya! I first hear the endearing, radiant giggle of her voice and search the clearing for her. Ears tuned to the noise, I now settle my eyes upon her. She is dressed in a flamingo pink all-in-one and her fingers are covered by great mitts just like the ones I wore as a little girl. Katya leaps, and bounds, and tumbles, and rolls, and scrambles, and lies in the snow; a contagious grin is always present on her face. She looks so at ease, a feeling I cannot remember having. Her hair, the colour of dark cocoa, has been delicately worked into a braid and pokes out of her hat. She builds a snowman from the fresh snow. I watch as she gathers little balls of snow and rotates them round and round on the ground until patches of green grass appear, and until the ball towers over her and she is forced to stop.

On the other side of the playground, at the swing, I see a little girl leaping into her babushka’s open arms. The girl squeals with delight as she is caught by her grandmother. They repeat this game over and over, the girl is placed on the swing, she springs into babushka’s arms, she is caught, or she falls.

They laugh and cry, cry and laugh.

My gaze is broken by the sound of crunching powder snow nearby. I turn my head. It is Katya.

As our eyes meet, she stops and creeps back slightly, unnerved.

‘Hello,’ I whisper. ‘It’s all right, you don’t need to be scared.’ Katya smiles shyly.

‘What’s your name?’ I ask.

She looks at me and murmurs, ‘Katya.’

‘It’s lovely to meet you Katya, how would—’ She is here, so suddenly. A woman now approaches towards Katya and me. She glares at me, taking Katya’s hand, and exclaims, ‘Katya! You must never come over and talk to old women like her.’ Katya’s mother pulls her by her hand, muttering. She passes me, and there is an unpleasant smell of tobacco smoke.

As they leave the clearing, Katya turns and her deep blue eyes meet mine, the same deep blue colour.

The two of them walk away.

My daughter and my granddaughter. My relationship with Katya walks away, one neither of us will ever know.

Lara Rusinov

‘Babushka’ was a runner-up in the Remove short story competition 2020.

17

Avni Kumra

Breakfast at Home for a morning of falling leaves A crisp cold apple and a handful of uneven blackberries from the sprawling bramble bush in the decaying field. I delve my teeth into the apple’s cool flesh, feeling the sweet fluid flooding into my mouth. I choose the plumpest blackberry and taste Autumn’s offering. for the morning after it snows Thousands of sticky soggy oats touch each other, beige and boring. Yet with every spoonful of lumpy porridge I am warmed and comforted. The contrast between this hot grey sludge and the pure frozen world outside astonishes me. for emptiness On the table, one plate is imprisoned by one knife and one fork. In the frying pan, the only thing that warms: two pieces of crunchy brown bacon and a crispy egg, speckled with black pepper.

I pull them out of the filthy oil and dump them on my plate, numbly breaking the yolk’s flimsy wall. I eat my first mouthful and the frosty grass seems to wilt as I look up at the empty table. for a glowing morning in summer I pinch the stalk and twist, pulling the greenery out of the pink. I am captivated by the gentle tearing sound of the strawberry’s stem being pulled away from its body, the red juice spilling over the tiny yellow seeds. I sit on the sunlit doorstep and put the whole thing into my mouth, biting down to experience an explosion of sweetness. Only dry green sticks and leaves left, my fingertips are stained blotchy red. Something inside me brightens. I know it will go away.

Emily Edgington

Ned

An extract from a novel in progress.

I want to start not at the beginning, but the end: a party at the Ritz Carlton, downtown Palm Springs on a cold November night in 1990. When I say ‘party,’ you might conjure up ideas of Gatsby-style hedonism, updated to the 90s; crowds of unfaithful revellers drinking garish cocktails and dancing to the Ramones or some other band, but on this occasion, that’s not the sort of party Ned chose to give. He’s the person this story is about: my friend for forty years or more. I knew him as well as anyone. And certainly, better than that schmuck, Dr Hoffermann, who told him not to hold this party at all.

‘What does he know?’ said Ned, when he called me with my invitation. ‘Anyway, it’s not a party, as such. It’s a dinner. For friends and family.’

So that’s who was in the Ritz’s heavy, oldfashioned dining room that evening. Patricia made a point of standing at the door, her arm through Ned’s, to greet us all as we arrived: his girls, Lisa and Kimberley, arrived first; then we walked in. My wife and me. Pat gave Suzanne a big hug while I shook Ned’s hand. He patted me firmly on the back.

‘How’re you doing, old man?’ He said the last part under his breath; I think he was trying to laugh at how old we had gotten over the years. He was turning sixty, something our twenty-year-old selves would’ve laughed at the very prospect of.

But still, we laughed at it then; I guess we never stopped feeling twenty inside. I remember thinking about the old man joke later that evening and struggling to make sense of it. Ned was four years older than me; he was the old one.

Nevertheless, Suzanne and I took our seats.

I watched Ned, for about ten more minutes, humbly greeting his guests. I’d never seen him so happy before; he was surrounded by the people he loved most in the world, all filing in one by one. He never used the same greeting twice.

My greeting was tailored to me; a bespoke fit.

‘You’re looking well, Billy,’ he said as his cousin walked through the doors. Billy was an interesting guy. He walked like none of his family had before him; a true American ‘dream’ success story. Billy had started a travel agency when he was in his early twenties, and he had achieved genuine prosperity in his field.

‘Doing well, Ned,’ Billy replied with a slightly apathetic tone. He was a busy man and probably had a plethora of circumstances that were paramount to the importance of the party.

Ned saw that Billy was pre-occupied with the thoughts of his working life and showed him to his chair.

‘Bring him a Chivas on the rocks,’ he said to a waiter, nodding his head towards Billy. ‘He needs it,’ he continued with a humorous smirk on his face. Moments later, Billy was pleasantly surprised; they both exchanged a glance, and Billy raised his glass as if to manifest his recognition and gratitude. Ned smiled. In the time it took for the whiskey to arrive at Billy’s station, three further guests had come. Larry, Wallace and Diane. Some great friends of mine.

Larry and Ned had served in Korea together.

Although I had met Larry a year prior to that at a New Year’s Eve party, in Los Angles. He was a very tall man; tall and slender, with dark hair and crooked teeth. He had no individual attributes that would stick out to anyone, but everyone still seemed to draw to him; he was blessed with the same charismatic characteristics as Ned. Ned and Wallace went to school together, and Wallace later married Diane. Diane was a beautiful girl; from London or something. I never was too good at accents, but I thought I could make out some British heritage when I first met her.

I hadn’t seen any of them for at least two years before that party. I guess that’s what happens when you start a family; you and all your friends split up like leaves straying from the same branch. The wind that ended up ripping me from the branch was the day I met Suzanne. Suzanne was a beautiful girl – the girl of my dreams. Ned was there the night I met her. We had just finished a game at the Beverley Hills Classic, the casino where we spent a large portion of our time in our twenties. I remember a group of girls walked in just when I was ordering a scotch for Ned. I looked over and saw her. I got Ned’s scotch, walked over to him and set it down on the table.

‘Have you seen those dames?’ he said, laughing under his breath, shoulders hunched. I never responded. After he said that, I walked up and introduced myself to Suzanne.

‘Hello there,’ I said with a confidence that only a twenty-five-year-old man could have. It was that night we started a conversation – a conversation I fully intended on having for the rest of my life.

Tom Phelps

19

Someone Who Sticks in My Mind Don’t mix the colours with the whites; don’t walk in the hot sun without sun cream; don’t walk outside looking like that; clean yourself up; don’t show your shoulders; you have too much makeup on; put on some makeup; this is how to make dumplings; this is how to make stir-fry; stop being ungrateful, eat my food; why are you eating so much, no wonder you’re gaining weight; you’re too dark; you look so pale; this is how to treat an elderly person; this is how to treat a child of your age; stop talking back; don’t let others walk all over you; stand up for yourself; act like a lady; make me some tea; fetch me a snack; don’t spit; you’re disgusting. SHUT UP! You were crying on the kitchen floor. You were broken. You were afraid. You were scared. However, you knew that if you’d have said anything back the outcome would be unimaginable. You asked yourself why you even bothered anymore, but then you asked yourself why she even cared to say these words. It was because she cared. Secretly, you admired her, you looked up to her, you cared for her. She was your inspiration.

She was your mother.

Wiping your tears away you saw her thick, straight, long black hair gracefully fall to her shoulders and encircle her diamond-shaped face. Her golden suntan brought out her smooth, clear complexion and high cheekbones. Her slightly arched chestnut brown eyebrows highlighted her emotions by moving up and down as she reacted to the world around her. Her large deep brown eyes reminded you of dark velvety chocolate. And her mouth was a small mouth outlined by puffy lips that she often accentuated with bold red lipstick. She caught your eye and her eyes welled up as yours did too. She knelt down to hug you. You hugged her back as tight as you could as she whispered into your ear, ‘I’m sorry.’

She slowly tried to stand up, leaning against the kitchen island. Though she had the appearance of a young woman you could now see her vulnerability, her struggles. You now were able to see her grey hairs hidden by her dyed black hair, you could see the frail and weak bones as she attempted to haul herself up but, you could see the determination in her eyes as she pushed on the sides of the counter eventually balancing herself so that she could stand up. See, this is why you admired her, this is why you looked up to her. Her determination, strength and beauty constantly reminded you of why you cared in the beginning.

Quickly, you stood up to help her up. She smiled. When she smiled, which was never often, her well-formed and even, white teeth would brighten up her whole face. You now recognised that the only reason why she said those words, though they were hurtful, was because she loved you. She didn’t mean to upset you; you knew it was only in the heat of the moment. You remembered your father’s word, ‘She cares too much y’know? Don’t stress her out, she has enough on her plate already’ and that was the truth. She cared too much. She was the most selfless being. However, at times you thought it didn’t seem like it, but yet the outcome almost always resulted in you learning a lesson. Do you remember yet?

Jazmine Simkins

Fleur Halstead

21 19 3

Skin As versatile as the world varied terrains emerge divided across our surface, subject to change depending on the season.

Dunes bounce and quench on the fingertip, dry valleys and chasms close and clench in times of reason.

Red columns sprout forming shiny bauble tips: cascading pale yellow suppressing nature or exaggerating treason.

Spine spikes strike flattening out the soil ready for construction, a compensating fallout causes it to freeze in.

It’s noticeable everywhere clashing, ripping and false: this flake, this scab, this scar, this corruption, this house fire this season.

My body trembles and tremors like a tiny brittle branch quivering above water lying to itself.

Harrison Locke

Ella Harris

(I am owned, and you are owned by a gentle other) You kelpie, you have dragged me through the smur into midnight sea.

And I do not thrash, but drown lovingly, breathlessly, ephemeral fear and then a floating serenity to buss, to yield to you.

Who fills up my throat with rosebuds, wraps my wrists in thorns and chains me to you like a dog. Fool, I was bound the moment you gave a scantling of your sanguinary love and then cold water. Your indifference left me crippled by the bear-trap in your changing mind. Half blind, I can only see your light.

Fleur Halstead

Max Baldock

23 3

Drowning NOW I am drowning. I am going to die.

THEN I was eight years old when I saw the first one drown. Since then, I’ve lost count.

The first girl’s name was Summer, but her eyes stormed like two twin hurricanes about to make landfall. After she’d drowned, I acknowledged her existence. The way her perfect white hair swished, how it flooded over her shoulders. Bangs obscured her eyes like a shy ‘new girl.’ Glossy locks, now wet, heavy and dead, lifted with the light breeze.

I arranged her hair so that it gathered like a whirlpool around her neck, and then choked peacefully at the nape. Her eyes held an ocean of hatred, but fear was present in them. Her eyelids sunk over her eyes. While my lips had been chapped and thin, her own once rosy lips were turning a purple-y blue.

Hypothermia was catching up with her. Her bare ashen shoulders contrasted with the wispy straps of her bruised-blue dress.

What an ugly dress.

I have never been able to swim. I have always been scared of the sea. In movies, they magnify drowning as noisy and splashy.

Someone wails and waves their arms while bobbing below the jagged waves melodramatically. Three seconds later, those on shore scramble sympathetically to rescue them. I, however, can do it with a lot less fuss, a lot less huff and puff, and a lot less sympathy. No-one is looking; they’re not under a mother’s watchful eye. The last time their head bobs above the water, the last breath they take, the last scream that leaves their eyes. After, comes a steadiness; it settles over the speckled surface, and matches the sick smile of the sun.

he pulls against me, scraping his feet on the ground, a sound like Hell created by his heels.

I push him. But if anything, it makes him angrier. He lets out a low groan, mimicking the moan from the now not-so-far-away lake.

His nails drag into me, and I’m surprised at how much pain it inflicts considering the stubby length they are. I stop for a second, glare into his eyes. They glow turquoise like the sea. Ironic. I hope he sees my own eyes hissing red and indicating death.

‘Stop, I did nothing... - they’re wrong...

Ow, - I - stop, - please... ’ There is a sweet pain indented in his voice, not physical, or salty, but a merciful pain. I stop, and my nails scrape his shoulders. I shake him. He halts, unintentionally waltzing and swaying for a moment, and then his mouth flicks me a brief, weak smile.

We watch each other for a few moments.

‘Do you want to know my name?’ he asks suddenly.

‘No.’ I strengthen my grip on his shoulder and place my other hand on his back. It’s where I get the most force. I start pushing him towards the Black Lake again. We’re almost there.

‘Aidan.’ he rasps. I stop, and he flinches. ‘It’s Aidan,’ he repeats. I look at him, at his circular face and blue eyes. He seems familiar. Too familiar. He offers another smile. ‘Don’t do this. I’m not who you think I am. I know who you are.’ His words jolt me back, and I know I need to do it. Jabbing meaningless statements at me, I, now semi-reluctant, pull him to the edge of the lake.

It is so black. It strikes me every time. It is blacker than a night in the coldest winter.

The surface looks unbroken; no ripples testify against it. One more body in the lake; one more soul to claim. It should mirror this portrait to betray our being-here, but it stays silent, keeping the secret of our presence.

TODAY Today, he is forceful; this one struggles.

He doesn’t cry, like most of them. Instead,

I am one imperceptible step away from pushing him into the freezing black. I halt.

I decrease my clench on him. My back is to the

water. It is a position of weakness, but I doubt he will push me in. Besides, I am a lot stronger than him; as is my reaction-speed faster.

His face portrays reserved consideration as he pleads: ‘No... Please - I - stop - no - I can - can...

I know - I know - stop,’ his joking manner turns into melodramatic, monochromic fear.

I wonder what it is he knows. His eyes sing with petrified song, but then he says it.

‘I know your secret, Ebony. There are so many who know it now.’ I stop. How does he know my name?

‘How do you know my name? Who... What others? You do not know anything, trust me.’

I force a sarcastic laugh. ‘You’re bluffing.’

He shakes his head.

‘I wonder how many other people know your name? Your real name?’ He’s stopped panicking; he knew where to strike. It had to be him.

‘Aidan?’ I almost choke it. ‘Aidan.’ It sounds so quiet against the world. I want to stop; I want to greet him. But when I look up, I see the boy who deserted me six years ago. My face hardens. ‘You are six years too late to try to bring me back,’ I say instead. ‘Why are you here..? Actually, I don’t care; you’ll be in the lake soon enough.’

‘I’m scared, Ebony. I am. You can drop the act.

You’ve got us all good.’

‘I don’t care, Aidan,’ I whisper.

‘Please, Ebony. I know who you are. I know what you do.’ It turned into a sudden frost.

‘You kill people.’ I processed it. I shook my head and then nodded, and then opened my mouth. I shook my head, and then, too late, I caught onto his words as his smile turned ugly and he pushed me into the deep unknown.

Freezing, ice needles stab at me. Every time I master a stroke, I then fall back. I do not know how much longer I can hold my breath.

Not long. I am determined to make it to the top, for my head to reach the level of the bank.

It is so black. I imagine my brother standing at the surface, a satisfactory smile etched on his face. Fighting the water, I do manage to force myself back towards the air, only for a thing, - a hand, a boot, a foot, - to press on my head. He knows me. He has not forgotten me as I have him. The sea becomes a physical wall, and no matter how hard I try, I cannot break to the surface. It is so black. I am being lugged and tugged downwards, and in my foggy haste, I allow it. I cannot hear the birds, nor can I smell the flowers. I cannot see familiarity; all I see is black, black water, and I can taste it. I bob back up to the surface, spluttering and heaving, but I soon crave oxygen again. I do not think of anyone coming to save me. There is no-one. I do not imagine tomorrow, as I know tomorrow is now only a far-away dream. I do not acknowledge how alone I am. Perhaps I will find the bottom?

Or maybe I will only reach it, for I will be dead first. Black everywhere. As I splutter for air, the waves bounce over me, the rhythm pulsing simultaneously against my crescendoing heart. The water enfolds me; I am now the final part to this deep, black, bottomless lake.

For the last time, someone is sinking.

Someone is drowning. Someone is nearly, so nearly, dead. But it is me. I am drowning. I am going to die.

Honor Bryce-Jardyne

‘Drowning’ was the winner of the Remove short story competition in December 2020

NOW It is so black. There is water everywhere I look. I fumble and jumble frantically to the surface, kicking and pulling at endless water.

25

Bea Middleton

27 3

Glass Eyes In the beginning, there was darkness. That’s the beginning we always hear, the entrance of light and the ostracism of darkness. Our God opened our eyes, is what they also say, but this world is inhabited by the blind, and in the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.

It’s a common story, the story of a blind man; living a humble life in his abode, with his family, until the days turn old and he rocks in his chair pondering what the green of the grass looks like.

Constantly thinking of his son and daughter, growing through the ages from school to college yet not knowing how long his son’s hair is or the colour of his daughter’s eyes.

Yet the blind man who lived across the road always puzzled me, his trimmed hair, shaven beard and clean nails, his matte black sunglasses. As if he wasn’t blind. He always had his routine of going out for a walk, the same path every day up the riverbank, shopping at the same corner store and living the same life. But this man puzzled me; the air around him felt dry, ominous; all life around him failed to exist.

No gust of wind near him, like Mother Nature saw something in him that we didn’t.

For he had a twisted and sick mind, which to this day has left him sitting in a plain white room, strapped to the sides and constantly tormented by his psychotic thoughts. I still hear his voice to this day in that room: ‘Hearken and hear me, thine eyes shalt not be blind anymore for I grant you the gift of sight!’

Once a week he’d have a different girl arrive at his house, he’d lead them in, caressing their back, twirling their hair, staring contently into their eyes. Yet the part which always confused me was that they never left. I decided to investigate one evening. The night was cold and ominous, the streets deserted whilst the leaves danced to and fro. I ambled towards the house which I dreaded, my eyes scaled across the outer foundation: its whole structure which was inhabited by the most mysterious man I’ve met.

The entrance was a shamble of mirrors, some tilted, but all had an oval shape of glass missing from the centre of them. The walls a lime colour, it felt like the walls were contracting and pulsating, breathing.

I continued down the hall, my eyes frantically twitching until everything froze. It felt like the walls’ ‘breathing’ stopped, the air felt dry like the air around the man. I placed one foot in front of the other like a new-born baby, vulnerable, incapable, lost. I continued down the hall which never ended, moving even more slowly, making it an eternity.

The door to the far left was cracked open, a ray of light gleaming out; television sounds crackled, the whine of an old set rang in my ears, the bickering of a male’s voice. I proceeded to the door, ever so gently pushing it. I observed the room for a matter of seconds, scaling each detail of each corner, until the blind man came into view. He was pointing at the TV, tapping at the screen as he prattled with five girls all sitting on a sofa. They all had slouched heads, as if barely able to stay awake. He proceeded to walk towards the sofa in which I pulled the door shut, hoping he didn’t see me. Sounds of shuffling and foot scraping became distant. I opened the door once more. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

The five girls each had their head turned towards me, their eyes squinted as they watched me, but the fact that still troubles me to this day is – their eyes were gone and replaced by small oval shapes of glass.

I started to breathe heavily, I was petrified. The blind man who was behind the TV started to shout, ‘Hearken and hear me, thine eyes shalt not be blind any more for I grant you the gift of sight!’ His arms raised as if he finished an opera, me his crowd. He turned to me, cocked his head, grinned and took his glasses off, the reflection of myself panned across the mirrors placed in his eye sockets: ‘Do you wish to see?’

Boris Fentham-Fletcher

‘Glass Eyes’ was a runner-up in the Remove short story competition 2020.

Izdy Newall

25 29 27 3

No Beef?

My diet had never been interesting. I don’t mean I don’t indulge in foreign exotic delicacies, I have always eaten everything (except coriander, which should be eliminated from all dishes). If people ask me if I have any dietary requirements ‘no’ is always my response, that is when the conversation on food grinds to a halt. But, for those who are vegetarian, vegan or fruitarian, their diet is often the topic of conversation at the dinner party. For the last four weeks I decided to become a vegan, not to have another topic of conversation revolving around me at dinner parties, but to save the planet, one plain salad at a time.

I admire these people. Many dislike them as they feel that their motives are silly; I think these people are just intimidated. It takes a strong mind to give up something you enjoy for a greater cause; I mean these people can look at a juicy steak or melt in the middle chocolate pudding and still ask for the tofu. Over the past four weeks I have been that weirdo who has asked for the tofu instead of the steak. My reasons for going vegan are for animal welfare and to reduce environmental decline. I have always been extremely concerned with the state our planet is currently in but I never knew what to do about it.

However, after watching David Attenborough’s Our Planet documentary and reading Noah Yuval Harari’s book Sapiens has made me grasp the concept that we must consume less animal products in order to live sustainably.

Approximately 50 billion chickens, 500 million sheep, 300 million cows and 121 million pigs globally are slaughtered annually for our consumption; this is excluding all those who die due to the brutal conditions they face in diary and egg farms. In the UK households we throw away 34,000 tons of beef each year which equates to 300 million burgers. This waste is harrowing as so many individuals have died just to be disposed of. Humans can survive without any meat intake, yet we over consume and end up wasting most of it. In addition to the meat sector of the agricultural industry, the animal produce sectors also see a huge death rates and psychological distress of the animals. The suffering of these animals is inconceivable and should be significantly reduced. The impact the farming of livestock has on the environment is detrimental.

Biodiversity is gradually disappearing. The killing of livestock contributes 18% of all human produced greenhouse gases as it results in deforestation, acid rain, coral reef degeneration

and water degradation. With all my knowledge of this information I have decided to go vegan for the next four weeks.

I have been vegan (with the exception of fish) for the past two weeks now which has been relatively easy. As I live in an environment where vegetarian and vegan food is regularly consumed, I have had access to nutritional and tasty food.

Since being vegan, I have more energy and feel cleaner from within. In addition to being vegan I have also had no refined sugar to further challenge myself. Although the food which I am having is pleasant, I have had cravings for foods such as brownies and pizza which I would have ordinarily had. The point is I would have been even more content with the food I had if in my regular diet contained less meat and dairy.

Because I was so used to having meat and dairy at least once a day, it was harder for me to completely disregard it.

At first my vegan journey was exciting and new, so I had no difficulty eating the cauliflower steak instead of the real one, but as time went on and the novelty wore off it got a bit harder to have the apple instead of the birthday cake. But now coming to the end of my vegan month, I don’t have the need to have any non-vegan food. The thought of a lasagna actually puts me off. I think I would feel greasy or slimy if I had anything that wasn’t vegan, but at the same time I am quite excited. The hardest part for me was having the not as nice vegan option when I had the option or was surrounded by mouthwatering alternatives.

An example of this, my friend’s birthday gathering. Now I wasn’t expecting much food as this party because whenever I ask this particular friend for a snack, she looks at me like I am asking for her spare kidney, but at this party she had forgotten how stingy she was meant to be with the food. Cakes, cheese nachos, chicken nuggets, brownies were strewn all over the place. I would have been content if there had been a vegan option of one of these, but no, I had a bowl of nuts.

Plain, unsalted nuts. Now that was a low point.

However, when the night came to an end and everyone was complaining holding their stomachs and chastising themselves on the amount they consumed, I felt quite content with my almonds and cashews.

I am a lover of cheese, chocolate, yogurt etc... and don’t get me started on meat, but I managed to cut down on all animal produce for four weeks.

I pride myself in that I have good self-control when it comes to restrictions on food; however, for people to make a difference they don’t have to cut animal produce out of their lives completely.

If people were to cut down on their consumption of animal produce, then we could gradually try and eliminate animal produce from our diets completely.

Many would argue that without meat we would not be able to function as we would not have a good source of protein; however, there are many other sources of proteins that we are not exploiting like we are meat. As the supply of animal produce increases, so does the demand.

I do not think I will be strictly vegan or vegetarian for my whole life because I enjoy animal produce so much, however I am strictly cutting back on my intake, which is something we should all strive for.

If we did manage to reduce animal produce completely, then future generations would not have a craving or ‘need’ for it as they would not know what they were missing out on, which in turn would prevent a multitude of environmental problems from occurring in their lifetime.

Naomi Hughan

Tiggy Lee

25 31 3

Judith Beheading Holofernes

Review

Artemisia Gentileschi at the National Gallery In 17th century Europe, when women behind the canvas were not widely accepted in the world of art, Artemisia Gentileschi was extraordinary. She denounced gender roles and conforms to become one of the most influential women – if not the most – in the history of art.

Artemisia focused her work on subjects traditionally directed at the male gaze, turning belittled women into compelling heroines.

Artemisia trained under her father Ozario Gentileschi and in 1611 she was raped by a collaborator of her father’s, Agostino Tassi. An infamous trial took place in 1612, where Artemisia was mutilated and tortured to ensure her claims were forthright. It was assiduously recorded in documents that still survive today. Tassi was found guilty and banished from Rome.

Though his punishment was never enforced, Artemisia successfully won a trial in an ignorant, patriarchal society.

This is her first major exhibition in the UK at the National Gallery; what follows is a collection of works imbued with a glorious sense of female rage.

Though the exhibition itself remains closed until further notice, the collection promises to be nothing short of a spectacle. Jonathan Jones, resident art journalist from The Guardian, describes it as ‘a blood-spattered thrill ride into vengeance’ and upon a first glance at some of her most renowned pieces, one can certainly understand why.

Judith Beheading Holofernes, Jael and Sisera, Lucretia, Susanna and the Elders, each tells a tale of a wronged woman’s lament, carefully airbrushed skin alight with determination and the unhinged glory of vengeance. These were the heroines overcast by history, their potency softened under the male gaze, Caravaggio’s interpretation of Judith and Holofernes a prime example of this. Gentileschi, however, extracts the sweeteners to their pain under the influence of her own oppression and hones their image like the blade it is.

What is left behind is masterful in the extreme, a true expression of feminine rage brought to life with each lovingly crafted trajectory of blood and splash of gore.

Athena Pugh & Freya Høgevold

25 29 33 3

Breach Theatre

35

Artemisia I leaned over his body, trying to hold down his struggling hands.

Holofernes pushed a huge fist into my throat, attempting to escape his ever-nearing fate. I looked across at Judith who stood tall, her eyes glittering with confidence. She was fearless, a proud statue ready to come to life to summon justice into the world. She would follow through; I knew her determination would not fail her. She outstretched her arms, tilting her body so as to stand at the perfect angle for this rightful execution. I began to tire as Holofernes began to writhe, his legs convulsing in fear, every ounce of hope draining cruelly out of his toes as Judith pushed his head into the cushion below and leaned forward gently, pressing the material of her dress into his bare arm. She drew the knife to Holofernes’ throat slowly, definitely, and pressed against the taut skin before dragging the blade across his neck.

A stream of blood began to pour out of his neck, a brilliant, glistening river of red which steadily flowed out of the sinful man and onto the pure white sheet which lay beneath him. Her lips curled in satisfaction; her arms remained tense as she began to cut deeper and the river of blood intensified into a fountain of vengeance.

The thick red liquid cascaded over his sweating skin, staining red stripes on the sheet. The body of Holofernes convulsed, seizing in agony. He gasped for his last few breaths of air, his lungs desperately demanding the elements they so needed to stay alive.

Then, suddenly, his limbs collapsed, and his wicked eyes rolled grotesquely to the back of his head, showing only the ugly whites which proved the hands of death had stolen him from earth. Relaxing my arms, I stepped backwards and took in the spectacle in front of me.

What should have been a scene of horror did not terrify me; I was relieved, exhilarated, even joyous. We had achieved the sweet revenge that we had craved for such a long time. My strength combined with Judith’s courage had destroyed this monstrous being for good. I looked directly into her eyes, which glistened with silent relief as her lips began to smile at me.

Graciously, she placed the knife on his chest and tenderly pulled the sheet over his blood-stained face.

Emily Edgington

Review

It’s True, It’s True, It’s True Billy Barrett and Rhodri Huw’s 2020 verbatim production of ‘It’s True, It’s True, It’s True’ transports us to a court room in a small provincial town outside of Rome in Renaissance Italy to the gruelling seven-month long rape trial of 17-yearold Artemisia Gentileschi in 1612. The drama of the courtroom is interspersed with intricate time shifts from the previous years illustrated by the production elements. This female three-hander tells the story with modern-day attributes such as punk music and contemporary satire which juxtaposes the macabre theme of the play.

I approached Luke W. Robson’s unconventional choice in having no built set with cynicism and disdain, but was surely proved wrong when recognising the artistic choice of creating the environment of an art studio with scattered paint pots, easels and a stained white sheet covering the back wall, which created versatility in allowing the destitute design to act an actor’s metaphorical canvas on stage. The triangular formation of the podiums constituted as the courtroom which is brought to life by the hostile atmosphere created by the characters and the pressing trial at hand.

The sensational trio of Kathryn Bond as Tuzia Medaglia, Sophie Steer as Agostino Tassi and Ellice Stevens as Artemisia encapsulates the audience in a rhapsodic atmosphere filled with dynamism and intensity. The interchanging roles of the actors from scene to scene, allows us to have different interpretations of the characters.

The freedom given to us as the audience to perceive each role autonomously, creates a whole new dimension of space which challenges our perspectives and outlooks on their situations.

Another element which captured the empowering nature of the play was the use of costume in order to androgenise the roles creating a fluid sense of character. The simple black suits and plain white blouses allowed the transitions between roles to be seamless and comprehensive.

A pivotal moment which left me speechless was the disfigurement of Artemisia’s hand’s as Tassi accused her of lying and was excluded from the punishment as ‘he was a painter for the pope’.

In order to avoid the gore of the event, the directors took on a more artistic approach to the scene.

A gold paint pot was used as a transformative object representing the source of her pain. This visual aid further enhanced the high tension that Ellice Stevens had created through the anguish and agony in her face. This not only invoked a feeling of empathy towards Artemisia but also hostility and disgust at the bystanders who watched absentmindedly as this heinous injustice was being carried out. The bone chilling effect of the pain in her voice as she repeats the line ‘It’s true, it’s true, its true’ fortifying the validity of her claims, and the scepticism and misbelief she is met with.

The tongue and cheek humour evoked a powerful reaction among the audience, triggering an overwhelming feeling of guilt and betrayal as we laughed at the morbid and caustic humour characters expressed regarding their trauma.

The courtroom drama swarming in indignation and animosity walks us through an all too familiar story. The subject matter of the production heavily plays a role in today’s society as it finds itself being performed at the prime of the ‘Me-Too’ movement regarding sexual assault and the often quick dismissal of cases such as Artemisia’s. The strong female presence throughout the performance from the cast members, to the music to the subject matter reinforces the similarities between recent litigations and those from the 17th century, and forces us to reflect on just how far the world has actually progressed and begs the question what has really changed for women in 400 hundred years?

Harriet Jordan-Willis

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The Arrival

A Short Story

You were sitting on a plastic chair at the leisure centre that night. She was there too, and you were making fun of the cleaner with the growth on her nose. I could hear you talking from within your friend’s bag, and I could hear you say the words ‘sixth continent,’ but as I strained to hear more of your voice, she took me out of the bag.

Or at least, the board itself.

She told you what a Ouija board was in that delightful Vectensian accent of hers, and you mentioned that your aunt considered them dangerous; she retorted that your aunt thought that Bill Gates was trying to read our minds with the pandemic, which made me think of my mother. She died of the Spanish flu, but it’s been nearly a century since I’ve been here. You changed that, and I’m glad for it.

You and your friend put your fingers on the glass, and I was shot closer to Heaven’s gates, butterflies dancing in my putrescent aperture of a stomach. I heard your voice and her Vectensian tones in my head, asking if I was there. Idiotic question, but I didn’t dare say so in case I angered you. I merely extended my fingers and pushed the glass to ‘Yes.’ Then you and she bombarded me with questions.

What was my name? Where did I die? How? I responded briskly and dutifully, until my window of opportunity was open. I touched the glass and started moving it from A to B to C. As it moved down the alphabet, I heard you both gasp and push back, try to resist the glass hitting Z. You were unsuccessful.

I passed through the gates and found myself bearing witness to you and her hissing at each other frenetically. She stuffed the Ouija board into her bag, knocking her glass off the table.

The cleaner with the growth on her nose sighed and trudged over, but I couldn’t stay. You had already rushed out into the pouring rain.

I followed you to an alleyway bisecting the estate and watched you. You were hugging yourself and muttering like a lunatic. The pavement shone in a combination of rain and moonlight.

I moved on and crouched behind a plastic bin, waiting. My small hiding spot was irradiated by a buzzing mercury-vapour streetlamp. I closed my eye.

When I reopened it, I was physical. Gravel cut into my foot muscle. A coil of maggots writhed in a cluster behind my eye. God’s twine held my exposed skeleton together.

You approached me, and I emerged from behind the bin. You stopped and fell over; I drew closer.

Your azure eyes met my eye, once a similar colour, now the hue of rotting fruit. As a scream crescendo-ed from your lungs, my fingers closed around your arm.

I had arrived.

Being in the Ouija board isn’t too bad. It will give you a new appreciation for faces, when you get out.

Good luck. Have fun.

Jimmy Byfield

Music Scholars’ Virtual Gala Concert, Sunday 15th November Marlborough’s Music Scholars have a longstanding tradition of presenting a Gala Concert in a London venue during the Michaelmas Term.

Performing at an external venue – for the past couple of years The Royal Academy of Music – always adds a sense of occasion and everyone ups their game accordingly. Sadly this year we were unable to travel to London, but we donned the dresses and DJ’s anyway and the excitement of performing together after months of solitary Zoom music lessons and recordings brought a palpable buzz to The Memorial Hall.

Ensembles were dictated in part by the need to remain in year group ‘bubbles’ which I’m sure provided some extra challenges when the programme was devised but also perhaps made us look for repertoire that we wouldn’t otherwise have found. The evening opened with a performance of the first movement of Vivaldi’s Concerto in B Minor for Four Violins and Ensemble, the four being Mrs Stagg our new Head of Strings, Jenny Jung, Aleksandra Badura and Timothy Parker all new members of the Lower Sixth. The soloists showed great connection and sensitivity and were ably supported by the ripieno players throughout.

The first singer of the evening Isabella Bowman’s Bach Aria was beautifully crafted with some impressive violin gymnastics from Poppy McGhee providing skilfully balanced accompaniment along with Mr Butterfield on piano. Poppy returned to the stage later in the evening with Allegra Hannan and Miss T (piano) to present an extremely polished performance of part of the Bach Double Concerto.

performance this year for the Music Scholars for very obvious reasons, there was certainly no compromise in terms of quality in a rearranged ‘home fixture’ in the Memorial Hall. Focusing primarily on chamber music, this was a high quality and eclectic concert, delivered

Henry Dukes and Ed Beswick were responsible for staff members being close to tears in the wings their voices blended so superbly in Bizet’s Au fond du temple saint. Their performance gave us all a moment to reflect on exactly what we have been missing whilst we have not been able to perform together.

Grace Pilkington (flute) myself (bassoon) and Miss T (piano) enjoyed playing a pretty Devienne trio before handing back to vocalists for the remainder of the concert. Tom Phelps and Henry Dukes brought a more contemporary feel to the evening with heartfelt renditions of songs by Joni Mitchell and Amy Winehouse. Fleur White and Francesca Coles showed staggering range and impressive ensemble in Delibes’ Dome epais before Rose Olver, Clara Hutchinson and Henry Bentley closed the concert in style with some beautiful Mozart.

Sadly we were not able to have an audience with us in the Memorial Hall so the concert was recorded (with the addition of plenty of welldeserved canned applause) and is available to view on the school website. I hope that plenty of people will watch it and see that music is truly alive despite the current restrictions. I firmly believe that the musical career path I intend to follow is ‘viable’ despite recent suggestions to the contrary from members of our government.

It is occasions like this, the connection with other players and the camaraderie both on and off stage, that help me along that path and also remind me why music is such an important part of all our lives.

Emily Ambrose

Photo: Ian Leonard

‘Despite the disappointment of no annual London gala

Review

with precision and sophistication by an exceptional group of young musicians. I simply cannot emphasise strongly enough how special this occasion proved to be.

Bravo indeed to all performers.’

Mr Phillip Dukes

39

Review

Inua Ellams: Search Party Harrison Locke and Maria Pia Rubinelli watched ‘Search Party,’ Inua Ellam’s online performance from the Oxford Playhouse. Ellams was to have given this show at Marlborough in September; he is now booked to perform at a Poetry Society event in April. Maria Pia and Harrison offer this preview.

Inua Ellams was born on the 23rd of October 1984 in the city of Jos, north of the Nigerian highlands.

His father was Muslim and his mother was Christian which, at the time, was rejected by his family members. His father ended up working as a businessman in exporting and importing food in Nigeria: enabling Ellams to go to boarding school at the Plateau Private School from which he has based a few of his poems off of. After a pilgrimage to Mecca in 1996, Ellams’s father decided to convert to Christianity. Islamic extremists threatened Inua’s family and tried to kill his father because of this. After this, Ellams (aged twelve) and his family moved to England where he would begin his poetry career nine years later. The following is a review of the Zoom event held by Inua Ellams earlier this term which Maria Pia and I attended: the purpose being to give us an idea of what to expect when he visits Marlborough College in the summer term.

‘Unknown’ is the first word Inua Ellams chose from the public and, in all honesty, this word much described what I knew about him. Inua Ellams, a Nigerian living in the UK, is an internationally renowned poet, playwright, performer, graphic artist and designer. In the Zoom talk organised by the Oxford Playhouse, I had the chance to ‘meet’ Inua Ellams virtually and above all my initial impression of him was that of an energetic, humorous and, above all, passionate creative. After having attended the talk I decided to do a bit more research on him.

When he wrote his play: ‘The Barber Shop Chronicles’, Ellams travelled around Africa; Johannesburg, Harare, Kampala, Lagos and Accra every month changing location to get to know the people he was going to write about.

This play invites the audience into a uniquely masculine environment where the banter may be barbed, but the truth always telling. Travelling whilst creating a story, is something I would never have thought of before meeting this poet.

The whole concept of the Zoom was for us to explore Ellams’ work. The public suggested words for Ellams to choose from including unknown, change and many more. Contrarily to my presumption that poets prefer to use paper over screens, Ellams chooses to embrace technology.

Ellams uses an app called ‘THINGS’ which he refers to as his assistant and at the moment he has over 30 projects in the works. He finds it easier to manage his work and whenever he feels inspired, he can just open the app and write.

The way he expresses his work is incredible.

Although I had to experience this via the screen and not in person, Ellams is very interactive with his audience which makes it easier to understand the emotions he is trying to convey, the tone he creates and the things that are happening in the poems. All of the poems he read to us had a story, all universally relatable. The poem ‘Swallow Twice’ where he reminisces the smells and the experiences he had growing up in Nigeria, was my personal favourite. Everything he depicted I could imagine with my own personal nostalgia – the smells, emotions and experience of living in a country other than England. We, as outsiders, relate to certain things that make us feel at home when we are not and to capture that through poetry is a potent art.

Sometimes these events, especially when they are held virtually, can seem like a bit of a drag.

After attending this zoom, I might consider myself a convert. Full of stories, experiences and laughter, this meeting was remarkably lively and filled to the brim with the experiences of a wonderfully eloquent, worldly man. I strongly recommend watching or reading some of his work because he will amaze you paraphrasing his own words, Ellams’s art is all about painting the pictures he sees in his head and after this hour spent with him, I can safely say that Ellams is the kind of poet many strive to be. His musings offer a beautifully honest perspective that deserves to be showcased and should not, under any circumstances, be missed.

Harrison Locke & Maria Pia Rubinelli

Photo: Henry Nicholls

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The Piccalilli team: Honor Aspbury

Harriet Jordan-Willis

Emily Ambrose

Harrison Locke

Christabel Chauveau

Athena Pugh

Emily Edgington

Maddie Price

Freya Høgevold

Maria Pia Rubinelli

Naomi Hughan

Maddy Smith

Jess Hughes

Piccalilli cover by Dorothy Johnstone