1989 School Magazine

thought of the sun on lter hair at the bus stop, and then the flute she carried. A t'lute. "Of course that'd be pert'ect. Flutes sound like birds singing, and then she'd be able to play it." He added elaborations to the melodg suited to the t'lute: little bird-like trills, turns and rippling arpeggio possoges. Still it needed something to t'ill it out. He unpacked his uiola and played through it, changing bifs os he went. "Well, wh7 not?" he argued with himselt'. "It's begging to be a duet." Ruling up another sheet of manuscript he worked out a simpler uariation of the t'lute part. Now the two instruments tossed the melodg between them and supported each other harmonically. A uast improuement. He then tackled the painful task ot' transposing the uiola part to agree with the flute. His waste-paper basket was t'ull by the time he had finished. He hunted out his calligraphy pen and slowly scored a good copg. "Perhaps some dag we could play it together," he dreamed. His title t'or the piece uras unoriginal, but Valentines need an element of tradition: 'What'ere I do, I think of you; Where'ere gou go, music doth flow.' "l know that's srck, but all girls like a bit of romance in a Valentine," he decided. He sealed it in a scroll with a wax tudor rose, and caret'ully lettered her name in flourishing script. He bought a jit't'y-tube then posted the scroll. He dreamed oJ her each night...pubhc triumphs plaging duets together in competitions, on Speech Nighf... Valentine's Day! February 14th! Going home that afternoon he made sure to get to the bus stop earlg so that he would nof miss her. At'ter a while he recognised her siluery laugh, then saw her almost prancing to the bus stop surrounded bg a pack of sparrow-drab girls. He smiled, and quickly looked ot his shoes. The girls chattered, and gradually other boys arriued at the bus stop. "How many did you get?" the other girls clamoured. "l'll show you on the bus," she twinkled back. He grinned at her, and catching his eye she grinned back. The bus euentually came and, os usuol, the boys were the pert'ect gentlemen...and barged on first. He took care to sit up the back where she usually went. Strategic moue! She sof in front of him. The bus uos soon packed, especially the area round her. "Go on, shoiu us/" demanded both girls and guys. Laughing, he added his pleas. She took out a plastic Sportsgirl bag and emptied it. "There's twentg-fiue," she proclaimed proudly. The other girls fell on them. "Flobablg starued; bet they didn't get ang Valentines," he thought gleet'ullg. "Who's this t'rom? Looks like your own handwrrting," one girl jealously sneered. "Oh. of course it's not; as it' I needed to send one to myselt'," she laughed. He laughed too, with the other boys. Looking at them he saw the predictable plle ot' pink and musical cards. And his. As he looked at it proudly, one of the girls pounced on it. "What on earth is this?" she squealed. He wotched her look at the scroll in the other girl's hand and take it. She t'lashed an appraising glance around the group.

"God, I dunno. Sentimental crap... I suppose whoeuer sent it couldn't aft'ord to buy a proper card," she laughed. He looked at her incredulously. She continued, eyes glittering. "lt's probably from some wimpg muso I dunno who though; I'm caret'ul not to get too thick with that mob. Weirdos if you ask me." "You can't talk; you play the flute," the jealous girl snapped. "Huh - shoius hou much you know." She hesitated, glancing at the other girls. "I'm giuing it up next term. Anyway, what should I do with this- hem - Valenting guys?" He sank down uery low in the seat behind. "Burn it!" "Keep it to laugh at!" "Stick it up on the notice-board!" She smiled brilliantly round at eueryone, without noticing the bog t'uriously blushing in the seat behind. With one quick mouement she threw the scroll out the bus window. "There! That's what I think of cheapskate musos!" The other g[rls broke into thunderous applause, and the other bogs supplied the whistling. He got off at his usual stop. He walked home by his usual route, and on the way took his copg of the duet t'rom his blazer pocket. The only copy let't in existence. He spat on it, scrunched it into a ball, and, without stopping. t'lung it into the gutter. lt lay discarded by a tangle ot' blade grass. Erica Fryberg You were children once, Iike us. You used to trudge home from school, muddy from o fight with t'riends, You used to run. screoming. along the beach. with the wind in your t'ace, You used to build sondcastles. but haue more fun knocking them down, You used to be children. You used to throw tantrums and run. cryinq. to Vour room. You were scared ol the dork and the noises of the possum ot night, You stole biscuifs uith grubbg honds and a guilty smile. And smudged ice-cream on your foce. You used to write lunny stories about t'oiries and pixies ond dragons. You used to sing and dance and act, eDen if you were no good, You would stay up till midnight studying, And come down to breakfast the next morning bleary-eyed. Don't gou remember? Don't you remember whot it wos like to be a child? DON'T YOU REMEMBER?

You ore ostonished at the things we do You exclaim, "Children! I don't know!" But you should know, Because you uere children once, like J. Mowbray, Year 70 __ffi.ffia

Cassie Rickarby, Year 11

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