Writing the World 2012: LondonWriting the
Thank you for all your entries - the deadline has now passed!
2012 is the fifth and final year of our popular story-writing competition for children of primary school age. For the past four years, we have asked you to write short stories about a different country and culture. But with the world coming to London this summer, we asked you to write stories inspired by our capital city alongside top children's author Floella Benjamin. Floella has written her own story which will be performed alongside the winning entries on Polka's stage!
Thank you for all your entries which are currently being read by the judges and don't forget to watch this space for details of the winning entries.....
Why not have a read of Floella's story........
THE FIFTH ARCH by Floella Benjamin
“Why can’t we go to Ikea and buy a new chair?” Marcus moaned as he trudged along the south London pavement not far from home.
“Because I want to buy an antique chair, and Ikea don’t sell antiques,” his mum replied firmly.
“Aren’t antiques for rich people?”
“No they’re not! I want to buy an old chair and do it up, like this one.” His mum took the page she had torn from the glossy magazine out of her bag and gave it to Marcus. The ornate chair in the picture was painted white except for the seat which was covered in gold material. “It’s called shabby chic and that’s how we are doing up the front room, it’s the latest thing.”
Marcus’s mum loved doing things up. She was always buying old stuff which she would repair and paint. Or old clothes from charity shops which she would alter and wear stylishly. People would always comment on them.
“You must have spent a fortune on that dress Mrs Holt,” they would say and mum would just smile, knowing she had got it for a few pounds.
“It’s not what you wear it’s how you wear it,” she would say. “These designer clothes are a waste of money, back in Trinidad when I was little, we didn’t have expensive designer clothes.”
“How much further Mum?” moaned Marcus, “I’m hungry.”
“There it is!” Mum announced triumphantly.
She pointed towards the huge pile of furniture that spilled out onto the pavement between two imposing gateposts. The centerpiece was a gold throne, its cushion and arms covered in red velvet and a union jack draped over its back.
Around it were loads of other odds and ends, rolled up carpets, lampshades, mirrors in gilt frames and chairs of every description. Above the gates hung a sign saying, ‘Albert’s Furniture Emporium’ - Second Hand Furniture & Bric-a-Brac bought and sold.
“If we don’t find the right chair here, I’ll eat my handbag,” said mum excitedly, as they crossed the busy road.
Beyond the gates in a small office sat a red nosed man, presumably Albert, who was wearing an old coat, a flat cap and gloves with the fingers cut off.
“I’m looking for a chair like this,” said mum holding out her picture.
The man nodded towards the first of the five railway arches which was piled to the roof with old furniture. “ Chairs in there love.”
Marcus watched his mum busily examining an old chair and decided to have a wander around. He picked his way through the maze of stone statues, rows of assorted ornate marble fire surrounds and stacks of wrought iron fencing, before finding himself at the dark opening of the last arch. He peered in and his imagination raced wildly, to him it looked like a mysterious cave which he felt overwhelmingly tempted to explore.
As his eyes adjusted to the murky light thrown by the aged fluorescent tubes, he could make out several narrow corridors and hung on the high walls towering over him were old oil paintings. Their dark glossy surfaces were covered in minute cracks and the flaking gold paint on their intricate frames glittered faintly.
Looking down on him were portraits of soldiers on horses, men in armour and ladies wearing flamboyant dresses and big flowery hats. He gazed up at magnificent landscapes of sweeping hills and lakes, dark green forests, pictures from the past covering every available bit of wall.
As he reached the back of the arch he was about to turn round when he glanced up almost to the ceiling and what he saw sent a shiver down his spine. He had never seen a sight like it before.
Inside a massive gold frame which was at least two metres tall and one wide was the painting of a powerful man, his arms folded majestically across his bare chest. Round his neck hung rows of intricately coloured beads. He wore a long deer skin cloak and a head dress of eagle feathers framed his hawk like face from which two dark piercing eyes held Marcus transfixed.
Suddenly a cold draught and a slight movement behind Marcus made him spin round. There standing between two pillars was a very old man smiling at him, his leathery dark brown face surrounded by an afro of pure white hair. Under his dusty black tail coat, which hung loosely on his boney shoulders, was a yellowing white shirt and bow tie.
“That’s Hiawatha of the Onondaga tribe of Native American Indians Peacemaker and founder of the Iroquois Confederacy,” he announced reverently.
The old man shuffled closer to Marcus and gazed up at the painting with him.
“That picture once hung in the Royal Albert Hall in London, back when my music was performed there.”
“Are you a singer?” asked Marcus enthusiastically.
“No not a singer,” chuckled the old man, “I wrote and conducted music. My composition ‘Hiawatha’s Wedding Feast’ was so popular thousands of people went to hear it. They would dress up as American Indians, like Hiawatha up there and sing along with the music. It was like a huge choir and every one had lots of fun”.
Marcus’s eyed widened, “Cool,” he murmured.
“Yes it is a bit chilly,” agreed the old man rubbing his hands together.
“So were you famous then?”
“I suppose I was, my music was played everywhere, even in railway stations. But it wasn’t easy having brown skin in London in those days,” he said thoughtfully raising his hand to his sad face. “People found it hard to accept me, they said and did some horrible things to me and my family but I didn’t let them get to me.... I held my head up high”.
“It’s not much easier these days”, shrugged Marcus looking down at his own brown hand.
The old man sighed, “You must hold your head up high too and keep smiling, never show people the names hurt”.
Marcus smiled and nodded as the mysterious man continued his story.
“When I was your age my father went back to his homeland of Sierra Leone, in Africa, leaving me and my English mother to fend for ourselves. We had a very hard time. But I was lucky, I liked playing the violin and a man called Joseph Beckwith, became my teacher and helped me to get into a wonderful school in London called the Royal College of Music when I was just fifteen. There I learnt to compose music and the rest as they say is history,” he laughed knowingly. “I met other composers like Elgar and Vaughan Williams. I even went to America where my music was played”.
“Wow...you are famous!”
“Then I was asked to write a violin concerto by a rich American lady called Ellen Stoeckel and her husband Carl. But when I had finished it..... something very unfortunate happened.”
“What?” gasped Marcus who by now was sitting on a pile of old frames listening intently to the old man.
A look of great sadness came into the old man’s eyes and a tear trickled slowly down his face.
“In those days the only way to send the manuscript to America was on a big ship. So I carefully wrapped the only copy in a parcel and sent it off.....but it never got there...”
“Why?” exclaimed Marcus, “what happened to it, did the postman lose it?”
“No, I just I picked the wrong ship to send it on...”
“What do you mean, what ship was it?”
“It was called the Titanic....”
“THE TITANIC! Wait a minute I’ve heard of that ship, we did it in class. Didn’t it crash into an iceberg and sink and loads of people drowned?”
“That’s right...it was a terrible disaster. So I had to try to write my violin concerto all over again... from memory”.
The old man sat down opposite Marcus and buried his face in his hands.
For a while there was silence. Marcus couldn’t think of anything to say that could possibly make things better. So he sat quietly waiting until eventually the old man sighed a deep sigh, lifted his head from his hands and wiped away another tear.
“I’m sorry about that,” he said forcing a smile back onto his face, “you must think me very rude, I never even asked your name”.
“Marcus...Marcus Holt...my mum’s just buying a chair”.
“Ah there’s lots of those here.....I think I must have sat on all of them. My name is Samuel but some people call me Coalie because my middle name is Coleridge.... Samuel Coleridge Taylor...pleased to meet you Marcus. Do you live round here?”
“Not far...just across the railway line,” said Marcus pointing up as a train rumbled along the line above them, “near West Croydon station.”
“Ah yes I know West Croydon station well.....I lived near there once too”.
“Where do you live now then?”
“I live here now amongst all this old furniture...”
“Marcus, where are you?” interrupted the distant voice of his mum.
“Oh, I’d better go....it was nice to meet you Samuel, great hearing about your music. ..... by the way, did you ever finish writing your violin concerto again?”
“Oh yes, I did, but it took a lot out of me and made me quite ill.....” Samuel paused for a moment, shook his head sadly and sighed deeply, ...... “soon after that,.....I just ran out of steam......Off you go now Marcus, .... and take care........Oh, and if you ever get a chance, have a listen to my ‘Hiawatha’s Wedding Feast’.”
“I will,” waved Marcus...”bye!”
Mum was standing by the office proudly holding a chair she had bought and Albert was handing over the change as Marcus ran towards them excitedly.
“Mum, can we stop off at that record shop you like, there’s a piece of music I want to buy....?”
“Where have you been Marcus, I was getting worried?” said Mum.
“I was just chatting to someone down there....”
“Oh, who was that?” Mum said, a slight note of concern in her voice.
“Samuel, he writes music and he lives here...in the last arch. There’s this amazing painting in there of an Indian called Hiawatha.....”
Albert looked up strangely at Marcus.
“No you can’t have....I sold that painting years ago...and there’s no one living here called Samuel.”
“Yes there is....,” protested Marcus, “..... he told me all about his music, he sent some of it to America on the Titanic.....”
“Marcus the Titanic sank 100 years ago!” said mum shaking her head.
“Kids eh...great imaginations,” laughed Albert.
“Come on Marcus, you can tell me all about it when we get home.”
Marcus followed his mum out of the Emporium reluctantly. As he did so he looked back over his shoulder and could have sworn he saw a wisp of white afro hair and black tail coat disappear out of sight into the darkness of the fifth arch.
“Can we stop at the record shop mum......?”
THE END
FLOELLA BENJAMIN, OBE - The Fifth Arch © 2012
