Examination
Day
“Bloody
hell!”
Principal
Putney spat the mouthful out in disgust. Then watched dismayed as speckled
sputum covered his computer monitor. Masticated bits of bread and meat
descended, obscuring the spreadsheet.
Wiping
the mess off with his jacket sleeve, Putney yelled through the open door that
connected his office to the wider world of the school. “Maureen! Get Mrs Putney
on the phone!”
“She’s
not available.”
“Isn’t
she? Why? Why isn’t she available?” he screamed. “Not available? I’ll not available her, what do you mean, not
available? Of course she’s available! Ask 50% of the population of Kwatar and
they’ll confirm that her fat arse is always available. Come in here.”
Maureen’s
face poked, meercat like, at the door frame. “Yes, Principal?”
“She
does this on purpose. Bacon! Pork pies! I hate bacon! Fills my bloody lunch box
up with the stuff and expects me to eat it.”
“Yes,
Principal.”
Putney
pointed a quivering finger at the tupperware in front of him. “Put this in the
skip, get to the supermarket and buy me something I actually like for my
breakfast!”
“What,
the tupperware lunch box?”
“No!
Of course not the tupperware lunch box; the contents, the contents. You may
bring the box back once it is most thoroughly scraped clean of bacon, gammon
and pie.”
“Certainly,
Principal.”
“Then
get down to Lulu and purchase a turkey sub. You can’t go far wrong with a
turkey sub.”
The
skip festered in the June heat of Kwatar. Fifty degrees and upwards, although
officially fifty degrees it was and would always be. It reeked, it putrified, it swarmed with
cockroaches and sat alongside the unattractive sand grey concrete school
building.
High
above, the sun smacked into the sealed windows of a second floor classroom. A
line of male students filed in through the door, silently sixteen and, for the
most part dark bearded. They glanced at desks set out equidistantly. Moved
efficiently towards them. Sat without fuss.
Mr
Bradley Tonkins read from a clipboard. “Asjad, Saji, Tengu, Biggins, Yousef, Alrasheed,
Murad, Mubarak, Haitham….” And all answered with quiet dignity. All, that is,
except one.
Tonkins
frowned, licked a pencil and stabbed the clipboard. “Biggins. Biggins?
Gentlemen, has anybody seen Biggins? Where is Biggins? This examination is due
to start in ten minutes.”
“I
think he was eating lunch, Mr Bradley, sir.”
“Lunch?”
Tonkins’ stomach growled, reminding him that it was Ramadan. Everyone was
hungry and thirsty by afternoon, either through religion or respect. Everyone,
it seemed, except Biggins.
The
door thumped back against the plaster and a chubby, fair skinned and thoroughly
beardless boy scudded inside. “Sorry, sir.”
“Your
late, Biggins. Hurry up. I was just about to call the examinations officer.”
“Yes,
sir, I know, sorry sir.”
“Lunch,
eh?”
“Sorry,
sir?”
“You
were late because you were tucking in to your gargantuan lunchtime tucker, is
that it, boy?”
“Well,
yes, sir.”
“Do
I have to remind you what time it is, Biggins? Maybe a few less lunches might
benefit your health. Try a fast, now and then?”
“But
I came as fast as I could, sir.”
“Okay,
fine, well try to come into a room more quietly, that’s all.”
“Yes,
sir.”
Tonkins
scowled then consulted the clipboard, ticking off the final name for Physics
Paper 2. “Right lads, you know the drill. Anybody got any mobile phones still
on them – in the box. All drawing equipment to be in a clear plastic wallet.
Black ink for writing and pencil for diagrams. In a minute I’ll ask you to…”
“Oh.
Excuse me, Mr Bradley.”
“Ms
Annag?” Tonkins flinched and his nape hairs bristled as the door opened a
second time. Quietly. Someone had approached from behind and his thumbs
pricked. He turned. “I was just settling
the lads down. About to read the instructions and regulations, as per.”
“I
know what you were just doing. I can see what you were trying to do. My job. But you wouldn’t want that, now would you? Trying
to break the exam board codes? I hope not. You weren’t trying that, were you?”
“Well,
I…I thought, you see, in the United
Kingdom, the head of department usually…”
“Yes,
well, as I have told you before, you are no longer in the United Kingdom.
Many times before. As examinations
officer, I am responsible for starting all examinations and if you misquoted a
rule or misread an instruction, the examination board might have every reason
to start an inquiry into the mishandling of public examinations.” Miss Annag
smiled. Her eyes glittered. Her chest heaved.
“Well,
how would they know?”
“I
would tell them. Now boys have you checked in all your mobile phones or
portable electronic devices? All drawing equipment should be in a clear plastic
wallet. Black ink is to be used for writing and pencil for diagrams. In a
minute I’ll ask you to fill in the front page of your examination with your name,
your examination number and the number of this centre. All of this is on the
labels stuck to your desk…”
Ms
Annag’s voice droned, chest ampling against her top as she smiled like some
sort of outsized Stepford Wife and as the minute hand kissed twelve and it was
precisely three o clock, the boys began. Well not precisely three - in fact it
was two minutes after the hour because Biggins had no black pen and had left
his equipment by his tucker box in room 34.
Once
the lads had settled, Tonkins made his way towards a teacher’s desk upon which
he had previously placed his briefcase, some marking and a folded copy of The
Gulf Times. With three hours ahead in the stuffy room he had some comforts
prepared. But, like a ghost, Ms Annag reappeared. “Mr Bradley? Please ensure
you are monitoring the room at all times. You don’t have any work in that
case?”
“No,”
he lied. As she departed a second time, Tonkins recalled that, on his arrival
in Kwatar, there had been hints of a friendship and more besides. But now he
knew she kept a little black book with dates and names in it. He sighed.
So
now he began to pointlessly patrol the room which was all of twenty by twenty
paces. And the beads of sweat began to form on his forehead and under his
armpits as he watched the students struggle with the finer points of Boyle’s
Law, he began to boil himself. Hot. Hot enough to start a fire.
The
klaxon sounded.
A
computer generated female voice spoke something in Arabic, then repeated the
same instruction in English: “Please leave the building by the nearest door.
Attention. Attention. This is a fire alarm. Please leave the building by the
nearest door…” and on and on. Tonkins knew it would be a false one. The heat.
But Biggins was already bumbling about noisily, so he gestured for silence.
“Now, gentlemen, please put down your pens and stand behind your desks…”
The
door was flung open again. “Mr Bradley. There are clear procedures in the event
of a fire alarm during an examination. Did you read them?”
Tonkins
shuddered. “Of course I did, Ms Annag,” he bluffed, untruthfully, now red and
sweating profusely.
Ms
Annag snorted. The klaxon bleated. “I’ll take charge, if you don’t mind.”
“Right
you are, boss.” It was a sickly attempt at camaraderie under pressure.
“Now,
boys, put down your pens and stand behind your desks. Absolutely no talking. We
will make our way downstairs, where you will stand, silently until it is safe
to return to the building…”
Most
of the students did exactly as ordered. But Biggins was panicking. He leapt up
and his bulk toppled the desk in front of him. It toppled forwards; papers and
equipment clattering all over the hard flooring. “Oh my God, sir, I’m sorry. “
“Shut
up, Biggins. You heard Ms Annag. Leave it be. Hurry, lad.”
Single-filing
out of the door and down the stairs to the football pitch, Tonkins scowled and
looked behind him. Ms Annag was putting a clasp across the exam room and
securing it with a combination padlock. “Is that necessary?” he asked. “I mean
it’s a false alarm, isn’t it? We’ll be back upstairs in a couple of minutes.”
“Do
you want the examination board checking up on us for not following procedure
and foul practices? Do you?”
“No,
Miss Annag.”
“Then
don’t tell me how to do my job. Get downstairs and take a register.”
“Register?
There are only nine of them. Surely…”
“Mr
Bradley!”
Outside,
the sun continued to batter shadow into submission. Standing at the front of
the short alphabetisised line, Biggins was already turning a whiter shade of
pale and his gargantuan bulk swaying, swaying; wiping a repugnant piece of
cloth across his forehead. “Oh, I say, it’s hot, sir.”
“Shut
up, Biggins.” As the klaxon continued its mournful tune, Ms Annag had arrived
and now stood toe to toe with Biggins, daring him to utter a word. But as he was
considerably taller, she offered nothing in the way of shade. Biggins gave up
the uneven struggle with the sun and toppled gracefully forward, the two of
them tumbling, he on top, she beneath, until his body crushed hers in a
suffocating embrace. Like two lovers, they bounced on the tarmac and lay in
something approaching a post coital blackout.
“Oh,
dear.”
“What
shall we do, sir?” asked somebody in line.
“Well
we’re rather stuck. We have strict instructions not to move from this line, or we
contravene examination procedure. We can’t risk an inspection, can we?”
“Shall
we call the office? Use your phone, sir?”
“Good
plan, Haitham, good plan. Except all our phones are in a cardboard box in the
examination room, aren’t they. And that’s locked. Only Ms Annag knows the
combination.”
Tonkins
looked sadly at the mountain of blubber spread out in front of them. It was now
streaking slightly red in the harsh desert sun, and beginning to resemble a
ghastly nest of fire ants. Or Ayres Rock. Seen from a distance. He cleared his
throat. “Desperate times, lads, desperate times. Can anyone think of a plan?”
“Physics,
sir. We could rig up a block and tackle from that stanchion and winch Biggins
off Ms Annag.”
“Shut
up, Yousef, that won’t work. We need a fulcrum and lever to topple him forward
and onto the hockey pitch.”
“Maybe
we could light a signal fire using the trash in that bin?”
“Jump
up and down and shout for help?”
“All
stand around Biggins and kick him in the sides until he wakes up?”
Tonkins
scratched his chin. “All plans have merit, lads, and show good problem solving
skills. But you are forgetting one thing. We must remain standing silently in
this line until the fire alarm stops.”
“I
vote we kick Biggins, sir.”
“Yes
sir. Hang regulations. Kicking Biggins is the only way.”
Tonkins
scowled. “Oh, very well then. I don’t like it, but it’s worth a try. Form a
circle around Biggins. Wait for my instruction. And if any of you miss Biggins
and strike Ms Annag, you’ll have me to answer to.”
“Difficult
to miss Biggins actually, sir.”
“Good
point. Now, on the count of three I want you to raise your right leg and…”
But,
before any blow could be delivered, three things occurred. Firstly, Biggins
began to groan and move his hands. Secondly the klaxon cut out. And finally
there was a clearing of the throat by a third party, causing all the boys and
Tonkins to pause and look behind them.
Tonkins
spoke first. “Principal Putney! Thank heavens you’ve arrived.”
“Never
mind that. What are all these boys doing out here? And why is Biggins molesting
Ms Annag’s chest in that disgraceful fashion? Biggins! Get up and take your
hands off her! Ms Annag is a valued member of staff.”
“Biggins
fainted, Mr Principal, sir, on top of Ms Annag. We were attempting to remove
him from her but they became welded together in the heat.”
“I
see. Fainted, eh? Most probably the fasting. A lot of it this time of the year.
Best get a bucket of water.”
“Yes,
he’s bound to be thirsty.”
“Don’t
be obtuse, Mr Bradley. We’ll chuck it at them. That’ll bring the pair of them
round and then we can get on with our lives.”
But
Biggins, groaning and blinking in confusion, slowly raised himself until he was
on his knees staring at the circle of faces in front of him. “What happened?”
“Never
mind that, lad, you’ve an examination to finish. You lot too. Get up those
stairs.” And so they trooped away, following Principal Putney, leaving the
prone body of Ms Annag on the ground to be attended to later.
But
now, upon arrival, another problem presented itself. Putney peered at the door
of the examination room. “Right Mr Bradley, so what’s the combination?”
“Well
I don’t know, Principal.”
“Why
not?”
“Only
Miss Annag knows it. Exam regulations. We can’t risk an inspection, can we?”
“Damn,
you’re right, Mr Bradley. Where is that examination officer? Malingering, I
call it.”
“We
left her unconscious, outside by the hockey pitch.”
“So
we, did.” The Principal grunted. “Fat lot of good she is.” One of the boys
snorted and The Principal lashed out a hard glare at him. “Quiet! Valuable
asset to the school.” Another snort. “Now, lads, we’re wasting precious
examination time. We need a hacksaw or some bolt croppers.”
“Will
that bring Ms Annag round, Mr Principal?”
“Shut
up Biggins. Since you’re responsible for this mess, you can go and fetch the
caretaker. And be quick about it.”
It
was some time later that, after watching the cruel teeth of the saw blade bite
into the soft metal until it relented with a sigh of surrender, that the door
to the examination room finally was pushed open. The boys once more filed into
the stuffy room. Sat at their desks and waited obediently, while Putney oversaw
Tonkins write a revised finish time on the whiteboard. Satisfied, Principal
Putney heel swivelled and left through the entrance.
“Okay
lads, off you go. Try to focus and put the events of the past hour behind you,”
announced Tonkins. Given that Ms Annag had been trundled off to sick bay to
recover, he assumed it was now safe to read the paper and complete his marking
and sat, smiling complacently.
But
there was no movement in the room. Nobody took up their pens or instruments.
Not one of the students was even attempting the next question. Instead they
faced the front, silent and motionless.
“What
is the meaning of this?” Tonkins rose to his feet, grimly. “Why are you not
completing the examination?”
Mubarak
answered. “We cannot, Mr Bradley, sir.”
“Can’t?
Can’t? Can’t or won’t?”
“Can’t,
sir. There are no examination papers. They have all been taken away.”
Tonkins
stared at each table in disbelief. Then he looked on his desk. Underneath the
chairs. In the wastepaper basket. “But that’s impossible! The door was locked.
Where can they possibly be?”
At
the back of the examination room, a door was pushed open without ceremony. A
small man, dressed in coveralls entered, dragging behind him a bucket of water
and squeegee mop. Unconcerned he began his task of swabbing. The floor began to
glisten in the shafts of sun. “Excuse, please,” he muttered at the nearest
student, who moved his feet.
Tonkins
slapped his forehead, horrified. “A connecting door! Shit! Excuse me sir? Have
you taken the papers from inside this room?”
“Yes,
sir. All paper taken. Plenty of rubbish, some on the floor and overturned desk.
Students show no respect. None.”
“Never
mind that,” screamed Tonkins, then adjusted his tone. “Sorry, sir. Where have
you taken the papers? These students were sitting examinations!”
“All
paper in skip, of course. Put all in skip. Chuck out window.” The man grinned.
“Outside,” he continued, unnecessarily.
Half
an hour later, Principal Putney and Tonkins were back in the examination room
where the boys still sat with patience. The two men were expertly sifting
through crumpled examination papers and calling out students one by one. “Ah.
This one is not bad at all, not too filthy. Alrasheed. Here you are. Yes. This
one is certainly serviceable. Saji? Come here, lad.”
“Well
done, Principal. I think we’ve rescued it.”
“Biggins’
paper is rather mangled.”
“Yes.
But with a bit of effort on his part, I think certainly doable. I’ve scraped
the worst of it off with this metal ruler.”
“Without
doubt. Well done, Mr Bradley.” The Principal cleared his throat and gazed
sternly but kindly at the students. “Now gentlemen. I expect nothing but the
best. I’m sorry your examination has been disrupted by a series of unforeseen
accidents but we’re back on the page now and there is plenty of time before
sunset. We want your best efforts. And your guarantee that nothing will be said
to anybody about what has happened here today.”
“We
don’t want an inspection, after all.”
“No
indeed, Mr Bradley.”
“So
mum’s the word. Now before we get restarted, are there any questions?”
Principal Putney glared at the room, defying any hand to be raised. Nevertheless,
one of the students ventured his arm into the air. Putney scowled. “Yes, Murad,
what is it, boy?”
“My
examination has meat on it.”
“Meat?
What do you mean, meat? Of course it hasn’t got meat on it.”
“It
has, Mr Principal. I think it’s a slice of pork pie.”
The
Principal stiffened, then strode across the room. “Oh yes, so it does. I wonder
where that came from?”
Another
hand: “And mine’s got a gammon steak stuck to Page 11, sir. I can’t read the
question on bats and sound waves, sir.”
“Yes,
sir, me too. This chump chop has glued my answer booklet together.”
“I
see. It is a bit sticky, isn’t it. Mr Bradley?”
“Well,
what do you expect me to do about it? I didn’t deliberately stick choice cuts
of meat to the Physics papers, did I?” snapped Tonkins. “I mean, for pity’s
sake, where did all this meat come from? It’s Ramadan.”
“We
can’t do this Physics paper, sir. It’s haram.”
The
Principal nodded. “Yes, fair enough, gentlemen, fair enough. I can see that.
Would it help if Mr Bradley and I carefully scraped the meat off your
examination papers and back into…no, it wouldn’t, would it. We’ll have to
cancel today’s examination and ask to do resits. There’ll be an inquiry. Let’s hope the press
doesn’t find out. It won’t make the school look good. Especially on results
day.” Putney sat down resignedly. “I fear for the head of Science when that
inspection team arrives.”
Tonkins
glowered in fury at Principal Putney. “Now see here. None of this was down to
me.”
“Those
Kwatari inspectors won’t see it that way, Mr Bradley. Ultimate responsibility
lies with the head of Science and the examination officer. That’s the way they
roll, here in Kwatar.”
Tonkins
felt a very long way from home. He struggled to think of a solution. It was so
unfair, wasn’t it? He hadn’t raised the alarm, padlocked the room, crumpled up
and chucked the exams or deposited irresponsibly large amounts of half chewed
meat in the skip, had he? Then, it hit him. Tonkins leapt to his feet.
Triumphant. “What if we said they were ill?”
“Ill?”
“Yes,
you know, any student feeling ill can defer and rearrange. Heat stroke and
weakness caused the involuntary vomiting of meat products all over papers which
had to be disposed of. The students can be taken to sick bay now for a check up.
Then the examination could be photocopied and rescheduled for tomorrow.”
“Involuntary
vomiting of meat products? But they haven’t eaten anything today.”
“We’ll
leave the meat out of it, then. That fire alarm is our perfect excuse.”
“Yes,
but all of them? All the students? Sounds unlikely.”
Biggins
raised his hand. “Excuse me, sir. My paper only has a bit of meat on it. I
think I could just about see it through. That way, it won’t be all students,
will it, sir?”
Tonkins
grinned with relief. “Excellent, Biggins. If one of you does the examination,
the inspection team might just swallow it.”
“Swallow
it? What the meat, sir? I don’t think they’d want to do that, sir.”
“
Shut up, Biggins. Get on with your examination. And with luck, they might not
even bother to come at all.”
“”What
the bollocks is this? Maureen! Maureen! Get Mrs Putney on the phone!” The
Principal hurled his tupperware against the office wall where it bounced off a
motivational poster about looking after minutes and saving meetings.
“She’s
not taking calls.”
“Not
taking calls? What do you mean not taking calls? Of course she is. 50% of the
population of Kwatar will tell you that all she ever does is take calls. From
gentlemen.”
Maureen’s
face peeped into the office from behind the doorframe like a chicken scratching
for corn. “More meat is it, Principal? Shall I scrape it into the skip and go
to the supermarket?”
Putney
plumped his frame back in the leather seat behind his desk. “No, no, don’t
bother. Have the inspection team gone?”
“Yes,
Mr Putney.”
“Good
riddance.”
“But
it was such a shame about Mr Tonkins. Losing his job like that.”
“Oh,
he’ll get over it.”
“Do
you really think he was a meat smuggler, Principal?”
“Who
can say, Maureen? Who can really know the depths of depravity a man can stoop
to?”
“But
he seemed such a nice young man. He was a good teacher, too.”
Principal
Putney nodded sagely. “Yes. Of that we can be sure. The Physics results were
excellent this year. All the students passed with flying colours.”
“Well,
except for Biggins.”
“Yes,
poor Biggins. Bravely tried his best to carry on. But taken ill at the half way
stage. Involuntary vomiting all over his examination. We scraped it into the
envelope and parcelled it up as best we
could, but the report said that by the time it arrived in Cambridge, it was so soggy that the marker
couldn’t read it.”
“I
wonder why, Principal?”
“Stress.
Pressure. Weak constitution. And just pig sick of the smell of meat, I
suppose.”
