Diary of a Reluctant Ruler

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The Ona’s showed me the way out of the College’s maze of corridors before waving me off. I had a feeling Shona wouldn’t have followed me if I hadn’t have been a princess and her sisters’ latest protégé, but Katriona and Iona both seemed genuinely nice.

Back in the Audi I sighed and settled back into my seat.

“Always difficult starting a new school, I suppose,” Jade said.

“I’ve only started new schools… four times. It’s enough,” I replied.

“I have only been to one school,” Jade said, “But I have had many teachers.”

“Only the one?”

“Only the one.”

“Guess that’s a change,” I replied.

“No!” Jade laughed, “Everything stays the same for a very long time!”

I laughed.

Ahead of us a silver Mercedes pulled into the road. It looked vaguely familiar…

“It is Mr Jacinthe’s car,” Jade said, catching my look.

“Right,” I said.

I tried to memorise the number plate.

AK07 JAM

Lol!

What?

JAM, James…

Oh… woop-dee-doo.

We pulled into the palace a little after James, but he went round the back to park, disappearing from sight as the chauffeur pulled up in front of the entrance for Jade and I.

That’s an annoying dot in my plan…

Plan? What plan?

Wouldn’t you like to know…

The rest of the week sped by faster than I’d expected.

The Ona’s became good friends, though Shona still seemed a little unsure of me. Thankfully, she was dating Jacques from psychology, so we didn’t see each other much. I soon settled into a rhythm;

Jade would leave me in the foyer where I met Iona, we’d walk up to Rowan together, where we’d meet David from Geography. I still sat next to him, moved tables in Economics to sit with Henry and another guy, who was very quiet and whose name I kept forgetting… It wasn’t until Wednesday that I experienced English.

I say experienced. More like got hit in the face with it.

Miss Davison was English by birth, English teacher by choice. But I’m not sure I’d have chosen her as my teacher. She was tall, with long brown hair and thick black-framed glasses. She insisted on calling people by their surnames and had an encyclopaedia of books in her head.

“Welcome back class,” she began as soon as she entered the room.

She swept a look across faces whilst putting her folder down on the front desk.

“Say hello to Miss Caramont if you haven’t already, I don’t want you fussing about her whilst I try and teach you.”

A couple of people waved. I smiled awkwardly back.

“This letter is about buying your set texts for this year,” she said after a moment, “We will be studying The House of Mirth, The Great Gatsby, poems by Keats and Byron, and William Shakespeare’s Romeo & Juliet. Any questions?”

A moment’s silence.

“Good. Grab a book, pass them on, turn to page 43.”

I smiled at Jenn, who was sitting in front of me, as she passed me back a book. Page 43 revealed a sonnet by Shakespeare;

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

“Copy it out on a piece of paper, then annotate it please. Five minutes tops,” Miss Davison ordered.

I smiled, glad to have something to write good to write about. My Keats English teacher had been notorious for giving us dreadful poets to analyse.

“Right! Time’s up, let’s have some comments. Miss Hudson?”

Miss spent about ten minutes going through the poem, getting us to copy her own notes from the board. Then she gave us a second page number and told us to do the same for the new poem.

Piano Overture

He came to our apartment twice a year
to tune my mother's piano. All day long
we tiptoed, trying not to interfere
with what to us were strange, unearthly songs.

He never struck a heavy, luscious chord—
only fifths, fourths, octaves—clean and spare;
brandishing his hammer like a sword,
we watched him wring concordance from the air.

Taut as pulled wire, he'd lean into the keys,
his practiced fingers pressing note on note,
hunting down aberrant harmonies
and any latent quaver in the throat.

At last the piano, gaping and undone,
its very heart exposed for all to see,
would wait in silence, chastened as a nun,
for the blasphemies of Chopin and Satie.

By Marilyn L. Taylor

I read the poem once, then twice. Then a third time…

Drat.

What?

It’s a non-mover.

Don’t talk in code!

You’ll see.

I had written maybe two sparse lines by the time Miss Davison called time up from the front.

“Miss Caramont, perhaps we can hear from you?”

Oh dear.

“Sure…” I grimaced inwardly, “Um… the poem… It has four verses, an ABAB rhyme pattern, but there’s some enjambment across lines. Not between verses though…”

I trailed off, unsure of what else to say.

“Well, you’ve stated the obvious there,” Miss Davison said.

She pursed her lips for a moment then came out with the worst question she could have possibly asked me.

“How did you feel about the poem?”

Noooo!

“Er… I like the last verse.”

Great one… Well done Meredith. Once more you’ve astounded the world.

“Reasons?”

“The… um… the personification of the piano having a heart is a pretty vivid image. The rest of the poem seemed to be saying that the piano tuner was medically examining the piano, but then the last verse turns that upside down and makes it seem like abuse…”

I trailed off again.

“Hmmm…” Miss Davison hummed, “Do you like the poem?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“It just doesn’t intrigue me.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.”

“Try and find out.”

“Ok,” I said.

So began my battle with poetry and Miss Davison.