The Merchant of Venice trip

Marlborough Road, early morning: In beautiful sunshine 3A1 boarded the coach outside the main gate amid much chatter and excitement. A day out of school and a day out of uniform was a special day, especially when shared with friends. In my navy blue hipsters and 100% nylon 14s 11d sky blue roll neck, I was part of the in crowd and as happy as anyone.

London: A visit to the British Museum was a nice surprise. A good way of killing a spare hour, it seemed, and an opportunity for Ann Howe to take a couple of snaps.

Sheila Bacca

Elaine Drury, Sheila Bacca, Carol Walker, Pat Foad

Of all the exhibits in the museum, nothing impressed me more than the post office and letter box inside the museum’s main doors. The temptation was too much. A souvenir postcard got popped into the letter box with the message ‘from me to me, to show I was here.’

We got another surprise when we went for a walk and found ourselves outside number 10, only there was no sign of Harold. 

‘Wow!’

Everyone was impressed with the laburnum arch we passed through on our way to Regent’s Park. And the lake…

…where we strung out in small groups to sit on the grass, eat our packed lunches and throw scraps to the ducks. After lunch Mister Porter called us together and led us to the site of the open air theatre, an area circled by a wooden fence and tall trees.

A lot of school parties were milling around the place, waiting for it to open. Mister Porter was happy to give us some rope but he insisted we didn’t stray too far. ‘We’ll be going in as a group,’ he said. ‘Under no circumstances should anybody go in alone.’

While many took the opportunity to visit the public conveniences some two hundred yards across the wide open spaces, I carried on having the time of my life: the outing; the weather; the museum; the arch; feeding the ducks, I loved every minute of it. The Merchant of rotten Venice was the only thing that spoiled it. Time was running out before I decided I should to have a squirt too, while I still could.

A feeling of unease set in on the way back. I couldn’t see our lot anywhere. I started running; sure I’d spot a familiar face at any moment. But there were no familiar faces. Everywhere I looked I saw strangers.

Where is everyone? 

Bewildered, I noticed people going through an open gate.

Oh no! They must have gone in without me.

Mister Porter’s warning about going in alone counted for nothing against a fear I’d been left behind. Passing through the gate eased my anxiety, and I explored my new surroundings with great optimism, believing I was seconds away from catching up with everyone before my absence was noted. When a flying inspection of the area came to nothing, I groaned.

‘Lynch! Lynch! Has anybody seen Lynch?’

Oh what a relief to hear Mister Porter’s voice, even if it was on the other side of the fence.

‘I’m in here Sir!’

‘Lynch?

‘Yes Sir, I’m here Sir!’

‘Lynch, is that you? What are you doing in there boy?’

There wasn’t a lot I could say. Apart from not knowing where to start, I was highly embarrassed. Almost on my knees, I was shouting through a small gap in the fence and attracting some very odd looks from passers by.

‘Stay there and do not move. Do you hear me?’

‘Yes sir.’

The quality of mercy had been well and truly strained, but the sight of Mister Porter’s angry face couldn’t detract from the joy in my heart when he marched through the gate with the rest of our party. It was good to be back in the fold.

As for the play, The New Shakespeare Company’s production of The Merchant of Venice was just as boring as listening to it in our classroom. The only difference is we didn’t ponce about in costumes and perform on a stage raised to a height that gave the audience neck ache.

Brompton/Marlborough Road: Travel sickness struck again. I’d been fine on the coach going to London but on the way back the misery of a heaving stomach was compounded by the sun boiling my head through the window. I was in big trouble and fighting a losing battle when the coach reached Brompton. With big globs of sweat rolling down my face and my stomach on the verge of eruption, the time for being British had passed. To the amusement of many, I stood up and started gulping fresh air at the window vent, desperate to hold on till the coach got back to school.

A courtesy drop at the bottom of Marlborough Road wasn’t ideal for me but when a handful of kids got off the coach, I followed and staggered round the corner to the High Street. Deathly pale and ready to throw up, I spun around when I saw an old lady coming towards me, and staggered back again. The coach was still there but I’d reached the point of no return and could hold on no longer. In the same moment I propped myself against the wall of the Viscount Hardinge, the torrent gushed, to a huge cheer from the coach as it pulled away.

Swines!