Hidden Treasure

Hello Followers! I lived in Kenya from when I was 13 to when I was 14, and so completed my IGCSEs [International General Certificate of Secondary Education] whilst out there. This is a piece from a practice question we were given in English Language - the stimulus being 'Hidden Treasure'. I got 20/25 for it.


Lord Jack Stevenson was an elderly man. He was rich and powerful with four children - 3 charmingly handsome boys and a beautifully clever girl - and a wonderfully big mansion. He had servants and gardeners, all providing heavily for him. He had everything he could have dreamt for. Well, not quite everything.
He was losing his memory. Slowly, but surely, poor Jack Stevenson, with two villas in Italy and a yacht in France, was forgetting his life.

Jack had lived a very comfortable life. Born into a rich family and a student of Eton, the finest boys' school in England, he had everything he wanted in ample supply. He had never been frightened. He was always able to buy off kidnappers and bullies, but now. Now, for the first time in his life, Lord Jack Stevenson, with a species of lily and a star named after him, was afraid.

It increased dramatically at the funeral of his third wife, Rebecca. He had sat solitarily on a bench and tried to remember his wedding to her. He couldn't. He remembered his tuxedo and the Rolls Royce they had started their honeymoon in, but he could not recall the service, the dress, the bride. The morning after the funeral, as he awoke in his goose-feathered-duvet and king-size four-poster bed, he looked at a photo of Rebecca and was astonished not to recognise her at first sight. Lord Jack Stevenson was forgetting.

Now, he sat on his luxurious white leather settee in his extravagant lounge, straining his memory. He had voluntarily paid for operations on his heart, his knees. In fact, most of his body could be linked to a handsomely-paid doctor. But his brain... his memory... that was something he could never get back. No operation could ever help him remember.

It had been four years since the funeral and gradually more and more of Lord Jack Stevenson's life had slipped from his mind. He was now remembering the same memory over and over again.

Peter Stevenson was the youngest son and child of Jack and Rebecca. He was used to seeing his much older siblings marry and have children, but after a few years it began to bother him. Four days after his eighteenth birthday he approached his parents. "Mum, Dad. This may come as a bit of a shock to you, but I want to get married." There was a stunned silence.
     "Wow. That's great, darling," Rebecca started, "but don't you think you're a bit young?"
     "Michael was only twenty when he got married to Sarah."
     "And he got divorced four months later," Jack finished. "You are only eighteen. You don't know what love is."
     "I'll learn from experience then. You had plenty of divorces until you met Mum."
     "I don't want you to make the same mistakes."
     "No! It's becase you don't want me to be happy!"
     "Darling, you know that we both want the best for you. We just want you to think before you rush in."
     "Give me a break!"
     "Don't talk to your mother like that!"
     "Look, if you don't want me to get married, that is your problem. But I can legally wed someone now without your permission."
     "You won't do this Peter. I forbid you to!"
     "You can't. You have no power over me anymore. I'll see you around."


Jack could remember calling his son's name over and over again. He could vaguely hear the door slam. And that was it. That was the last Jack had seen of his son. Fourteen years ago his son had vanished from his life. Fourteen years ago, his memory had begun to disappear.

Lord Jack Stevenson wept. He wept tears for his son. Tears for his wife. Tears for his memory. His long-lost memory. Was there any hope for him? Jack doubted it greatly.

He called his house-keeper, Marie, to make him a cup of coffee. De-caf, of course. He didn't want to be up all night! He grabbed a cushion and held it close to him, as though he were a child clutching a blanket. The doorbell rang. "Strauss?" Jack croaked for his doorman. No reply. Of course, it was his day off. Damn Saturdays.

Jack got up and slowly paced down the hallway. He opened the door and looked at his visitor. He fell to his knees and sobbed. Peter Stevenson bent down, picked up his father and embraced him. "I'm sorry, Dad. I'm so sorry. Daphne left me. You were right. Please forgive me." He pulled Jack in close to him, and Jack remembered.

Rebecca had looked like an angel as she glided down the aisle. Her fair skin was as dainty as the flowers that decorated the church. She was a daisy, a rose, a lily. She was beautiful and pure.

Peter, unknowingly, had helped his father, Jack Stevenson, a man just like any other, to recover his memory - the only thing left in his life to treasure, save for his four wonderful children.

The Garden

This is the beginning of a story that I started to write after a visit to Fountain's Abbey in North Yorkshire, England. The style is quite Carrollian, I think. Or at least I hope it to be! Maybe I have failed, but this is very early on in the writing process. It will almost certainly be re-written!

I woke up late in the morning, as we teenagers tend to do. My bed was unusually comfortable that morning. I snuggled up, folding the duvet over me several times. I was reluctant to open my eyes. Opening my eyes meant that I had committed myself to eventually getting up, something that I had absolutely no intention of doing that morning. It was pleasant to just lie there and let time wash over me. 

Then, inevitably, I opened my eyes as the smell of sausages, beans and fried potatoes enticed me. Then I realised that something wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t my room. But the furniture and all the nik-naks was mine. The room was dark so I got up and opened the curtains. I stepped back in horror as I saw there was nothing behind the curtains. The room did not light up with early sunlight because there was no window to let it in! Shocked and disturbed, I was now wide awake and I backed away from the unnatural empty wall. 

I escaped from the room and went down the unfamiliar stairs. The house was not one I knew. It was small and pokey; I was reminded of a cottage. I seemed to know where I was going and I ended up in the kitchen. 

It was a lovely kitchen, very bright. Pale yellow walls and wooden furniture. It had a very farmhouse kitchen feel to it. The whole room smelt of herbs and the cooking of breakfast. I looked over to where a rustic, iron oven was stood. Sitting in front of it was a tall, three-legged wooden stool. “Take a seat. Breakfast’s nearly ready.” Standing on the stool with a fish slice in hand was a teddy bear. Not only that, but it was my teddy bear. 

“Wilfred?” I said, further confused.

“The sausages are just how you like them,” Wilfred said, poking something with the kitchen utensil. “Slightly burnt.” He turned around and smiled. I felt like a cartoon as my mouth opened. “Are you alright, mate?”

“Yes,” I replied. 

“Sit down.”

I sat down on a stool at the island in the middle of the kitchen, watching my teddy bear making my breakfast. Wilfred carefully placed the sausages, potato and beans on the plate. Balancing the plate on his head he leapt onto the island, ran over and placed the plate in front of me. “Eat up,” he said smilingly. 

“Thank you,” I said politely. “What’s going on?”

“Breakfast,” he replied simply, heading towards the sink to start washing up.

“Yeah, but how come you’re…talking and moving?”

“Don’t ask questions. It’ll only confuse you. Now get that down you and we’ll get to work in the garden.”

I obeyed Wilfred. Something inside me told me that it was not a good thing to argue with this authoritative soft toy. I started to eat. It was a great breakfast. The flavours tasted so alive. I wolfed it down and took my plate over to the sink. Wilfred took it from me and started to clean it. “Go upstairs and get dressed. I left some clothes on your bed.”

“But you’ve not left the kitchen since I came down.”

Wilfred turned to me. “I left some clothes on your bed. Don’t ask questions. Just go and get dressed.” There was something in Wilfred’s glass eyes that was angry with me. I hurried out of the kitchen and back upstairs. 

As I entered the bedroom I had woken up in I found it filled with light. I looked up and saw a skylight pouring light into the room. The curtains were still there, framing a blank wall. I discovered that my bed had been made. I hadn’t done that – I hardly ever made my bed. But Wilfred couldn’t have done it either. Did we have servants to do it for us? I hadn’t seen or heard anyone. The clothes were there in front of me sitting in a perfect pile in the middle of my bed. But they weren’t my clothes. They were someone else’s. I decided not to go and say this to Wilfred; I didn’t want him to scowl at me with those empty eyes again. Out of fear I put the clothes on.

I had never considered wearing these clothes before. I didn’t suit this style, so I thought. Sure I’d worn long denim shorts before, but I’d never worn a sleeveless hoody before. And the hat! I’d never been able to pull off any kind of hat, let alone this thing. It was a white beanie. I’d never imagined it would suit me. But strangely, today I suited it all. I felt strangely confident and went downstairs. I couldn’t see Wilfred in the kitchen but the doors to the garden were open so out I went.

The garden was fantastic. It was on a gentle slope. There was a patio by the house where I was standing and mostly lawn, but round the edge were the most beautiful flowerbeds thriving in colour and smell. The garden was quite short, it seemed, with a hedge at the bottom, though the slope continued. I could see beyond the hedge. There were lots more trees, much more greenery. Over the trees I could see a spire of what was likely to be a church. I couldn’t see anything else further than that. The trees were too tall. 

“Over here,” I heard Wilfred call to me. He was kneeling down in a vegetable patch. I crossed over to him and knelt beside him. “I’m sorry if I was grouchy earlier,” he apologised. “It’s just me in the morning.”

“It’s alright. I’m just a bit lost.”

“Fair enough. It is your first time here. This is your garden.”

“It’s nice. You’ve done a great job maintaining it.”

“Thank you, I do alright in my section. I don’t know what the rest is like. Anyway, let’s get back to planting these strawberries. You know how much you like my strawberries!” Wilfred took a strawberry plant out of a tub and placed in the hole he had dug. 

“Your section?”

“Yes. I look after the cottage and the upper-most part of the garden. From the cottage to that hedge. That’s my section. Come on, we’ll pick some rhubarb after this and make crumble for pudding tonight.”

“Where are the other sections?”

“Beyond. I’ve not been there in years. It’s all very strange though. Some weird characters live down there. You’re best off staying up here with me, keeping this little haven glorious.” I stood up and wandered down to the hedge and looked over. 

“How far does it go?”

“I don’t know. No more questions now. Come on. Let’s plant some strawberries.”

I asked no more questions. I planted some strawberries. But my curiosity over the rest of my garden swamped my mind. What was down there? Who was down there? I listened out for anything that might be happening down there, but all I could hear was the soft wind in the trees and Wilfred’s increasingly irritating voice. 

Beautiful as this garden was, it didn’t satisfy me. I spent days there listening to Wilfred who served me all of my meals and provided me with all that I needed, and I helped him out whenever he needed me. And I was given time to myself, to do as I wanted. But I was never happy. I always had to work to Wilfred’s schedule. I had to help him with the gardening and with the cooking if he needed me. I would be sent out into the garden to pick berries and vegetables. I would be required to water the plants if he so desired me to. 

I was frustrated and felt as though Wilfred was using me for his own gain. “Could you pick some runner beans for me? We’ll have them for dinner tonight.”

“No,” said I, rebelliously.

“I beg your pardon,” Wilfred exclaimed.

“I won’t do it. Stop controlling me and telling me what to do.”

“I’m asking you nicely.”

“I asked you nicely about the rest of my garden. You told me not to ask questions.”

“That was for your own benefit. I’m trying to protect you.”

“I don’t need your protection.” I wanted to hurt Wilfred. A dragon had risen up inside me and I wanted to tear that ridiculous bear to shreds. “I’m going to explore my garden. I’m going to see what is out there.” I strode out of the kitchen where we had just quarrelled and I walked down the garden to the wooden gate in the hedge.

“Stop! Don’t go! Please stay! You won’t find anything down there! Just more things to confuse your strained mind!”

“I’ll be fine.” I slammed the gate behind me.

I found myself in a forest. It was very tranquil with great trees and green foliage. Snowdrops margined the path I stood on. I followed the path until it collides with another path, larger and more firmly trodden. There were people walking down it. A staggered line. Each one walked alone with no communication to the other. I looked up the pathway these solitary beings are coming from. It twisted and winded until it just disappeared into a dark void. “You can’t go that way,” said a voice. The voice was high-pitched, though sounded as though a man with a low voice were putting it on. I looked around for the owner of the strange voice. “They come from there to here and then beyond.” I looked down to see a melancholic looking rabbit.

“What’s down there?” I asked, non-plussed at standing in the presence of a talking rabbit.

The rabbit shrugged. “I don’t know. No one goes that way, so why should I? It would only lead to marginalisation and embarrassment on my part.” The rabbit seemed a very pathetic, little creature.

“What’s down the hill?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to follow the crowd. If I do go down, what if I end up somewhere that doesn’t suit me. I’d only humiliate myself. It’s best not to go somewhere that isn’t made for me.” I thought that the rabbit was a very silly animal at the moment.

“So you’re just going to stay here? All your life?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you get bored? Staying in the same place day in, day out?”

“Rather that than going somewhere new and not fitting in. I’d hate to look foolish in front of people.” I felt that the rabbit looked pretty foolish just standing there. “Besides, I may not be moving forward, but I’m not moving backwards either.”

“That’s optimistic of you,” I said, trying not to show my annoyance with the silly rabbit. 

“I’m not always optimistic. I’m often quite morbid, really. A bit of a preoccupation with how sad my life is. I’m a bit pathetic.”

Suddenly, the rabbit didn’t seem so silly. It pitied itself for the way it acted, for the way it was. No one should ever pity themselves, I thought. “I’m going down the hill,” I said. “Would you like to come with me?”

“Go with you? Down the hill? No. Much as I am grateful for the offer, I must stay here.” And I understood. It was difficult for him to move away when there was so much in his mind and personality that kept him back. “Good luck though,” he wished smiling up at me. I smiled back, wondering whether it would be patronising to pat him on the head. Dismissing the idea, I walked on down the steep hill.

Humble Donkey, Humble Prince

It's been ages since I posted something here. Whoops. I apologise! Here is a poem I wrote ages ago. Can't really remember when, but probably when I lived in Kenya... I came across it and thought that it would be apt for this time of year. Enjoy:

Head sadly hung

Slowly stepping forward

Punished for a crime he didn’t commit.

Whipped on his back

Carries heavy load

A strong, yet humble, creature he must be.

Eyes calling out

For small, happy times

Hungry and thirsty, he continues.

Modest, yet suffering.

A cross on his back.

Steps like a journey to crucifixion.

This underwent a little bit of editing, so here is the original. Much less subtle.

Heads sadly hung

Slowly stepping forward

Punished for a crime they didn't commit.

Whipped on their backs

Must carry heavy loads.

Strong, yet fragile creatures they must be.

Eyes calling out

For small, happy times.

Tail swishing in anything but glee.

Humble yet suffers.

A cross on its back.

Steps like it'll soon be crucified.

Biblical and holy,

Jesus rode to Jerusalem

Upon a creature so similar to Himself.

I basically tried to change the statements so that each sentence could refer to either the donkey or Jesus. I think it is aptly fixed! 

A Solitary Lunchtime

This piece was written when I was in Year 13 at Northallerton College. In perfect honesty, I did not have a fantastic time there. It was very stifled time for me, and I found myself wandering around alone most lunchtimes. Partly because I couldn't find anyone I wanted to hang out with and partly because I quite enjoyed being on my own. And one lunchtime I bought my lunch and then settled down under a tree with a lovely aspect over the field. And this is what I saw, this is what I wrote. Enjoy.

Small clusters of friends lounging in the sun, couples entwined together - close, affectinate, the odd kiss, staring into each other's eyes, holding hands. Laughs from the groups fill the field like a coloured gas entering a bottle - contagious and beautiful. The latest songs pulse along the streams of wind from a car stereo. Summer at college is a heart - a beating sensation of thrill and friendship. How could someone not look at this sight and not smile? Not enjoy themselves? Not wonder at the power that goes hand in hand with the union of friends and summer?
     Two boys, well, two young men, kick a ball, a girl puts on an over-sized pair of sunglasses. A larger group of students, male of course, kick a ball about. The intention of the activity is difficult to make out. Does it need a purpose? Of course not. It's there to bond them whilst girls chat and listen to a musical student strum the intros to songs on a guitar. A frisbee game starts between two girls - the yellow disc soaring on the wind and the falling to the floor or into the hands of the addressee, mostly the former, but again, that doesn't matter. Why should it when a strengthened friendship is the result? Usually, more people would have joined in by now. It's not the in-thing this lunchtime. The game resembling football has, however, grown, with more competitive males.
     Sparkling teeth, heavenly giggles and eyes with the fond creases of a good time. It's beautiful and perfectly life-affirming. Life is an amazement at times like this. There is good in the world.
     A-ha! New additions to the game of frisbee. The guitar becomes a subject of conversation between the original player and another musically-talented student. Cameras click, capturing a single moment in the summer haven forever. Comments on the photographs are expressed: groans and denials, and laughter and expression of splendor.
     But whatever, the field, in short, permeates with love, life and laughter. Games, giggles and gossip take place here. The field in summer is a symbol, standing for fun, friendship and family.

Underneath a tree sits a lonely observer. Armed with paper and a pen, he scribbles down all he sees, all he hears, all he senses. His friends are around somewhere, but he's happy writing of the happiness of others in the shade of the towering tree. Sure he's not interacting with his peers, he's not enjoying the pleasures of relations, but he's happy. Who is the solitary spectator? He is a writer, practicing his work on description, but he's forgotten to describe smells. Oh well. It doesn't matter. It's still a good piece of work, considering his description work has been weak. But it's good. He is pleased. Who is he? Why, he's me.

I've had to just type that out from a piece of paper I found, and as I did so I realised how rubbish it is. I don't like it.