From the Editorial by G. J. Larcombe: Contributuions this year have been spread over the whole school and though we miss some of the ‘giants’ of past years, I think you will agree there are others coming along to keep up the high standard of contributions.
From the Headmaster’s Review by C. F. W. Hicks: The number of boys now attending the School has reached the record figure of over 840. The number of boys remaining at School for a 5 year Course continues to increase; 100 boys starting an extended course this year, and 130 boys hoping to start next September.
St. Christopher by A. Robins
Homeless by H. Barnes
The Disappearance Of A Town by D. Shaw
Cycling by Mr. Cutting
Crystal Gardens by J. Vincent
The Night Sky by C. Sansom
The 1960 School Journey by R. Braithwaite
Flood Waters by W. R. Smith
The Cromer Camp, 1960 by G. J. Larcombe
A Day With The Fishing Fleet by P. Tring
A Use For Everything by R. Reynolds
Town Or Country by K. Hardy
Fairs by A. Turner
H.M.S. Ark Royal by D. Shaw
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Town or Country? by K. Hardy
The smart rather reserved young city clerk walked up to the taxi-cab parked outside the bank. “Do you know Water Mill Farm?” asked the clerk. “Yes Guv”, replied the small, fat Cockney driver. The clerk opened the door, and stepped smartly in, remembering to lower his head. The driver began to start up the engine, which being rather more then eleven years old, took some time to function. All this and the policeman who was walking over to the cab, helped towards the humidity born upon the already reddening clerk. Then to his great relief the engine functioned adequately for them to start.
Reaching the country the man began to feel more at ease, sitting back in his seat he began to take in the surroundings. To his right was a field of corn swaying in the wind like waves on the sea, moving at the winds bidding. On his left, were farms of regular shape, enclosing the lives of honest hard-working people, who had none of the luxuries of the city life so different from their own daily life. Here was life perfect in every way: though to the city inhabitants this would seem far from being true. Many of the city folk had so many luxuries, but which one of them was happy? The trees ahead stood upright and strong as though they were the landlords of this earth’s paradise. The taxi was nearing its destination now, and already could be heard the warning barks of the dogs as they stood outside the farmhouse playing with a piece of wood. The taxi pulled up outside the house. The clerk stepped out and stretched himself.
Running to him from the house was a farmer, a newly dead chicken in his hand. The farmer was the clerk’s father and every time the farmer’s birthday came round the clerk would visit him for the day. The clerk disliked having to live on his father’s farm so he had rented a flat in London. His job at the bank paid good money and as he still gave his father some allowance he saw nothing wrong in it. His father took him into the house and sat him down.
As the clerk looked around he saw that nothing had changed. The aged clock was still on the mantelpiece, the table was still by the window which still had the white worn paint on it. He again realized why he could not live here. The atmosphere was choking. He could not bear to think of being pulled down to this way of life. Then he thought of his mother. How she had worked trying to build a decent home, and how it had cost her life. Yes, that was the wages of this life. Work, work, work, until your skin is nothing but blisters, and what for? For rest, everlasting rest in the grave. No, he would not live here to end up like his parents.
His father seemed to sense this when he came into the room. They had lunch and tea. They talked about the past year, what failures they had had, and what triumphs. It was the same every year. Soon it was time to go. The clerk would walk to the bus stop and that would be the end of it for another year. But the clerk was gradually realizing that he himself was getting into a rut. What would happen to him when he was old?
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