Child 2 - Beechwood Junior School

Child 2
Level 6 Writing Portfolio
Beechwood Junior School
June 2014
BLANK PAGE
The Evidence: Child 2
Nelson Mandela biography (December 2012: written by Helena as part of a geography topic
on Africa. The pupils watched a series of videos on Apartheid and the life of
Mandela, taking their own notes and developing them into a biography that would
honour the life and contributions of Nelson Mandela. Fully independent writing.
A Midnight Monster (March 2013): the class was studying “The Savage” by David Almond
with a focus on descriptive writing and characterisation. More able writers were
encouraged to emulate the idiosyncratic writing style of David Almond and write an
additional chapter for the book based on their understanding of the characters. This
piece is a preparatory sketch.
LOST 105T (March-April 2013): an ambitious piece that Helena wrote during a history topic
on the colonisation of North America in which the pupils studied the impact of
colonisation on the indigenous population. During a series of afternoon “Wiggle”
(Independent Writing) sessions, more able writers were given free rein to write on
the topic in any form. Using a picture of an antique map as a prompt, Helena chose
to write in the style of a time traveller despatched to the past to put right the
wrongs of the English colonists. She chose to write in a variety of styles and genres
to demonstrate her versatility.
Run Rabbit Run: A Recount of the War (April-May 2013) was written by Child 2 over a fivesix week period and then refined, polished and published as an afternoon activity
during SATs week. As part of their Word War 2 history topic, the more able writers
were given an independent writing project: to produce a booklet presenting an
historical account of the war from the collected papers of a fictitious family member.
They took on the role of an historian and created various pieces of historical
evidence to include within their booklets written in a variety of styles and genres,
including formal, informal, first and third person styles.
Time Slip Narrative (May 2013) was also written during the World War 2 topic. In Literacy,
the pupils were asked to write their own time-slip narrative based on role play
around a short text they read in class: Nick’s History Project. The piece was written
independently over several lessons, peer reviewed and then edited and published.
This piece was a fairly rushed effort from Child 2; hence the abrupt ending.
About the writing process
All of the pieces presented for evidence have been inspired by topics and stimuli that have
engaged the pupils, frequently prefaced by role-play activities, discussions, debates or audiovisual prompts. For each piece, the pupils have been given sustained opportunities to
independently plan, draft, redraft and usually publish their work – particularly more able
writers who have often received additional “polishing” time. As part of the process, pupils
routinely peer assess and critique each other’s writing, and receive verbal and written
feedback from their teachers, but are left to edit and make their own improvements for
their final versions. More able writers such as Helena have also received additional
opportunities during a fortnightly Able Writers’ club to critique their own writing.
About Child 2
Child 2 is a naturally gifted writer who also has great determination to hone her writing skills
to be the best they can be. She has a natural flair and thinks like an author, often bringing
into school scraps of ideas or entire pieces that she has penned at home. At school, she
works hard at her writing, constantly and systematically self-assessing and revising her
targets in her Next Steps (self-assessment) booklet and actively seeking guidance,
reassurance and critique from teachers. Her books are full of crossing outs, edits, and
redrafts to the point of illegibility. Child 2 equally confident with narrative and non-narrative
texts, and enjoys tackling serious subjects, such as her Nelson Mandela biography as much
as fiction. Child 2 was identified as a talented writer early in Year 6 and was provided with
additional extended writing opportunities and given more independence to decide her own
topics and to develop her own style of writing.
The former president of South Africa, Nelson Mandela, is well
known all over the world for fighting against Apartheid. People
have celebrated his achievements for decades and will not
forget him for giving up his freedom for the sake of others.
But his life means more than this…
EARLY LIFE
On the 18th July 1918, Rolishlahla, which means trouble maker, was born.
His father was the leader of a small South African tribe in the Tanzeki
region; this meant that at the age of seven he was privileged to be the
first person in his family to go to school.
Rolishlahla loved learning and was eager to go to school. This experience
began in an unusual way for Rolishlahla as he was given the English name
Nelson due to the fact that the Apartheid didn’t allow South African
names in schools.
At the age of 22 a marriage was arranged for him, however his years of
education had provided him with big ambitions and Nelson revealed he
dreamt of being a lawyer. Marriage did not fit with this goal and Nelson
therefore fled to the large city of Johannesburg.
LIFE IN JOHANNESBURG
In Johannesburg, Nelson quickly discovered his ambitions would not
be realised easily. First, he found a job at a gold mine as a night watch
man. During his stay, he lived in a black township where the conditions
were revolting. However Nelson had gained a good friend, Walter Sisulu,
who realised how intelligent he was. As a result, Walter paid for Nelson
to continue his studies.
It was not only Nelson’s work life that Sisulu influenced. A couple
of years later after their friendship began, Nelson joined the ANC
(African National Congress), encouraged by Sisulu. It was there that he
also met his first wife, Evelyn Mase.
This is what Nelson had been waiting for; not only had he met a woman
he actually wanted to marry, he has the opportunity to start fighting
against the Apartheid. However, unknown to Nelson, this organisation was
also the reason for his imprisonment.
THE SITUATION WORSENS
In 1948 a law was passed, meaning that life for native citizens was
about to get even worse. Having displayed such impressive leadership
skills, Nelson took a key role in leading the ANC during what was to
become one of South Africa’s most turbulent times. The legality of
Apartheid was upon them.
Luckily for those of the black race, in 1950, Nelson became the
president of the ANC, and therefore persuaded people to peacefully
protest against the Apartheid. Sadly, the period of Apartheid viewed
Nelson as an even greater threat to the government than ever before.
Ruthlessly, in the town of Sharpville in 1960, the government police
shot 69 natives, leaving a further 400 wounded. “More than seven
hundred shots had been fired into the crowds, wounding more than 400
(women and children included),” reported Nelson. It was a massacre and
the next day, photos showed this savagery throughout the world.
The outrageous deeds of his government gave Mandela more drive
and confidence to overpower them than ever before.
IMPRISONMENT
In 1958 Nelson married a second wife, Winnie Mandela, as Evelyn
had left him due to differences over his protests. Nelson and Winnie soon
had two children and he was overjoyed to be a father. However his joy
was short lived as he, along with seven others from the ANC, was
arrested. The congress members all feared the death penalty but, since
Nelson was a lawyer who could defended himself, the death penalty was
overturned in favour of life sentences. They were to spend their
remaining years at Robben Island.
FREE AT LAST
It can be argued that Nelson would never have left prison if
citizens of his race hadn’t continued to struggle against the
discrimination of the Apartheid law. As a result of further protests,
Nelson Mandela was released from prison but only after 27 years of
incarceration and hard labour.
The crowds were wild as Nelson made his way through the streets.
Finally, he was being celebrated as the ‘father of freedom’ after so many
years. The citizenry of South Africa loved him for his passion to end
their discrimination.
Four years later Nelson became president of South Africa; a
rightful title. Many black South Africans maintain that it was on this day,
his appointment as leader, that the injustice of Apartheid truly was over.
A Midnight Monster
Shading the woods icy grey, the moon pale light spills, like silver paint, over Burgess
Woods. Dark clouds slide, curtains drawn for corpses that had once been stars. But their
light had died out, and heavy blankets of misery and chaos had buried them deep within the
devils eye.
A gust of wind sweeps through the sinister forest, drowning out the ominous lament of bird
song.
Out of the deepening gloom, a pair of luminous eyes glare; a greedy anticipation glazed into
them. Vague outlines, as dark as hate himself, emerge from the dull half light. He sniffs the
air. His eyes flashing. The beast bounds after a thin trail of smoke, hardly realising the
steady dripping of blood that emanates above him…
Blazing light inspects itself in the crystal clear lake water, trying to smote it’s surface,
albeit to no avail. Laughing cheekily, the liquid mocks the brutal force that can do nothing
but erupt in frustration, before it.
As the unearthly creature rounds a corner, his path is blocked by an arrogant beast that
licks the treetops, destroying his territory. Roaring in frustration, the savage thing, for
that’s what it was, sings a putrid song as a whirlwind of amber flames encase a tree in its
doom.
He shall join the collection of lost souls that the devils eye only, dares to collect.
Panicking, he draws his stealthy knife from his belt, intending to protect his terrain. He
advances. Closer. Closer. Closer.
The monster swallows him whole, ignoring his desperate dying screams. Tears of agony roll
down his demented face, as the remorse hunter of the eye passes the boy into void of
everlasting darkness and peace. His eyelids slide over his eyes as he goes to sleep one last
time.
As moonlight dissolves into sunlight, all that remains of the once grand panorama are the
ashes; fragments of souls, once proudly worn by mighty kings and queens, trees. What had
happened? No-one knew.
VIRGINIA July 2066: An old warehouse.
With a pop, he appeared.
With a deep breath, the anonymous man took a confident stride
forward and surveyed his surroundings. This was the place. If this didn’t
work, he might as well slit his own throat; and for good measure, he
thought to himself.
Staring at his mission instrument, he started pushing and pulling
levers in a flurry of action. In the distance the frightening wail of police
sirens was to be heard. Their precise location was unknown, but the
man still registered that they were closing in on him. He readied himself
for this latest mission- a secret to be uncovered and recovered.
Just as the machine sprung to life, a stampede of feet as loud as a
sonic boom resonated. The location became swamped with the
presence of police officers; a blur of blue. Ignoring them, the man
snatched his chance.
A bright spark briefly illuminated the dark caverns of the
dilapidated warehouse. With a pop, he disappeared.
Permisipan Tribe Camp: July 1588
Looking at his wrist watch, the anonymous man knew he had arrived at the right time
and at the right place. It was all working to his advantage. As gullible as they were, the
natives would treat him like a prophet, not daring to refuse him. Remaining now was the task of
persuading the chief to declare war on the English colonists.
In order to make his unexpected arrival as incognito as possible, it had been arranged
for him to descend into this past era inside a teepee. Here he would prepare himself for his
given task, starting with dressing himself in more traditional garb. Inconspicuous black would
suit his purpose well.
Stepping gingerly out of his tipi, the anonymous visitor took a hesitant shuffle forward
and surveyed his surroundings. Dark clouds were gathering, almost as if they were pre-empting
the dark times to come. A storm was brewing in the east. When she had reached her full
strength, she would be an uncontrollable force of destruction. Where would she strike? Nobody
knew…
Telling himself to move, he made his way to where he knew the tribal leader to be; he
was sitting on a wooden ‘throne’. Nestled, on his head was a magnificent portrayal of feathers.
However, to the anonymous man they looked to be nothing more than a bird’s nest; even duller
than his bleak surroundings. Drawing attention to himself, the man abruptly cleared his throat.
Settling his eyes on the mysterious visitor, the chief of the Permisipan tribe gestured
to the man to explain his presence. The anonymous visitor addressed the gathered
congregation, “You gift the colonists with too much generosity. Give them more and they’ll
slowly destroy your tribe. My business here is to deliver this warning. Heed it and live in peace
for the rest of eternity, ignore it and watch your tribe falter and fade.”
The chief hesitated and knocked his knuckles together. He didn’t understand. This man
offered his prophecy as though he was a blessing, yet the chief did not care for his demanding
nature. Searching the chasms of his troubled mind, Chief Paco thought back to an often told
legend of the mysterious man in black who held the key to the tribe’s survival. Could this be
the legend brought to life before his eyes? Could he risk his people’s safety by choosing not
to believe this visitor?
Riches beyond belief: water sparkling in the sun like a million diamonds; trees
embellished with nutmeg and coconut, standing grand in the unspoiled terrain. He couldn’t lose
it. Not now.
Nervously, he raised his head and whispered, “The ultimatum, if indeed it is true, puts
me in a difficult position. Ultimately, my tribe is my priority. I shall not watch them suffer, or
worse, die.” A rapturous roar rippled through the gathering.
“The mount your steeds,” encouraged the self-professed prophet, “We launch our plans
tonight!”
As dawn broke, a lone member of the new colony, John Durer, entered his private
thoughts into his personal journal on this strange visitor, and a month later, on the
consequences of his visit.
VIRGINIA July 2066: An old warehouse.
With a pop, he appeared.
Smirking, the anonymous man stepped out of the metal box,
placed a note on the stone floor and arranged himself on a broken box
acting as a stool; he had earned a rest. He wouldn’t stay long, before the
police could capture him, he would disappear from time itself.
The man, still in black, took one last look at the note resting
on the floor. It read:
Dear X,
I am pleased to inform you, my boss, that all of your requirements
have been met during mission
. Access and information on the
‘Doom Diary’ is no longer available. At precisely 21:50 I will vanish never
to be seen again.
The location 1972: Titanic wreck is where you will find my
replacement.
Yours faithfully,
‘The Man’
Relieved and with a smug sense of pride, he stepped
forward, surveyed his surroundings one last time and stepped into the
metal box once more. He wasn’t needed anymore. The secret of the end
of the world had been erased, along with the colonists. It was better that
way, he thought to himself. It was a good thing he had discovered the
diary- it could have blown his mission to pieces.
So arrogant in his praise for himself, the anonymous man
failed to acknowledge a pair of blistering, bloodshot eyes with rings of
azure blue that illuminated the deepest, darkest corner of the metal box.
The diary itself was indeed destroyed…but the man who had penned it,
was not.
He stared out from his corner of the box, with memories as
distorted as his ravaged face… His heart hammered. The desire for
revenge rampaged through his veins.
With a pop, they disappeared.
Child 2
Dearest reader,
To celebrate the 140th
anniversary of the birth of Sir Winston
Churchill, the historical society of Sussex has
commissioned me to prepare this book - or as I
like to refer to it, a time machine! My purpose?
To commemorate this great leader, one of the most
iconic figures in history.
However, I find myself remembering not just
Churchill, but all of the privates, corporals and
their leaders who defended the liberty of our
country. Together, they sacrificed their lives in
their endeavour to rebuild this nation.
Why do I find my mind wandering the trenches
many of you may ask? Well, I must confess that
many of the facts and extracts featured in this
book originated from texts acquired by my Uncle
Arthur who kept every letter, poster and diary he
came across. Enveloped by the images that his
words conjured, I found myself unable to escape
my wonderings. Thus this project was born.
The journey of this book began while I was
searching for my Christmas tree in the attic. I
had no intention of spending more than five
minutes in the loft but, as always, the minutes
turned into hours as I stumbled upon a battered
leather case marked A. Gibbons.
As I said, Arthur Gibbons was my uncle; he
had fought in the trenches like so many others.
Excitement swelling in my chest, I slid the rusty
straps to the side and the case sprung open.
Paper, paper, paper! In short, I believed he had
kept every newspaper, diary and letter he had
ever encountered.
I had no doubt that I would spend hours in my
office travelling to World War II and back. This
is why I love history; I can transport myself
throughout time and space without leaving the
comfort of my arm chair. Truly, I had stumbled
upon the most unexpected source of inspiration I
could have dreamed of.
Therefore, I feel very much indebted to my
uncle as he left me ... us ... with the most
promising well of information that I could have
asked for. He enabled me to write this book.
Likewise, he has made it possible for me, and now
you as the reader, to meet the war-time
communities that suffered and survived under the
influence of Hitler’s tyranny.
Most importantly, I hope this book is
adequate enough to commemorate perhaps the most
significant name in our modern history: Sir
Winston Churchill. The man who led us through
these most turbulent of times.
Kindest Regards,
Prof. Child 2
The hard reality of the war first struck England in 1939 as the
appointed Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain, delivered a speech
through the wireless. At first it seemed an impressive talk, Arthur
assures us in an early diary entry he began in order to chronicle the
war. He describes the hung heads in church as the trepidation hit
home; the safe haven of Britain was to be threatened and that
overwhelmed him.
Within Arthur’s diary, concealed between the pages dated 2nd and
4th September 1939, was this newspaper clipping.
Britain at war
Yesterday at approximately 11:00 am, it became
impossible to deny that these are indeed dark times. As
Chamberlain’s announcement of war crackled through the
wireless, it was apparent that our Empire now faces a
greater threat than it has ever faced before.
Apprehension at the raging war hitting our shores,
has unhinged the security of our former peaceful nation.
Following a command issued to Germany to withdraw their
troops from Poland, which we now know has not been met,
Neville Chamberlain announced that a state of war now
exists between England and Nazi-ruled Germany.
From this day, the outbreak of war, the British Army
is recruiting all men between the ages of 18 and 41
unless they have a job which will support our country
during these troubled times and exempts them from
service.
As Chamberlain so rightly says, “We must stand
united to repel the forces who seek everlasting
destruction against us.” This was our Prime Minister’s
message to assure Britain’s citizenry that the government
of our great nation will continue to defend its borders
and liberty. The message was clear: our government
remains strong. But for how long?
Dear diary,
This is the first story I plan to tell you. However due to the recent outbreak of
war, it may also be my last.
For a year now, I have regarded the island of Great Britain as a tranquil shelter
from the conflict that had ignited around us. It was our island: Mother’s, Father’s,
Penny’s, the islet of the grocer’s daughter. A shore of steel made to serve the nation of
England. But all of this has now changed.
Chamberlain’s speeches offered such promise. But I’ve come to realise all the
nonsense he spouts that is supposed to ‘comfort us’, is really just jibberish. Even if we
do ‘ride away the storm of war,’ it will be a long and perilous journey.
The bobbing sea of bowed heads crowded around the wireless yesterday, was only
the first sign of what is surely to become a terrifying era of hostility. Ragged
breathing cut through the silence of the church; I felt my heart sink like a coin thrown
into a profoundly deep well.
As the sea of bobbing heads departed, I knew my life would change forever. There
will be no more football played on the streets - they will be hidden by rubble. There will
be no happiness in sight - a black mask of dread will hide every face from view as the
world observes spring turn to winter. This winter will be colder, more furious and
longer lasting.
I pray that this won’t be the only story of this war I tell you dear diary, and I
hope you will continue to be the keeper of my secrets long after my retirement.
Arthur
XXXX
Evacuation
In spite of the fact the war still seemed far away, children were
evacuated at the beginning of conflict in 1939.They would be taken
to the country side, which was regarded as a haven away from the
raging war that thrived in the cities.
I found this piece of writing at the bottom of Arthur’s case. It was
issued by the Government and sent to Arthur’s mother—and other
mothers around the country—in 1993.
Mrs A. Gibbons,
198 Coventry Lane,
Eastleigh,
Southampton,
SO19 Z1X.
19th September 1939
Dear Mrs Gibbons,
The danger that the current circumstances of
war present towards children is overwhelming;
therefore we have decided that evacuation is the
best solution to keep your children safe
throughout the duration of conflict.
Host families have been carefully selected
throughout the more rural areas of Britain,
primarily Devon, Cornwall and parts of Wales. They
offer wonderful opportunities and experiences for
our city children, not to mention increased
safety. Education will continue in schools and
there is the promise of more learning
opportunities in the countryside. The children are
guaranteed to return with new skills that will
equip them for life after the war.
As well as the threat of air-raids in cities,
we have taken account of the possibility that the
Nazi government could land troops in our towns by
the use of parachutes. The result of this could be
massacres where children would have no defence.
Horrific as the thought is, your children would be
prime targets. Although we fully comprehend the
hardship of sending your children away, it cannot
be denied that you are placing your children at
risk by keeping them with you.
With regard to air raids, it is obvious that
long lasting nights of restlessness and
destruction caused by bombs are an aspect of war
no child should endure. Could you live with
yourself if your children were killed?
Even though sending your children away may
prove to be a heartache, we hope you appreciate
that the current circumstances of war pose a great
danger toward your children and that evacuation is
truly in their best interests.
Yours sincerely,
The Head of the Evacuation
Committee of the War Office
This wouldn’t have been the only propaganda the Government
created to persuade mothers to evacuate their children; posters such
as the one below were also used widely.
However, propaganda was not only used for evacuation purposes. It
was also used to promote “Make do and Mend”, car pooling and
even election strategies, as the following election poster
demonstrates.
Election
Due to unpopular decisions made by Chamberlain, the nation of
Great Britain didn’t re-elect him when elections took place in
1940. Winston Churchill came to power. He was considered by
countless citizens as the greatest prime minister of his time, and is
still held in this regard today, as he led England to victory during
what was arguably its most challenging time. From the campaign
leaflet below, perfectly preserved after years, we can infer that
Arthur was one of masses who admired Churchill.
T
The Blitz
Bombings started for England on the 7th of September 1940
and didn’t finish until Hitler committed suicide in 1945. Due
to the fact that we were surrounded by water, Hitler didn’t
dare to invade our islands and, therefore, decided to attack by
air.
Wreaking havoc, bombings caused fear and panic among the
Second World War communities of Britain. This clipping
from a 1940 newspaper describes one of the first air raids
launched on England. It gives us a unique insight on the
nearly permanent terror of air raids; the 7th of September was
only the beginning of an air-war for England.
London Charring Cross station, 7th of September
1940—a hammer strikes them with every bomb
that falls; battering them as the comforting
confines of the tunnel lead them to safety.
Like flies they scatter across the iron tracks, embellished with
terror, awaiting the shrill cry of the all clear siren to stitch their
shattered souls together again, like a nurse tending her helpless
patients.
Gazing up in awe, flashes of
brilliant white scar the sky: turning
it black, white, black, white, black,
white, black. Silent. The great
hammer strikes them again with
new anticipation, replaying the
nightmare, over and over.
A strange contrast—an
impenetrable curtain of shrapnel;
the calming click, click, click of mothers’ knitting needles
conjure illusions of homely refuge and bewitch their unhinged
minds. But the air-armada returns and it doesn’t relent for long.
The soundtrack of war awakens them and destroys the peace
they crave…
Crushing their eardrums, a sound like horses hooves beating
the dark tin tray of the sky resonates, punching them with the
message of further destruction. Terror casts their minds to what
they had once known; before the bombs had come to England.
Would they find their homes as ghostly piles of rubble? Had
their families made it to the dug-out?
Penetrating their thick
masks of fear, the stench
that creeps around houses
like a sly demon,
overwhelms them. Mingling
with the malodour of stifled
sweat, sweet engine oil
calms their demented
hearts as they grasp for
some semblance of
tranquillity.
London Charring cross station, 7th September 1940—a hammer
strikes them with every bomb that falls; battering them as the
comforting confines of the tunnel conceals them for now in a
fragile cover of safety.
More to Women’s Work than Make do and Mend
World War II began as the ‘phony war’ with public and politicians alike
under the impression that any conflict would be resolved by Christmas 1939.
As events progressed it became clear that war was not likely to cease any time
soon. Conscription began and when the male population decreased, the role
of women changed completely.
Men’s trials and triumphs on the ‘front line’ have been well documented but
the effects of women’s work behind the scene—subtle efforts that had a vital
impact—are less well known and celebrated. The female population were the
backbone of society and without them our boys returning from the front
would have had no place worth coming back to.
In December 1941, the second National Service Act made the conscription of
women legal. By 1943, almost 90 percent of single women and 80 percent of
married women were employed in essential work for the war effort.
Nursing
One of the most important duties of women was to nurse and heal
injured soldiers. Women were not confined to cleaning the wards but
were in fact highly skilled, well trained medical professionals who
tended to the wounded and saved countless lives. It was not just the
physical rehabilitation they provided that was important for a full
recovery; raising the morale and spirits was essential for the personnel
who had suffered so horrifically in their struggle to stop the
advancement of the Nazis across Europe.
The following account of a nurse was found among Arthurs collection.
He may have extracted it from a friend. It appears to have belonged to a
nurse working in the tunnels dug into the cliffs of Dover, her admiration
is clear as she describes the actions of the soldiers who despite their
injuries had not lost their ability to see hope in a seemingly bleak future:
The hounds of war had been cut loose and they had fought them
head on. Yet still they put their loathing for Hitler aside and
sang merry songs over and over like a record repeated.
By 1943 there were over 10,000 nurses registered across Great
Britain. Without their dedication to the war effort and the men they
tended, our troops would have had to contend not just with the
physical wounds of war but emotional scars that would have been
impossible to recover from.
Code breakers
Another responsibility requiring an equally high but very different level
of skill was code breaking. One of the most famous triumphs of the
women’s war effort was their contribution to the military intelligence
service which was largely run through Bletchley Park in Milton Keynes.
The Bletchley Park mansion housed the Government Code and Cipher
School which was set up on 15th August 1939 for the duration of the
war. Bletchley Park was the head quarters of the military intelligence
services and was at the heart of British intelligence during the period of
global conflict. Between the years 1939-1945 over 12,000 people were
employed at there, 80% of whom were women.
Here, secret computing activities were carried out that helped decrypt
enemy communications and break various codes and ciphers, the most
famous of which was the Enigma cipher. The women of Bletchley Park
may not have fired a single bullet but it was their code breaking
achievements that helped the Allied forces win the war in Europe.
Factory work
During the Second World Women worked in all manners of production.
This would range from making ammunition to the delicate skill of
crafting warplanes. Hours of work were long and exhausting; most
women had to move closer to the factories due to the long distances they
had to travel.
Talented women could earn up to £2.15 a week. This probably seemed a
lot to the employees but compared with the former salaries of men, this
was nothing. It was clearly not acceptable and in 1943 many women
workers went on strike.
Although the war was a distressful time for the female population, and
their salaries not tolerable, it was the dedication of these women that
were vital for England’s victory.
In 1945 peace was declared between England and Germany;
the reaction was unbelievable. Tea Dances were organised,
street parties took place and the church bells rang for the first
time since 1939.
This speech from Churchill concluded a terrifying conflict.
Arthur had kept it on tape as a souvenir of what he had grown
up through and survived.
“We, as a nation, have ridden away the storm of war.
We, as a nation, have fought to keep our enemy from
our soil. But I say this now for our lads: never has so
much been own by so many to so few. Remember
these few and they will live on. Forget them and they
will die in vain.”
This speech was remembered as the speech of life and as a
token of resilience; the war had ended and the people of Great
Britain did not need to fear air-raids, invasion or defeat any
longer.
About the author- Professor June Beechcroft
Born at the Princess of the Sea Hospital in Southampton, June was the
beloved second child of a German mother and English father. Growing up
swiftly, Professor Beechcroft left her mother’s arms and joined Bitterne Park
Infant School.
Before long, she had progressed to an intelligent young girl as she
participated in her third year of education at the neighbouring junior school,
where she soon felt discouraged by an unfortunate incident of bullying. As a
result, June continued her education at Beechwood Junior School.
As she commenced her secondary schooling at St Anne’s Catholic School, she
soon uncovered her burning passion for history. It was here that her future
was decided. Achieving outstanding results in her A-Levels, she concluded
her education at Cambridge University where studied history and graduated
with honours.
Before moving to Sussex in 1979, where she received her Professorship of
History at the University, she gave birth to identical twins, Ennie and Olive,
who have likewise grown up with a love of history and education and now
have children of their own.
June has had a stimulating life and enjoys sharing her enthusiasm for history
with the world. She continues to write, teach and play an active role in the
Sussex Historical Society. This is her 34th publication and she is currently
researching her new book which she describes as “quite literally a time
machine; an anonymous mystery.”
Pretend this book is a time machine…
You can travel back and forth in time to the trenches and
Anderson shelters of World War II—all from the comfort
of your living room chair. Encounter the ordeals which
shattered British communities hit by the forces of Hitler.
Relive the drone of the air armadas that invaded the
skies and recount the most significant moments in our
modern history.
Let this time machine take you on an unforgettable
journey through curtains of shrapnel and tunnels deep
within the cliff.
This book features diary entries, newspaper clippings and
letters that have been amassed by one time survivors
and concealed for decades.
Secrets from the past long hidden were almost forgotten,
destined for a future of inactivity. But the voices of the
past cannot be suppressed; as Vera Lynn so memorably
sang: “We’ll meet again.”
The Sun
The Telegraph
“This book is the
ultimate time machine”
“An inferno of fActs creAtively
compiled by professor chArlton”
Time Slip Narrative
“Now then,” announced Gran, “I’ve just got you a little something.
Found it in my loft actually. I realise that it may help you with your
history project on the Second World War.” Trying to ignore the bustle of
Coventry Street outside, Lauren listened to her Gran intently. Eagerly,
she tore the patterned wrapping paper off a small wooden box.
She gasped. Its beauty was overwhelming. Embellished on the
side of the ornate casket were sapphires, rubies, pearls and amethysts.
On the decorative lid, the letters B.P were engraved in cursive script like
the old fashioned handwriting her gran once used. Funny, it was also
Gran’s initials, Lauren contemplated before returning her attention to
the present.
She ran her long fingers over a tiny golden clasp that sealed the
hawthorn box. Turning it over, she noticed a note pinned delicately onto
the side of the package.
Lauren read:
My Dear Lauren,
I wish you well for your eleventh birthday. I, with
my old memory, only remembered your special
day as I was rummaging in the attic. I found this
on one of the many dusty shelves within the grime
and I was surprised that I still had it.
I thought that you may be able to make use of it
as you are studying the Second World War and, as
I understand it, you have a school project
concerning it.
I have generated many memories connected with
this trinket but I realise it is time to pass it on.
Lots of love, Grandma
Amazed at how considerate her Gran had been, Lauren slid open
the box. Resting on a satin cushion, a silver locket lay waiting. “Go on,
have a look. Open it!” her Gran urged. With a pop, it sprung open in
Lauren’s grateful hands. “You know, I used to think…”
Spinning, spinning, spinning. Faster, faster, faster. Lauren was
sucked into a tunnel of blue, white, purple and grey. She was thrown
from left to right, right to left as if she was in a tumble dryer. A dense
cloud of mist ravenously swallowed her whole; an anonymous beast.
Lauren hit the sullied cobblestones of a familiar street as the last
whispers of smoke dissipated. She could feel the sticky substance of
blood start to seep through the knees of her tights from the impact.
Strange smells penetrated her nostrils and a steady, almost audible
thump, thump, thump filled her chest.
Before she could notice the lavishly decorated locket swinging like
the pendulum of a grandfather clock around her neck, a brunette with
pigtails, wearing a funny sort of dress, approached her. The stranger
began to help Lauren onto her feet.
“Quite a shock you gave me there. You look alright. At least, no
boy would turn down the chance for a jitterbug with you because of a
trifling matter such a grazed knee. Come on, join the dance.” At that
moment, Lauren recognised a small wireless surrounded by dresses and
suits, cakes and biscuits. They hardly made a feast, but the masses of
people that had gathered seemed satisfied with the small quantity of
food.
The sound of singing and laughter drowned out the bustle of
what she had been informed was Coventry Street. But this wasn’t the
Coventry Street that she knew, that much was clear. Behind her, Lauren
could hear the brunette again. Unsure of herself, Lauren turned toward
the brunette. “W-w-where am I?” she stammered cautiously.
“In Coventry Street of course. I already told you. Golly, I’d have
thought you’d know this place like the back of your hand. You’d need
to, mind you, since Churchill took those street signs down,” her friendly
stranger explained.
The pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place and realisation
hit Lauren with such force it was as if a meteor had struck her. “I’m in
1940, aren’t I?” she muttered.
“Well when else would it be? The Iron Age?” joked the brunette,
pointing towards the smouldering crater that had escaped Lauren’s eye.
Unable to resist, Lauren gingerly made her way to the ramshackle pile
of rubble that lay waiting; complex webs of piping were scattered over
dips in the terrain of destruction. A faint flickering of light indicated a
small fire that had obviously only recently been doused. It sent small
shivers of smoke, unchecked, over the mountains of shrapnel.
A cry awakened her from her awe; it was obviously desperate.
Thinking that she has imagined it, Lauren turned away. Still startled,
she cautiously recast her view over the rocky landscape. The cry alerted
her again, more urgently this time though. And that’s when she saw her.
A young girl with similar features as Lauren’s Gran was sitting, a
large pipe clamping her legs to the rubble. Picking her way towards the
girl, through the colossal towers of debris, Lauren knew the girl had
been lucky to have survived the bombing. She could feel the rumbling
fire start to spread underneath the rubble.
Reaching the girl, Lauren carefully budged the pipe far enough
for the girl to wriggle out from underneath. Not waiting to ask for a
name, Lauren grasped the girl’s hand tightly and the pair scrambled
back to the street where the singing continued to ring out merry and
carefree.
“Thank you,” came a voice from behind her, “My name is
Barbara Park by the way.”
With a gasp, Barbara stopped fumbling with the apron which she had
tied around her waist, “Where on earth did you get that beauty from?”
she asked, pointing open mouthed at Lauren.
Peering down at her chest, Lauren spotted the tiny locket her
Gran had given to her for her birthday.
“Can you open it?” came Barbara’s voice again.
Lauren gently placed the embellished necklace in her
outstretched palm where it sprung open with a pop. It fell to the ground
with a clink…
The colours around her merged into a tunnel of blue, red and
white forming patterns like a kaleidoscopic toy. Lauren was thrown
from left to right. Right to left as if she were in a tumble dryer.
“…that the girl who dropped it looked a lot like you. Anyway,
you’re welcome to take it to school if you want.”
“Thanks Gran. I’ve had the best birthday ever!” Lauren
announced grinning. “And I’ll have the best history project of the school
year.”
SAMPLES OF ORIGINAL DRAFTS