I Blame Ariel

Tuesday afternoon. In spite of all the windows being open there’s not a breath of air. The smell of dust, books and sweat is almost overwhelming. A fly, or is it a bee, buzzes half heartedly against the window, trying to get out and getting dangerously close to a spider’s web. It’s the only thing in the room that has enough energy to move. Someone stifles a yawn. Someone else pushes an illicit piece of chewing gum into her mouth. And all of us sit and wait.

The door opens and we all stand up. "Good afternoon 4C. Please sit down. I would like you to open your books at page 10." Suppressed groans as pages are riffled through and the correct page is found.

"Who can remember this from last week?" Eyes averted, evidence of extreme concentration upon the printed page. The unvoiced prayer, ‘Please God, don’t let her pick me!’ Audible sighs of relief. Reprieve, at least for the moment, as she says,

"Ah, Lorna. Will you do it for us?" Lorna stands up and begins to sing.

Mrs Sweet is  very ‘sweet’ but is addicted, not to drugs, tobacco or alcohol but to music. Not the kind of music that normal young people like, The Beatles, The Who, The Hollies, I can sing all of their songs backwards, but boring old fashioned stuff like the one Lorna is singing at the moment. Lorna does sing very well but is a bit of a teacher’s pet; Mrs Sweet usually picks her to sing at some point during the lesson. When Lorna has finished we all realise that it could be our turn next and so once again we are completely fixated upon the words on the page.

"That was lovely Lorna. Now girls you must remember to enunciate each word very carefully, open your mouths and let the sounds come from your stomach. Use your diaphragm to project your voice."

We are in the music room, the better singers are at the front, and the rest of us are in the seats at the back, behind much taller girls if possible. There is a piano in the room; the walls are covered with posters of musical instruments and musical notation, which might just as well be in Greek for all I understand of it. Mrs Sweet begins to play the piano. "Follow the words as I play the music. Absorb the sound and feeling. Be aware of the meaning of the words."

I look at the words, paying little heed to the music, thinking what a load of rubbish.

‘Where the bee sucks, there suck I:

In a cowslip’s bell I lie;’

And then it goes on about flying on a bat’s back. Written back in the sixteenth century by William Shakespeare and then some idiot goes and puts it to music so that we can sit on a lovely sunny afternoon and sing it, or try to.

I am suddenly aware that it has gone very quiet and that everyone is looking at me. Mrs Sweet is standing next to me. "Elizabeth, would you please sing ‘Where the bee sucks for us?’

My worst nightmare has come true, and I am conscious of a whole squadron of bees flying around my head and they’re all laughing at me.