ABSTRACT

In front of the prize-day speaker, the children slump glassy-eyed, longing for freedom, tormented by the July sun beyond the high windows of the hall. On the platform, staff and governors glare back at them, each wrapped in private memories and plans. Parents perch on hard chairs, burning with pride or resentment. The speaker falters, lost in the maze of scribbled notes, and tries to remember what it is that seemed so important to convey to the next generation. ‘I’d like to end with a little story . . .’