Where There’s a Will, There’s a Way

Denis Norden

When it finally became apparent that the entertainment business was the only career for which I was suited, I went to a large cinema in Leicester Square and begged them to take me on in any capacity.

‘You want to start at the very bottom of the ladder?’ asked the manager. I nodded. He pointed to something leaning against the wall. ‘That’s the ladder.’

The new job was rather grandly titled ‘Head of Display’. All it really involved was climbing up the ladder and fixing, high on the front wall of the cinema, those large metal letters which spell out the name of the film on that week.

I can’t say it was a glamorous task. In a high wind, it was often difficult and – artistically – it was something less than fulfilling. Unlike a painter or a sculptor, I was in no position to step back and survey my finished work. This led, in the first few weeks, to certain errors of judgement, among which I can remember WEST SIDE SORTY, THE SNOUD OF MUSIC and SANE CONNERY IN GOLDFINGER.

Nevertheless, the work did make me feel that little bit nearer to the great throbbing heart of show business.

But it is only the moment of emergency which really proves our worth. My moment came when the telephone rang at three o’clock in the morning. It was the manager. ‘I have just passed the cinema on my way home,’ he said. ‘Your Y has dropped off.’

Fuddled with sleep as I was, I immediately understood why he was so concerned. The film we were showing that week was My Fair Lady. Although the movement towards free thinking was gathering strength, it was still not acceptable for a Leicester Square cinema to appear to be showing a film called My Fair Lad.

When I reached the cinema, I found the letter Y lying broken on the pavement. Obviously, it was ruined beyond repair. I hurried to the store-room where the spare letters were kept. There was no spare Y!

Perhaps I can construct one, I thought. Perhaps I could take an X and change it into Y by sawing off the – as it were – south-east leg? No luck. I did it all right, but it wouldn’t stay up on the wall. Where, in London, at four o’clock in the morning, can one lay hands on a 1.25 meter-tall letter Y?

To my good luck the cinema on the opposite side of Leicester Square was showing a film whose title contained the letter I wanted. As at that time of the morning people get up to all sorts of strange things in the West End, nobody even paused to stare when I climbed up and removed the enormous Y. The only nasty moment came when I was carrying it across Coventry Street. A policeman stopped me. ‘Excuse me, sir. What might you be doing walking along at 4.30 a.m. carrying a four-foot letter Y?’

Fortunately, I kept my presence of mind. ‘This is not a letter Y, officer,’ I said. ‘It’s a water-divining rod.*’ He even touched his helmet to me as he went on his way.

By 5.00 a.m. the fair name of My Fair Lady had been restored. True, the cinema opposite, which had been packing them in with a magnificent film starring Gregory Peck and Orson Welles, now appeared to be showing a film called MOB DICK**. But that’s show business.

I’ve had warm feelings towards the screen version of Herman Melville’s great novel ever since. Indeed, I recommend that any other Head of Display who finds himself in a similar predicament to mine should look around for a cinema showing it. You’ll find what I found: Where there’s a whale, there’s a Y.

 

* Water-divining rod – a branch shaped like Y, used for discovering underground water

** Mob Dick – from " Moby Dick", Melville’s novel about a great white whale

 

Text # 7

Knitting

David Dillon

Mrs. Waley sat on a plain brown coach knitting her brow and a sweater. Her knees were clasped together and both her arms were tight at her sides as she concentrated on her work. Occasionally she peered over her glasses to the old clock whose ticking resonated about the room, making the passing of time seem even longer. She let out a sigh, tolled her shoulders and continued knitting, the sounds of the needles striking against one another every so often. Chesire, the cat, sauntered nonchalantly into the room, stopped, looked at Mrs. Waley, and then continued on to the rug in front of the fireplace. It lay itself down and stretched its paws as if in order to capture the heat better from the glowing log that lay on the heath.

"Where could he be?" said Mrs. Waley to the cat, stopping her knitting and again looking at the clock. "It's almost ten o'clock.... He should be home by now, don't you think?"

The cat closed its eyes slowly and then opened them again as if in quiet agreement.

Mrs. Waley set the knitting aside and stood up. She was a small diminutive woman, not used to excitement or anything outside the routine, and her husband's lateness disturbed her greatly. She walked across the room to the window that overlooked the front yard and driveway, turned on the outside lights and peered out.

"Oh dear, and now it's raining," she said, raising her right hand to her mouth, watching the reflection of the lights off the thousands of droplets that flew past the window. She stood like that for some minutes deliberating what to do. With it being so cold outside, she knew that some of the rain would probably be forming ice on the roads, and with them living so far out in the country she doubted whether the salt trucks had made it out their way.

"We're lucky not to be out tonight," she said. "I wish he would call." She looked over to the clock, shook her head, and moved to the living room where she sat down to her knitting once more.

"Hello, Gladis."

Mrs. Waley looked up. Her husband stood before her. His hands were at his side and he was wearing his favorite grey suit. His hair was combed back as usual.

"Walter, I... I didn't hear you come in," said Mrs. Waley, setting her knitting to her side and standing up. "Where have you been? It's so late. I was worried."

She walked over to him, gave him a hug, and then stretched her arms out with her hands still at his waist.

"Are you okay? You feel cold."

Mr. Waley took both of her hands in his and smiled.

"No, it's all right, Gladis. I just wanted to talk with you."

Mrs. Waley tilted her head slightly. "Why? What about?" she said softly.

Mr. Waley pressed her hands. "I wanted to tell you I love you."

Mrs. Waley's face flushed. "Oh, Walter..," she said, smiling. "...I love you too, but where have you been?"

Mrs. Waley's face became more serious, though he continued to smile. "Oh," he began, "I had some problems getting home, but I'm alright now." He stopped a moment and stood gazing at Mrs. Waley. "You have been a wonderful wife and I'm glad that you've been with me all this time," he said not taking his eyes away.

Mrs. Waley became flustered. "That's very nice of you to say, Walter." She looked toward the kitchen and then back at her husband. "Would you like something to eat? I can make you up something..."

Mr. Waley touched her cheek with his hand. "No, no. That won't be necessary. I just wanted you to know that I love you."

Mrs. Waley looked at her husband curiously, "I love you too."

"Yes, I know that," he said, his hands back at his side. "And I appreciate it."

Mrs. Waley shook her head once more in humoured confusion, "Well, it's so late, Walter." She turned and began putting her knitting materials away. "I'll go upstairs and make up the bed. Why don't you take a shower?" She looked at him again and rubbed her hands against her dress. "I'll lay out the towels for you in the bathroom." She smiled and walked out of the living room and went up the stairs, from where she saw her husband still standing in the same spot.

She set out a few clean towels on the counter of the bathroom and then walked over to their bedroom. She giggled to herself quietly, thinking how strange her husband was acting. She bent herself over the bed and pulled back the covers, tucking the sides under the mattress as she went around.

She had just changed into her nightgown when the telephone on the bedstand rang.

"Who would be calling at this time of night?" she thought to herself and let it ring a second time.

"Do you want to get that?" she called out, listening for her husband's reply. When she didn't hear anything she answered the phone.

"Hello," she said pleasantly, "Waley residence."

"Mrs. Waley?" said the deep voice on the other end of the line. "This is Sergeant Patterson."

"Yes?" said Mrs. Waley, somewhat hesitantly. "What can I do for you, Sergeant?"

"Well, Mrs. Waley... I'm down at the hospital."

Mrs. Waley knit her brow together, listening.

"There was an accident involving your husband."

Mrs. Waley's hand holding the receiver began to shake. "An accident?" she said. "He... he didn't mention it."

There was a moment of silence on the other end.

"Mrs. Waley, I'm sorry I'm the one to bring you the news. I would have done it personally if it weren't for the weather." The voice continued. "They did everything they could to save him."

Mrs. Waley's brow became a batch of tight lines as she tried to make sense of what the young man was saying. "I'm afraid I don't understand what you are talking about, Sergeant," she said. "My husband is downstairs."

There came the sounds of a hurried conversation over the receiver. Finally the Sergeant's voice came on the line again.

"Is this the Waley residence at 38 Enon Road?"

Mrs. Waley's voice caugh, "Y.. yes." She looked around the room feeling a dizziness spreading in her head. "One moment, Sergeant," she managed to say, and then set the receiver down.

"Walter?" she called, moving out of the bedroom and down the stairs. "Walter?"

There came no response. She went into the living room and stood for a moment with a shaking hand at her mouth.

"Walter?" she said one more time softly. Then, almost as if she were in a trance, she moved to the plain brown coach, took the needles and sweater in her hands, and began to knit fast and furiously.

Chapter 3: Popular Scientific (Academic) Article

The main purpose of scientific or academic writing is to inform the reader about a certain research project that has either been launched by the author(s) or other specialists in the given field of study. Scientific and academic articles claim to give objective information on the subject; they aim at precision in presenting data and they unfold according to rather rigid logical schemes - a demand necessary for any reliable source of information. These articles are usually intended for a limited group of readers who are professionally related to the given area of research.

Articles that are published in journals and magazines are addressed to a wide range of non-professional readers. They present a simplified version of research data and have a stronger emotional appeal to the audience, since their aim is to make people interested in the subject.

Text # 1

A Quick Fix for Strokes