Going Places
A. R. Barton is a modern writer, who lives in Zurich and writes in English. In the story Going Places, Barton explores the theme of adolescent fantasising and hero worship.
“When I leave,” Sophie said, coming home from school, “I’m going to have a boutique.” Jansie, linking arms with her along the street; looked doubtful. “Takes money, Soaf, something like that.” “I’ll find it,” Sophie said, staring far down the street. “Take you a long time to save that much.” “Well I’ll be a manager then — yes, of course — to begin with. Till I’ve got enough. But anyway, I know just how it’s all going to look.” “They wouldn’t make you manager straight off, Soaf.” “I’ll be like Mary Quant,” Sophie said. “I’ll be a natural. They’ll see it from the start. I’ll have the most amazing shop this city’s ever seen.’” Jansie, knowing they were both earmarked for the biscuit factory, became melancholy. She wished Sophie wouldn’t say these things. When they reached Sophie’s street Jansie said, “It’s only a few months away now, Soaf, you really should be sensible. They don’t pay well for shop work, you know that, your dad would never allow it.” “Or an actress. Now there’s real money in that. Yes, and I could maybe have the boutique on the side. Actresses don’t work full time, do they? Anyway, that or a fashion designer, you know — something a bit sophisticated”. And she turned in through the open street door leaving Jansie standing in the rain. “If ever I come into money I’ll buy a boutique.” “Huh - if you ever come into money... if you ever come into money you’ll buy us a blessed decent house to live in, thank you very much.” Sophie’s father was scooping shepherd’s pie into his mouth as hard as he could go, his plump face still grimy and sweat — marked from the day. “She thinks money grows on trees, don’t she, Dad?’ said little Derek, hanging on the back of his father’s chair. Their mother sighed. Sophie watched her back stooped over the sink and wondered at the incongruity of the delicate bow which fastened her apron strings. The delicate-seeming bow and the crooked back. The evening had already blacked in the windows and the small room was steamy from the stove and cluttered with the heavy-breathing man in his vest at the table and the dirty washing piled up in the corner. Sophie felt a tightening in her throat. She went to look for her brother Geoff.
He was kneeling on the floor in the next room tinkering with a part of his motorcycle over some newspaper spread on the carpet. He was three years out of school, an apprentice mechanic, travelling to his work each day to the far side of the city. He was almost grown up now, and she suspected areas of his life about which she knew nothing, about which he never spoke. He said little at all, ever, voluntarily. Words had to be prized out of him like stones out of the ground. And she was jealous of his silence. When he wasn’t speaking it was as though he was away somewhere, out there in the world in those places she had never been. Whether they were only the outlying districts of the city, or places beyond in the surrounding country — who knew? — they attained a special fascination simply because they were unknown to her and remained out of her reach. Perhaps there were also people, exotic, interesting people of whom he never spoke — it was possible, though he was quiet and didn’t make new friends easily. She longed to know them. She wished she could be admitted more deeply into her brother’s affections and that someday he might take her with him. Though their father forbade it and Geoff had never expressed an opinion, she knew he thought her too young. And she was impatient. She was conscious of a vast world out there waiting for her and she knew instinctively that she would feel as at home there as in the city which had always been her home. It expectantly awaited her arrival. She saw herself riding there behind Geoff. He wore new, shining black leathers and she a yellow dress with a kind of cape that flew out behind. There was the sound of applause as the world rose to greet them. He sat frowning at the oily component he cradled in his hands, as though it were a small dumb animal and he was willing it to speak. “I met Danny Casey,” Sophie said. He looked around abruptly. “Where?” “In the arcade — funnily enough.” “It’s never true.” “I did too.” “You told Dad?” She shook her head, chastened at his unawareness that he was always the first to share her secrets. “I don’t believe it.” “There I was looking at the clothes in Royce’s window when someone came and stood beside me, and I looked around and who should it be but Danny Casey.”
Writing
– Think of a person who you would like to have as your rolemodel.
– Write down the points to be discussed or questions to be asked, if you were asked to interview that person on a television show.
Please refer to attached file for NCERT Class 12 English Going Places
