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Engelsk A
Studentereksamen

2. delprøve kl. 09.00 - 14.00

Mandag den 27. maj 2013 kl. 9.00 – 14.00
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Answer either A or B
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A

Write an essay (900-1200 words) in which you analyse and interpret Bridget Keehan's short story "Sorry for the Loss".
Part of your essay must focus on the narrative technique and the use of contrasts.

Text
Bridget Keehan, "Sorry for the Loss", 2008

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B

Write an essay (900-1200 words) in which you analyse and comment on Susan Cheever's essay "My Little Bit of Country".
Part of your essay must focus on the use of contrasts and the themes explored in the text.

Text
Susan Cheever, "My Little Bit of Country", 2012

Teksternes ortografi og tegnsætning følger forlæggene. Trykfejl er dog rettet. Opsætningen følger ikke nødvendigvis forlæggene. Dog følges forlægget nøje, hvor opsætningen på den ene eller anden måde indgår i opgaven.
Teksternes ortografi og tegnsætning følger forlæggene. Trykfejl er dog rettet. Opsætningen følger ikke nødvendigvis forlæggene. Dog følges forlægget nøje, hvor opsætningen på den ene eller anden måde indgår i opgaven.

A
Bridget Keehan is a writer who lives in Cardiff, Wales. The short story is from Eagle in the Maze ‒ An Anthology of Stories from the Rhys Davies Short Story Competition 2008
Bridget Keehan is a writer who lives in Cardiff, Wales. The short story is from Eagle in the Maze ‒ An Anthology of Stories from the Rhys Davies Short Story Competition 2008

Bridget Keehan
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Sorry for the Loss

Evie has to tell Victor his Nan is dead. This will be the first death notice she has delivered on her own and she wants to get it right. She is not sure who Victor E22A is and his file, which she quickly scanned through during lunch, does not contain a photo. A number of possible Victors flit through her mind. She hopes it isn't the agitated man who can often be seen through the clear glass of the computer room typing furiously and banging on the keyboard as though it had wronged him. She thinks it could be the boy with the strange shaped head and black coffee eyes. He looks like a Victor.
When she searched for Victor Zamora on the faith database he came up as a Catholic but she knew he wasn't a regular attendee at the Friday afternoon mass or she would know him. Still, she has his number and his location and will be able to go to his cell at unlock to deliver the news.
For now all the prisoners are banged up until afternoon labour begins. The wing officers are in the tearoom on D-wing devouring sandwiches and atrocities via the lunchtime news, and so Evie has E wing all to herself She likes to walk over from the chaplaincy to whichever wing she is working on before the prisoners are unlocked, this allows her time to try and feel comfortable in her surroundings before the landings become choked with prisoners.
Although she has been in post for over a year she still finds the environment of prison abrasive and intimidating.
The noise and rush of labour movement, when the prisoners are shunted off to take part in purposeful activity, is still an affront to her senses with its banging of gates and scraping of keys in locks and the clatter of each prisoner's metal food tray being stacked and piled high on rickety tables at the end of each landing. Then comes the call of names for work, for gym, for treatments, for chapel, for visits, bellowed from testosterone voices that have been trained like tenors to reach the gods. And finally the jangle of metal keys on chains galvanised into gate opening as various groups of prisoners are led off the wings to the centre, for further dispersal. The mix of sounds creates such a cacophonous din that Evie considers it a wonder the thick stone walls that separate this world from the one outside contain the noise. But they do.
Knowing the racket to come, Evie deeply treasures this precious quiet time before unlock. It gives her a chance to try and establish a feeling of calm in spite of the harsh surroundings. She attains this calm through prayer. The place where she stands now is her favourite meditative spot within the jail. She is on the 'fives', the highest landing, by the large arch window that dominates the far end of the E wing 'spur'. It's a bright, blue-sky day and as the sun streams in from this large solitary window and warms her face she closes her eyes. As she prays she feels comforted as though a fleece, gentle and soft, were enveloping her.
She wonders if this is similar to the feeling junkies enjoy on heroin. She has heard some of the men describe it as like being wrapped in cotton wool, "all warm and lovely". It is hard to equate that description, which brings to her mind baby Jesus wrapped in swaddling, with needles and veins and the ability to mug and bludgeon for a ten pound bag.
The arch window is where E wing prisoners congregate on association, partly because of the two pay phones bolted either side but also because the view, though somewhat limited by the high stone wall running around the perimeter, is the best to be had in the entire prison. From here you can see directly across to the fifth level of the car park opposite the prison and even a slice of the road leading out of town. Evie wonders if the shoppers parking their cars or the office workers who spill from the surrounding buildings on to the street for lunch and after work drinks have any notion of the envious eyes watching from above.
Her meditations are broken by the sound of heavy-footed officers coming back on duty, their keys jangling in readiness to open up. Evie feels ready to minister to the bereaved Victor. She studies the sparse information she has of the deceased. His grandmother was seventy-seven and died late last night in hospital. The prisoner's brother phoned this morning with the news. Evie hopes that Victor's Nan was sick just long enough for news of her death not to come as a total shock. His cell is on the 'fours' landing and she has to move quickly to speak to the landing officer before he begins his round of opening cell doors.
"Hello there, we've got a bereaved prisoner. Victor Zamora E22A? I need to let him I know his Nan has died."
"Zamora's up here." The officer, bulkily built like a rugby player, moves along the landing towards the second to last grey steel door and gestures for Evie to follow.
"Is he going to be all right?" Evie asks tentatively.
The officer looks round with a perplexed, how the hell should I know expression, but realises how nervous she is and that her question is really about whether Victor is the dangerous, unpredictable type who might want to throw a punch at news of his loss. He switches from officious officer to avuncular guardian.
"Oh you'll be fine; he's alright is Victor, doesn't tend to lose it. Although ..." and a hint of mischief animates his rosacea face, "you never can tell. Not to worry, I'll be keeping an eye. Any problems just press the alarm."
He unlocks Victor's cell, pokes his head round the door and announces, "Chaplain's here for you."
He shoots the bolt so the door can't shut and steps out of the way to let Evie through. She is relieved to discover that Victor Zamora is not the angry man from the computer room but a slight, good-looking boy who appears barely old enough to be in an adult jail. She can almost imagine him as her son, although he probably isn't quite young enough for the maths to work. Despite having already served five years, most of it in a young offenders' institute, Victor has none of the staleness about him that most long-term prisoners develop. His eyes have spark and his olive skin makes the blue of his eyes appear all the brighter. There is a sulky slope to his lips that disappears in the stretch of his wide welcoming grin, but soon relaxes back into the sullen shape that has been the default setting since he was small. Evie is uncertain of how to begin and in the slight pause that follows her initial greeting, she hopes he is starting to realise the reason for her visit, but this is not the case.
"Did I get a place?"
"Sorry?"
"Did I get a place on the SORRY Course? I put an application in weeks ago and they said I'd hear by now. Thought you was here to tell me."
"Sorry, I don't know. I don't do SORRY. I help to run ETS ‒ Enhanced Thinking Skills."
"Yeah I know ETS. Done it in my last nick. No, it's SORRY I'm after."
"Victor, I'm afraid I've got some bad news. Would you like to sit down?"
"No I'm safe ta, would you?"
He indicates the one chair slotted neatly between the sink and the small table supporting the portable TV and she squeezes into it. He perches on the edge of his bed opposite her.
"Go for it."
"It's your Nan, Mrs Patino, she passed away last night in hospital. I'm sorry." He sniffs hard then looks to the small thick barred window where a pigeon is perched, cocking its head from side to side.
"Why should a dog, a horse, a pigeon have life and Nan no breath at all? You know that Miss?"
"Shakespeare? "
"Yeah, King Lear, we're doing an extract from it with that bloke Ron who does the book club. I'm playing Cordelia. He says it was like that in Shakespeare's day, boys playing girls. I hope she was stoned. No, straight up. She was a pot head, serious. She said it was for her MS but I think she'd have been a pot head even if she wasn't sick. But good luck to her. Whatever gets you through right?"
"It's not too late to pray for your Nan, Victor."
As soon as she says these words she feels she has failed because it isn't the right thing to say to him at this moment. As though confirming what she is thinking, Victor gives her a disdainful look. Her eyes flit from his to scan his cell looking for something, anything, she can pick up on to start a new line of conversation, but even for a cell the space is surprisingly sparse and bereft of the usual display of family photographs and semi-naked women. She returns to script.
"Would you like to come to the chapel and light a candle and say a prayer for your Nan?"
"Is the Imam in?"
"Not today, he doesn't come in on a Thursday. He's in tomorrow. I thought you were a Catholic?"
"I am, just not very practising; I'm looking into the Qur'an and stuff. See it as part of my education, like Shakespeare, and the Imam, he's a good man."
She agrees the Imam is a good man and feels slightly jealous, wondering if any of the prisoners ever say "Evie, the Catholic chaplain, she is a good woman".
The pigeon coos and peeks at the sill. Evie runs her index finger around the front of her collar, which feels particularly stiff and hot around her neck. Victor looks at the pigeon.
"You know something Miss, the bloke in the pad next door he feeds the pigeons crumbs so they get to trust him, then he catches one and traps it so that its head is caught in the little gap where the window opens and its beak is forced open like that."
He uses his hand to illustrate a gaping beak.
"That's what I have to live next to Miss. I know he isn't right in the head but that's evil innit?"
"What he's doing is evil. God says love the sinner, hate the sin."
"Okay Miss, I'll tell that to the pigeon. Hey, he's gone! Must have heard me talking 'bout his mate!"
He laughs, revealing beautiful white teeth and a glint of gold filling and Evie wonders what kind of a background results in a young man so intellectually and spiritually curious, able to show feelings for pigeons, but unable to show emotion at the death of his Nan. She stands up, keen to leave, but trying not to show it.
"Is there anything you'd like me to do? I can find out the time of the funeral if you like?"
"I won't be able to go through will I, Miss?"
"I doubt it. You know the rules, only close relatives, parents, children or spouse. But if you wanted to come over to the chapel and say a few prayers at the same time as the funeral, then I'm sure we could arrange something. As long as the time doesn't clash with bang up."
"Nah you're all right, Miss. Let me know the time and I can do my own prayers in here."
"Yes of course. Well, lovely to meet you, Victor, and I'm just sorry it had to be in these circumstances. I will pray for your Nan and I'll let you know when the service is."
"Sure thing. Miss, could you find out about that SORRY course for me?"
"Yes, yes of course."
As Evie leaves Victor's cell and looks over the railing to the floors below she sees a line of prisoners returning to the wing from Visits. She usually likes to be on hand after Visits to talk to any of the prisoners who might be upset, but today she feels inadequate for the task. She feels sure there was something more she could have said to Victor to break through what she feels was a feigning of indifference to the news of his Nan's death. She walks along the landing towards the main staircase and sees some of the prisoners pelt up the stairs to the 'fives', to gather around the large arch window and wave to their departing families and friends. Some of the visitors will have gone to the top level of the car park opposite to wave from across the divide at their incarcerated loved ones; a final farewell ritual. Evie decides to go up to the 'fives' to watch. She stands a little way behind the small group of prisoners now gathered by the window. They are oblivious to her presence, caught up in a dumb show of waving, blowing kisses and mouthing what she deciphers as, "I love you" to their families and friends opposite. Lost in the emotion of the scene she doesn't notice the officer who had led her to Victor Zamora's cell sidling up beside her and taking in the same view. He cuts into her thoughts with a comment that changes "I love you!" to "Thanks for the Smack!"
Evie blows her nose and coughs, trying to feign a cold in the hope the officer does not think her soft. He grins and pulls a smooth white tissue from his pocket and hands it to her.
"So how did Zamora take the news?"
"Oh he was fine. I mean he was a bit upset, but no, he was fine."
"Took it too well you mean?"
She nods, not wanting to say too much, not quite trusting the intentions of the officer.
"He's alright, he's very proud. Probably didn't want to cry in front of you. Maybe he's having a little sob to himself right now."
"Do you think I should go back down to check?"
"No, maybe he's not. Maybe he just didn't like his Nan very much."
"What did he do?"
"He stabbed another pupil at his school. There was a fight outside the gates. The other kid was bullying him, so he says. Anyway the kiddy picked a bad day to bully; Zamora was carrying a butterfly knife. The kid died. Can't really tell you much more than that."
"No. Thank you. That's enough."
She wanders back to the chapel trying to imagine a butterfly knife and the damage it could wreak and wondering at the strangeness of how a thing so hard and sharp, designed to cut, slice and stab, could be named after something so delicate and easy to kill.
(2008)

Susan Cheever (b. 1943) is an American writer. She is the daughter of famous novelist and short story writer John Cheever. The essay is from the anthology Central Park, published in 2012.
Susan Cheever (b. 1943) is an American writer. She is the daughter of famous novelist and short story writer John Cheever. The essay is from the anthology Central Park, published in 2012.