Free Ventriloquists by David Mathew Page B

barrier, strode along the corridor past clumps of students, and ascended the rear stairs. It was nearly a quarter past when he pushed into the classroom, saying ‘Hi – sorry, everyone! Are we all here? Hands up if you’re not here!’
    The class of seven students did not so much as groan: they had heard the hands-up joke on a number of occasions, and term was only a few weeks old.
    Branston typed in his password and took the register. ‘Now. Today’s the day, as you all know: we all get to see each other’s masterpieces.’
    A few of the class tittered. Experiencing relief at the sound, Branston sensed the accumulated anger at his late arrival dissipate. Some of the kids – kids is a forbidden term, he heard his head of department wag – shifted places to accommodate this new understanding. Not seat to seat (no; no one moved to a different chair) but in themselves, a straightening of the backbone, a cleared throat, a readiness. We’re ready .
    ‘I can either flip a coin,’ said Branston, ‘or you can decide among yourselves. Screen’s up.’
    A student named Sammy said, ‘I’ll go first,’ and rose from her seat. The room had been designed for a maximum of twenty, and the front was achieved in a matter of four or five steps. She said, ‘I’m nervous.’
    Branston told her, ‘Don’t forget, I said draft quality. No one’s really expecting a completed meisterwork .’
    ‘That’s lucky,’ Sammy told him, her throat clicking slightly with snapped-off humour. Into the laptop port she slotted her memory-wand (for backup, just in case the internet connection failed her), then she typed the address for her film.
    ‘What’s the piece called?’ Branston asked, partly by way of setting the young woman’s nerves; partly by way of asserting seniority and a semblance of control.
    ‘”Chuck the Ripper.” It was almost “Chuck the Impaler” but I preferred “Ripper” in the end.’
    Branston said, ‘Good. It’s witty, Sammy.’
    ‘I hope so.’
    The homework assignment brief had been to film and dub something of the students’ own concoction, the guidelines being three to ten minutes, strict. Sammy had chosen a scene close to home – indeed, one inside her own home – in which Chuck the cockerpoo went on his canine rampage around the front room, chewing and snuffling and swinging his head right to left with a broadsheet supplement in the glossy grip of his front teeth.
    The film ended at three minutes and two seconds.
    Feeling otherwise from how he was about to react, Branston said, ‘A noble effort, Sammy.’
    ‘Thanks!’
    Wait for the but …
    ‘But not much, I’m sure you’ll agree, in the way of narrative .’ Branston perched on the edge of his front desk. ‘I mean this: what gives the dog his motivation – why chew that cushion? – and have you presented his story fairly?’
    Sammy paused before responding.
    ‘…He’s a dog,’ she said.
    ‘Precisely. Could we not have cause to learn more about dogs in general from a similar film?’
    ‘I have no idea.’
    ‘My question is rhetorical, Sammy. Chuck the Impaler loves tearing things to shreds: fine. Motion pictures have been built on lesser material; but I wouldn’t want you to go away from today’s lesson believing that a You’ve Been Framed extended mix constitutes the basis of a short film. It didn’t. And if…’ Branston smiled. ‘…I’ve learned anything from you and the rest of this group over the past couple of weeks, it’s the fact that I didn’t believe you’d be so naïve. It needs a good deal of work, Sammy.’
    Having grown increasingly defensive throughout the critique, Sammy told Branston: ‘As you say: a first draft.’
    ‘A first draft,’ Branston replied. ‘No doubt about that – and no problem with that… Who was next?’
    Shabreel said, ‘Me, Tim.’
    ‘Up you come, Yasser.’
    Yasser sashayed to the front of the class. He was as nervous a mouse in Owltown. ‘It’s just called “Market,”’