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Section A: Prose
Answer one question from this section.
IAN MCEWAN: Atonement
Question 1
(b) Comment closely on ways in which McEwan makes this an impactful
moment in the novel.
[25]
“He’s suffering too much. I don’t want him treated until I get him hydrated. Go and find
something else to do.”
Briony did as she was told. She did not know how much later it was—perhaps it was
in the small hours when she was sent to get fresh towels. She saw the nurse standing near
the entrance to the duty room, unobtrusively crying. Corporal MacIntyre was dead. His
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bed was already taken by another case.
The probationers and the second-year students worked twelve hours without rest. The
other trainees and the qualified nurses worked on, and no one could remember how long
they were in the wards. All the training she had received, Briony felt later, had been
useful preparation, especially in obedience, but everything she understood about nursing
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she learned that night. She had never seen men crying before. It shocked her at first, and
within the hour she was used to it. On the other hand, the stoicism of some of the soldiers
amazed and even appalled her. Men coming round from amputations seemed compelled
to make terrible jokes. What am I going to kick the missus with now? Every secret of
the body was rendered up—bone risen through flesh, sacrilegious glimpses of an
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intestine or an optic nerve. From this new and intimate perspective, she learned a simple,
obvious thing she had always known, and everyone knew: that a person is, among all
else, a material thing, easily torn, not easily mended. She came the closest she would
ever be to the battlefield, for every case she helped with had some of its essential
elements—blood, oil, sand, mud, seawater, bullets, shrapnel, engine grease, or the smell
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of cordite, or damp sweaty battle dress whose pockets contained rancid food along with
the sodden crumbs of Amo bars. Often, when she returned yet again to the sink with the
high taps and the soda block, it was beach sand she scrubbed away from between her
fingers. She and the other probationers of her set were aware of each other only as nurses,
not as friends: she barely registered that one of the girls who had helped to move
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Corporal MacIntyre onto the bedpan was Fiona. Sometimes, when a soldier Briony was
looking after was in great pain, she was touched by an impersonal tenderness that
detached her from the suffering, so that she was able to do her work efficiently and
without horror. That was when she saw what nursing might be, and she longed to qualify,
to have that badge. She could imagine how she might abandon her ambitions of writing
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and dedicate her life in return for these moments of elated, generalized love.
Toward three-thirty in the morning, she was told to go and see Sister Drummond. She
was on her own, making up a bed. Earlier, Briony had seen her in the sluice room. She
seemed to be everywhere, doing jobs at every level. Automatically, Briony began to help
her.
The sister said, “I seem to remember that you speak a bit of French.”
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“It’s only school French, Sister.”
She nodded toward the end of the ward. “You see that soldier sitting up, at the end of
the row? Acute surgical, but there’s no need to wear a mask. Find a chair, go and sit with
him. Hold his hand and talk to him.”
Briony could not help feeling offended. “But I’m not tired, Sister. Honestly, I’m not.”
“You’ll do as you’re told.”
“Yes, Sister.”
He looked like a boy of fifteen, but she saw from his chart that he was her own age,
eighteen. He was sitting, propped by several pillows, watching the commotion around
him with a kind of abstracted childlike wonder. It was hard to think of him as a soldier.
He had a fine, delicate face, with dark eyebrows and dark green eyes, and a soft full
mouth.
His face was white and had an unusual sheen, and the eyes were unhealthily radiant.
His head was heavily bandaged. As she brought up her chair and sat down he smiled as
though he had been expecting her, and when she took his hand he did not seem surprised.
“Te voilà enfin.” The French vowels had a musical twang, but she could just about
understand him. His hand was cold and greasy to the touch.
She said, “The sister told me to come and have a little chat with you.” Not knowing
the word, she translated “sister” literally.
“Your sister is very kind.” Then he cocked his head and added, “But she always was.
And is all going well for her? What does she do these days?”
There was such friendliness and charm in his eyes, such boyish eagerness to engage
her, that she could only go along.
“She’s a nurse too.”
“Of course. You told me before. Is she still happy?”
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Section B: Unseen
Answer one question from this section.
EITHER
Question 2
Comment closely on the following passage, considering its presentation of the
Hyacinth’s situation, a girl from Jamaica, has been sent to join her father, living in
London.
In your answer, consider choice of language, dialogue and narrative methods.
The three of them were in their secret place again and the sound of their laughter
rose through the sweet-scented bushes from where they lay. Hyacinth felt the lazy
warmth of the early afternoon air wrap her in well-being as she lay back in the cool
grass, listening idly to the conversation. It was safe in this little green cave, the
recesses of the bushes laden with long-stemmed hibiscus and yellow trumpet flowers
and humming with insect activity.
They were talking about the Independence parade just past, and Hyacinth soon lost
interest, her mind centred on the warm glow of contentment somewhere in the centre
of her chest. She was slipping back, back to the fever of anticipation, the mounting
impatience as the minutes on the face of the monument clock slipped slowly by.
Hyacinth was hopping from foot to foot, caught in the excitement, part of that
jostling good-natured crowd, craning forward, impatient to see the first float appear.
They had been lucky to get a place right at the front, and she pressed closer to Aunt
Joyce’s reassuring bulk as the crowd surged against her. She was glad of the canecutter’s hat on her head, and of the little breeze that was so cool where it blew on the
wet patches of sweat on her back and under her arms. Aunt Joyce had a big sombrero
slung lazily across her bulk, eyes squinting against the glare of the sun, the usual smile
on her face as she turned every few minutes to exchange words with her neighbour.
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Suddenly there was silence in the crowd. Far away in the distance came the sound
of a flute, followed by the boom of a big goatskin drum. Hyacinth’s heart skipped a
beat, then raced with excitement. She shuffled, as the crowd surged around her,
craning forward, pushing out eagerly, wanting to catch her first glimpse of the
colourful band float. Her aunt’s big hand grabbed her dress, shook her.
‘Hyacinth! Hyacinth!’
She shrugged impatiently, trying to shake free of the hand, caught in the
excitement of the day. But it gripped on, refused to be dislodged.
‘Hyacinth!’
The voice had become insistent, the hand moved to her shoulder, curled round,
became biting, vicious, a painful pinch that seemed to pull her back.
‘Hyacinth, wake up!’
The voice was no longer the mellow one of her good-natured aunt. Harsh and
strident, the accent grated on her ears, as a final vicious shake yanked her away from
her peace. Coldness enveloped her, clammy cold fingers dragged her back to
consciousness. Her mind struggled in confusion, unable to grasp the change for a few,
endless seconds.
‘You wet the bed again!’
The words came out on a snap of teeth, a hiss of anger, bringing painful and instant
awareness with them. Hyacinth struggled to sit up, eyes opening reluctantly to dingy
grey walls, before moving blankly to the equally grey sky she could just glimpse
through the ill-fitting curtains.
‘Look at me, girl!’
Dull eyes slid sullenly across the mean room, locking apprehensively with
protruding bloodshot spite as the yellow-skinned woman glared her hatred down at
her.
Hyacinth forced herself to stay calm, not to beg. Her mind still wrestling with the
shock of disappointment, she clenched herself against the cold that stung and bit,
where the sodden nightdress clung to her in clammy folds. She would have clutched
herself for warmth, but knew that the woman would see it as defiance. Instead she
hung her head, hands loose beside her on the sheet, becoming gradually aware of
feeling slightly breathless, of a pulse drumming in her ears, and her eyes burning with
self-pity and the desire to cry.
‘Get up, girl,’ the woman shouted, as Hyacinth continued to sit in silent misery.
She stayed where she was, incapable of response, of obedience, for a few moments.
The woman shifted menacingly, and Hyacinth could sense the angry impatience
within her. It mobilised her, caused her to push her legs to the floor in an automatic
motion. Her whole body was mechanical, twisting jerkily, legs shifting, feet lowered
to cold floorboards, dragging her sodden cotton nightdress as she stood. Thin, rank
cloth clung to her and the angle of her body was tense and awkward with expectation.
‘Wait till your father gets home!’
It was said with triumph, a final blow against an already defeated enemy.
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OR
[Turn over
Question 3
Discuss the presentation of rain in the following poem.
Consider the writer’s choice of language, imagery and structure in your answer.
[25]
Night Rain
What time of night it is
I do not know
Except that like some fish
Doped out of the deep
I have bobbed up bellywise
From stream of sleep
And no cocks crow.
It is drumming hard here
And I suppose everywhere
Droning with insistent ardour upon
Our roof-thatch and shed
And through sheaves slit open
To lighting and rafters
I cannot make out overhead
Great water drops are dribbling
Falling like orange or mango
Fruits showered forth in the wind
Or perhaps I should say so
Much like beads I could in prayer tell
Them on string as they break
In wooden bowls and earthenware
Mother is busy now deploying
About our roomlet and floor.
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Although it is so dark
I know her practised step as
She moves her bins, bags, and vats
Out of the run of water
That like ants filing out of the wood
Will scatter and gain possession
Of the floor. Do not tremble then
But turn brothers, turn upon your side
Of the loosening mats
To where the others lie.
We have drunk tonight of a spell
Deeper than the owl’s or bat’s
That wet of wings may not fly.
Bedraggled upon the iroko1, they stand
Emptied of hearts, and
Therefore will not stir, no, not
Even at dawn for then
They must scurry in to hide.
So we’ll roll over on our back
And again roll to the beat
Of drumming all over the land
And under its ample soothing hand
Joined to that of the sea
We will settle to sleep of the innocent.
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iroko: large African tree
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