THE SIGNATURE Matthew StanleyWe arrive slowly in sporadic groups, up dusty stairs, past peeling walls. We shuffle our feet nervously and stare at them unconsciously, willing the hard-learned information to remain with us ... just for the next three hours at least. Everybody has a fixed smile - my jaw muscles ache sustaining it but it is somehow necessary to the situation.
Appearances are noticeably affected. A faint shadow around the eyes, an untucked shirt, faces without make-up. . Nobody mentions it now; everybody understands and takes a small degree of comfort from the understanding. . . "You're tired too?" The smiles are tired smiles now - we all know it. We all couldn't sleep last night, or the night before. So the camaraderie builds among usual strangers.
The talk is quiet as if in respect. It is unimportant,repeated from yesterday and the day before:
"You revised?"
"Not enough." A strained pause, expectant. "You?"
"Not enough." Unification - a strained smile shared. Another glance at the feet to make sure it's all still there. All that information. Too much information.
And the usual popular lies: "I only finished the book yesterday."
"I haven't read it yet." A collection of nervous laughter. Unification.
We all want to talk to each other now. . . now there's no time left. Age, fashion, music -all the social barriers come down now we all want the same thing. We are all equal.
"Good luck," to a stranger.
"Yeah, you too." And we both mean it.
Feet shuffle on peeling lino and suddenly, intuitively,we silence. The door opens slowly and the months of study seems to fall away for a moment. We try to focus our minds and I panic silently - what was that quote? How did that act begin? I feel for my pens again just in case. . .. Reluctantly, we move upstairs. Somebody mumbles a line from a suddenly remembered poem; "into the jaws of death, into the mouth of hell. . .". Nobody laughs. Only the sound of shuffling feet can be heard. I try to relax but the responsibility is too much - my future may depend on this and only I can decide the result. Three hours to decide. Does everybody else feel like this? It's not life or death. . . until you're there at the door.
Then there it is. Cold wide and symmetrical with naked desks. For a moment I smile at a spontaneous comparison - the desks look like gravestones. But only for moment. I am alone now, we are all alone now. Symmetrically spaced with a number. That brief span of camaraderie has gone; probably lost because this is the last exam.
I sit. Check my watch. Check my pen. Then I look at the desk as I have done before and see the tattooed names, dates and thoughts: "David Preston "O" levels '88 ... Liz B. maths 1985. . ." Briefly, I forget the pressure and become fascinated. I can see David and Liz hunched over this desk, alienated, expectant. This writing on the desk is tradition, a common bond - the only bond - between us all. We sat here and felt the same fear and trepidation, hoped for the same thing.Yet this is a college now and this desk will see 'A' levels. I am the first. The start of a new tradition. I want to join the numerous other names. But I hesitate as they must have, and I glance at the invigilators,at the other students who are looking at the names of their desk; and writing secretly on their desks.
And I sign.
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