The Picture Test

Rhys has been called into the Headmaster's office with his parents. Apparently, it's good news.

By R. D. Kerr

The clock above the secretary’s desk had moved three minutes since Rhys last looked at it. He checked his watch to make sure.

Three minutes.

The clock was working, then. It was simply taking considerably longer about it than usual.

Rhys shifted in the plastic chair and looked across at his parents. His mother had picked up one of the school newsletters and had been reading the same page for long enough that he suspected she wasn’t reading it at all. His father had abandoned the pretence completely and was examining the trophy cabinet opposite them.

Nobody had told Rhys why they were there.

“You’re not in trouble,” his mother said, without looking up.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

His father leaned forward to inspect one of the trophies through the glass. The cabinet had presumably been cleaned at some point in its history, although Rhys couldn’t remember when. Silver cups and wooden shields sat beneath a thin grey covering of dust, recording decades of academic achievement by people who had probably forgotten receiving them.

His father pointed towards one of the larger cups. “Don’t worry. We won’t be seeing your name in there any time soon.”

Rhys’s mother lowered the newsletter and gave him a look.

“What?”

“Don’t.”

“I’m trying to reassure him.”

“You’re not helping.”

Behind the desk, the secretary pulled a sheet from the printer, read it and tutted. She was an older woman with silver hair, glasses hanging from a chain around her neck and a pencil that spent most of its time tucked behind one ear. Every few minutes she removed it, wrote something on whichever piece of paper had most recently disappointed her, then returned it to exactly the same place.

Rhys watched her disappear through the Headmaster’s door.

“If I’m not in trouble, why are you both here?”

His mother folded the newsletter along a crease somebody else had already made. “Because the Headmaster asked us to come.”

“That normally means I’m in trouble.”

“You’re not.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because you keep looking as though you’re waiting to be sentenced.”

His father glanced over. “Have you done something?”

“No.”

“Sure?”

His mother turned towards him. “Whose side are you on?”

“I’m only asking.”

The secretary returned carrying a different sheet of paper and sat down without looking at any of them. Rhys waited until his mother had reopened the newsletter.

“What did I do?”

“For the last time, nothing.”

“Then what happened?”

His parents exchanged a glance.

Rhys caught it immediately.

“What?”

His father’s mouth twitched. “Nothing.”

“You did the look.”

“What look?”

“The one you do when you know something.”

“I don’t have a look.”

“You definitely do.”

His mother sighed and lowered the newsletter. “We were told it was good news. That is genuinely all we know.”

“What good news?”

“We don’t know.”

Rhys stared at her. “How can you know it’s good if you don’t know what it is?”

The secretary stopped typing.

His mother looked towards the desk. His father found something suddenly fascinating about a shield awarded for academic excellence in 1987.

The secretary tutted, corrected something on her screen and carried on.

The clock clicked forward another minute.

Rhys was beginning to think detention would have been quicker.

Eventually the Headmaster’s door opened and the secretary appeared beside it. “Mr and Mrs Kerr?”

His parents stood.

She looked at Rhys. “And Rhys.”

She said his name in a way that suggested there had never been any possibility of leaving him behind.

His father gave the trophy cabinet one last glance. “Come on, Einstein.”

Rhys’s mother nudged him as they passed.

The Headmaster’s office smelled of coffee, paper and whatever polish the cleaners used on the old wooden furniture. Rhys had been inside twice before. Neither visit had involved his parents, and neither had begun with the Headmaster standing up and smiling at him.

That was new.

“Rhys. Mr Kerr. Mrs Kerr. Please, come in.”

Three chairs had been arranged in front of the desk. Rhys found himself between his parents again while the Headmaster returned to his own chair and gathered a small pile of papers into something approaching order.

A row of frogs occupied the top of his computer monitor.

Rhys counted nine: ceramic frogs, plastic frogs, a glass one and something green knitted from wool that might only have been a frog because it was sitting with the others. Every one had been pressed firmly into a lump of Blu Tack.

The green ceramic frog had disappeared twice the previous year.

Still there.

“Thank you for coming in at such short notice,” the Headmaster said. “I appreciate it isn’t always easy during the working day.”

“Not a problem,” Rhys’s father said.

His mother smiled. “We were told there was some good news.”

“Yes. There is.”

The Headmaster looked at Rhys and smiled.

Rhys became suspicious.

“First of all, Rhys, congratulations.”

“For what?”

The Headmaster paused. “For your result.”

“What result?”

His father settled back in his chair. “Strong start.”

The Headmaster smiled and consulted the papers. “The careers aptitude assessment you completed earlier this term.”

Rhys tried to remember anything that could reasonably be called an aptitude assessment. There had been questionnaires in the hall about subjects they liked, jobs they might want and where they imagined themselves in ten years. Rhys had written don’t know often enough that he had expected someone to complain rather than congratulate him.

“Was that the one in the hall?”

“No, I don’t believe so. This appears to have been an individual assessment.”

Rhys frowned.

Then he remembered the little room.

“The picture thing?”

The Headmaster checked the page. “Yes. I believe that’s the one.”

“That wasn’t a test.”

“Apparently it was.”

“They showed me pictures and asked what was in them.”

“So I understand.”

“One of them just asked if I could see a little man standing near a tree.”

The photograph returned to him as he said it: a field, a stone wall and an old tree leaning away from the wind. The woman conducting the assessment had asked whether he could see anybody else in the picture. Rhys had pointed towards the trunk.

She had looked at him for a little longer than seemed necessary before moving on.

The Headmaster glanced at his paperwork. “Whatever the precise nature of the assessment, you seem to have done exceptionally well.”

“How exceptionally?” his father asked.

“The highest result recorded at the school.”

Nobody spoke.

Rhys thought about the dusty trophy cabinet outside, then looked at his father.

His father was already looking at him.

“Don’t.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You’re going to.”

“I was going to congratulate you.”

His mother looked at him.

“All right,” his father said. “Eventually.”

The Headmaster failed to hide a smile. “It is genuinely an exceptional result, Rhys. More importantly, your score has made you eligible for a place on a specialist vocational apprenticeship programme operated in collaboration with the Government.”

Rhys stopped watching his father. “What sort of apprenticeship?”

“That,” the Headmaster said, looking down at the first page, “is where matters become rather unusual.”

His mother straightened in her chair.

“The placement is offered through an organisation called the Druidic Heritage Trust.”

His father blinked. His mother frowned.

“The what?”

“The Druidic Heritage Trust.”

“As in Druids?”

The Headmaster looked at the name again, as though there might be another interpretation hidden beneath it. “I would assume so.”

Rhys stared at him. “You don’t know?”

“I haven’t encountered the organisation before, no.”

His mother’s expression changed immediately. “Then I’m not sure why we’re discussing moving him anywhere.”

“No, quite. That was very close to my own reaction when the paperwork arrived.” The Headmaster tapped the covering letter. “I have checked what I can. The documentation has come through the appropriate government channels, the programme is recognised and the Trust is registered as an approved specialist vocational provider.”

His father’s expression became more serious. “You’ve checked the qualifications are recognised?”

“Yes.”

“And the apprenticeship?”

“Yes. The accreditation is valid.”

“But you’d never heard of the Trust before this?”

“No.”

His father nodded once. He didn't look entirely satisfied, but he no longer looked amused either.

The door opened and the secretary entered carrying a folder. She placed it on the corner of the desk.

“You left this outside.”

“Ah. Thank you, Mrs Pritchard.”

She looked at the papers already spread across his desk, then at the Headmaster.

The tut was quiet, but everybody heard it.

After the door closed, the Headmaster opened the folder. “If anything, I’m rather embarrassed that I haven’t encountered the programme before. We spend a considerable amount of time reviewing vocational and alternative educational pathways.”

His mother folded her arms. “And what exactly are they offering?”

The Headmaster checked the page. “They want Rhys to transfer. He'd continue his education there, alongside the apprenticeship.”

“No.”

The Headmaster looked up.

Rhys’s father turned towards her. “We should at least hear it.”

“He’s thirteen.”

“I know.”

“They want to take him out of school.”

Rhys looked from one parent to the other. “I’m still here.”

His mother touched his arm. “I know you are.”

“I just thought I’d mention it.”

The Headmaster opened the folder Mrs Pritchard had brought in. “Perhaps it would be useful if we looked at the educational provision first. I had similar concerns until I began going through this.”

His mother sat back, although not far enough to suggest that anybody had won.

“The apprenticeship continues until eighteen. Rhys would receive vocational training towards a recognised trade while completing a full academic programme. The academic element is actually…”

He stopped.

Rhys watched him read the paragraph again.

The Headmaster turned the sheet over, checked the reverse, then returned to the first side.

“What?” Rhys asked.

“I’m making sure I’ve understood it correctly.”

That got his mother’s attention.

“Successful completion is recognised as equivalent to fourteen GCSE-level qualifications.”

“Fourteen?” she said.

“Yes.”

Rhys frowned. “Sir?”

“Yes, Rhys?”

“Doesn’t our school only do six?”

His father looked down at the carpet. His shoulders moved once.

The Headmaster lowered the paper. “That’s not important, Rhys.”

“It seems a bit important.”

“Rhys,” his mother said, although the corner of her mouth had moved as well.

The Headmaster returned to the paperwork with as much dignity as circumstances allowed. “There are also advanced qualifications recognised at A-level equivalent. On successful completion at eighteen, an apprentice can enter employment directly or progress into higher education.”

His mother’s amusement disappeared. “University?”

“Yes. Explicitly. Accepting the apprenticeship would not remove that option. Depending on his results, Rhys would be eligible to apply to university in the same way as another suitably qualified school-leaver.”

Something changed in his mother. Her arms unfolded and she leaned towards the desk.

“What subjects would he study?”

The Headmaster turned another page. “There is a substantial academic core. English, sciences, mathematics throughout the programme, history…” He paused. “Philosophy.”

His father raised an eyebrow. “Philosophy?”

“So it says.”

Rhys leaned forward. “Why philosophy?”

The Headmaster looked farther down the page. “It remains compulsory through several stages of the programme.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

“No.” The Headmaster looked up. “It doesn't explain why.”

“And what trade would I be learning?”

“That appears to be determined during the initial training period after further assessment.”

“So we don't know.”

“Not yet.”

The Headmaster returned to the curriculum. This time he read for considerably longer, comparing the sheet with another from the folder. The silence in the office changed with him. Until then, Rhys had assumed the Headmaster was working his way through information he already understood. Now it appeared he was discovering parts of it at roughly the same time they were.

“This really is quite extraordinary.”

His mother leaned forward. “In a good way?”

“Academically, very much so. They appear to push traditional academic study considerably harder than most vocational programmes I've encountered. Mathematics in particular, history, philosophy, sciences, with specialist subjects introduced later.” He turned back to the first sheet, then checked the heading on the covering letter. “How have I never seen this?”

Nobody answered.

“I mean it,” he continued. “A recognised programme offering this level of academic provision alongside paid vocational training should have crossed my desk. If not this particular provider, then certainly the scheme.”

His father nodded towards the papers. “And you're satisfied it's genuine?”

The Headmaster took a moment before answering. “I'm satisfied that the accreditation is genuine, the qualifications are recognised and the programme has come through the correct channels. I would not have asked you here otherwise.”

It was a careful answer.

Rhys noticed that too.

The door opened.

Mrs Pritchard looked in. “Everything all right?”

“Perfectly, thank you.”

Her eyes moved across the desk. “The funding sheet is underneath the blue one.”

The Headmaster looked down.

It was.

“Thank you.”

She disappeared again.

His father watched the door close. “I think she knows more about it than any of us.”

The Headmaster gave him a look but didn't entirely disagree.

He pulled the funding sheet free. “There is also the practical side of the apprenticeship. Rhys would be paid from the commencement of training at the appropriate apprentice rate.”

Rhys looked up. “Paid?”

His father glanced sideways at him. “That got through.”

“I was listening before.”

“Of course.”

His mother remained focused on the curriculum. “He gets a wage while he's still in education?”

“An apprentice wage, yes. The rate changes as he progresses through the programme.”

Rhys had never seriously considered being paid to go to school before. Whatever else the Druidic Heritage Trust might be, he was prepared to admit that this part deserved further investigation.

“And where is this college?” his mother asked.

“Salford.”

“Where in Salford?”

The Headmaster found the address. “Sixty-two Chapel Street.”

Rhys looked up. “Chapel Street?”

“Yes.”

“There isn't a college there.”

The Headmaster looked at him. “You know it?”

“I know Chapel Street.”

His father frowned, thinking. “Sixty-two…”

Rhys waited.

“Isn't that the old police station?”

The Headmaster checked the address again.

Rhys looked at his father. “That's what I mean. It's not a college.”

“Perhaps it's been converted,” the Headmaster said.

“Into a college?”

“That would seem the most obvious explanation.”

The Headmaster sounded considerably more convinced by the explanation than Rhys was.

His mother had turned to another page. “There's something here about family support.”

The Headmaster looked down at the sheet Mrs Pritchard had found for him. “Yes. Because of the specialist nature of the programme and the disruption involved in transferring from mainstream education, an additional allowance is paid to the family.”

His parents both looked at him now.

“How much?” his mother asked.

“One hundred pounds per week, subject to continued attendance and satisfactory progress.”

Neither of them spoke.

Rhys watched his father look at his mother. She read the paragraph herself before meeting his eyes. They didn't smile or suddenly become enthusiastic. If anything, his mother looked more thoughtful.

Rhys knew the difference.

“So,” his father said eventually, “he earns an apprentice wage, stays in full-time education, comes out with a trade and recognised qualifications, and still has the option of university?”

“Yes.”

“And the support payment is on top of that?”

“Yes.”

His father looked at Rhys's mother.

Rhys sighed. “You're doing it again.”

She looked at him. “Doing what?”

“The look.”

“We are not making a decision here.”

“You're closer than you were.”

“That isn't the same thing.”

His father rubbed his chin. “He's got a point.”

“You're still not helping.”

Rhys turned back to the Headmaster before the meeting disappeared completely into qualifications and money.

“What does the Druidic Heritage Trust actually do?”

The Headmaster found the provider description. “Heritage conservation, environmental stewardship, specialist community services and vocational training.”

“What are specialist community services?”

He read farther.

“It doesn't specify.”

“What does heritage conservation have to do with the picture test?”

“I don't know.”

Rhys looked down at his hands.

The question had been bothering him since the Headmaster first mentioned the result, but something about the conversation had changed it. The adults knew how many qualifications he would receive, what his wage would be, how much his parents would receive and where he was expected to report.

Nobody had explained the only part that had actually happened to him.

“Was I supposed to see the man?”

The Headmaster stopped.

His parents went quiet.

“I don't know.”

Rhys looked at him. “Then how do you know I got the answer right?”

The Headmaster's hand remained on the paperwork.

“I don't.”

That was different.

For the first time since entering the office, nobody had an immediate practical answer to hide behind.

The Headmaster placed the provider sheet on the desk. “Those are perfectly reasonable questions. I don't want to give you the impression that I'm recommending something I don't understand.”

“You don't understand it.”

“Rhys,” his mother said.

“No.” The Headmaster raised a hand. “He's right, to an extent. I understand the educational offer. I understand the accreditation and progression routes, and those are documented and extremely impressive. What I don't understand is the specialist occupation itself, or why this particular assessment identifies candidates for it.”

He glanced at the covering letter.

“And that bothers me too.”

Rhys relaxed slightly. At least somebody else had finally said it.

The Headmaster turned to the final sheet. “There is an occupational information section.”

His mother held out her hand. “What does that say?”

“Mostly standard information for field-based training. Historic buildings, woodland, agricultural environments, isolated locations and waterways.” His finger moved farther down the page, then stopped.

His father noticed. “What?”

The Headmaster read the line again.

“Specialist occupational encounters.”

Rhys frowned. “What's one of those?”

“I was rather hoping the next sentence would tell me.”

“Does it?”

“No.”

“Of course it doesn't.”

His mother took the page and began reading it herself.

Before Rhys could ask anything else, the door opened.

Mrs Pritchard stood there with the pencil behind her ear and one hand resting on the frame.

“Mr Harris?”

“Yes?”

“Your eleven-thirty has been here for twelve minutes.”

The Headmaster looked at the clock on his wall. “Has it?”

“Yes.”

“I hadn't realised.”

“I had.”

She disappeared.

Rhys's father checked his watch while the Headmaster began gathering the paperwork.

“I think perhaps we've covered as much as we reasonably can today.”

“We haven't covered what any of it means,” Rhys said.

His mother rested a hand on his shoulder. “We'll talk about it properly at home.”

“But you want me to do it.”

“We haven't decided.”

“You want me to.”

She hesitated. “I think we need to consider it seriously.”

His father nodded. “So do I.”

Rhys looked at the Headmaster. “And you?”

The Headmaster rested both hands on the papers. “I think you've been offered an opportunity unlike anything I've seen offered to another pupil in my career. Academically, it's exceptional. Vocationally, it appears extremely strong. It leaves university open to you and gives you a direct route into employment if that's what you eventually want.”

He glanced at the words Druidic Heritage Trust.

“And I think I'd like to know considerably more about the people offering it.”

That, Rhys thought, was fair.

The Headmaster passed the information pack to his mother. “There's no requirement to decide today. Read everything, talk about it together, and I'll make further enquiries from this end.”

His father stood. His mother stood beside him, already looking at the first page again.

Rhys remained seated.

“Rhys?”

He was looking at the frogs.

Nine of them sat along the computer monitor, each safely anchored to its lump of Blu Tack. The green one stared back at him.

“Can I ask one more question?”

The Headmaster glanced towards the door. Mrs Pritchard had reappeared behind the glass panel.

“One.”

Rhys thought about the little room and the photographs spread across the table. He remembered the field, the stone wall and the old tree. The woman had asked if he could see anybody else.

Rhys had pointed beside the trunk.

“There.”

She hadn't written anything down.

Instead, she had looked at him and then back at the photograph.

After a moment, she had asked the question again.

“What did everyone else see?”

The Headmaster's expression changed.

For once, he didn't reach for the paperwork.

“I don't know.”

Mrs Pritchard cleared her throat outside.

Rhys stood. His father rested a hand briefly on his shoulder while his mother tucked the information pack beneath her arm.

The Headmaster walked them to the door. “And Rhys?”

Rhys turned.

“Congratulations. Whatever else we discover about the programme, you should be proud of that result.”

Rhys nodded.

Mrs Pritchard stepped aside to let them through, then moved immediately into the office behind them.

“Honestly,” Rhys heard her say. “You do know other people have appointments.”

The door closed.

His mother walked ahead into the corridor, already reading the apprenticeship pack again. Rhys followed until his father stopped beside the dusty trophy cabinet.

Rhys stopped too.

His father looked through the glass at the silver cups, then at Rhys.

Rhys raised an eyebrow.

His father's mouth twitched.

Neither of them said a word.