Now listen to the noises again and say what you hear. The first item is done for you

Listen to the story and concentrate on the plot. Answer the following questions. Make notes while you listen.

You are going to listen to a radio play. Before listening, look at the words below and make sure you understand what they mean.

Act out a teacher-class interaction telling them about different noises that people and things make.

Howl (v) - if a dog, wolf, or other animal howls, it makes a long loud sound;

relief (n) - a feeling of comfort when something frightening, worrying, or painful has ended or has not happened.

Judging by the above words, what predictions can you make about the plot or character of the story? Discuss it in pairs.

10 Why was George trembling with a shock when he heard the waitress’ words? …………………………………………………..

186 The story abounds in different noises that things and people make. Listen to the recording again and concentrate on them. Fill in the blanks with ‘noises’ words as they come in the story.

Read two different versions of an extract from the same novel: a ‘simplified edition’ and the original edition of the Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Note down your answers to these questions, showing whether you found the answers in the simplified version, the original version or in both.

1 When did Gatsby’s parties happen?	Every two weeks in summer – both versions
2 What did Gatsby’s guests do during the afternoon?	………………………………......... ……………………………………………………....................................
3 Which of Gatsby’s cars ferried guests to and from New York?	…………………………………………………….................................... ……………………………………………………....................................
4 How many people helped to clear up after the parties?	…………………………………………………….................................... ……………………………………………………....................................
5 How was the orange juice made?	………………………………………………………................................ ………………………………………………………................................
6 Where did the guests dance?	………………………………………………………................................ ………………………………………………………................................
7 Where was the bar?	………………………………………………………................................ ……………………………………………………....................................
8 What kind of orchestra played at the parties?	…………………………………………………….................................... ……………………………………………………....................................

Simplified version There was music from my neighbour's house through the summer nights. In his blue gardens men and girls came and went, floating among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars. In the afternoon by the shore I watched his guests swimming in the Sound, or lying in the sun on the hot sand, or water-skiing from his two motorboats. At weekends his big open car became a bus, carrying groups of people to and from the city between nine in the morning and long past midnight, while his second car met all the trains at the station. And on Mondays eight servants, including an extra gardener worked all day to repair the damage from the night before. Every Friday five boxes of oranges and lemons arrived from a fruit shop in New York - every Monday these same oranges and lemons left his back door in a pile of empty halves. About once in two weeks there was a really big party. The trees were all covered in coloured lights and a dance floor was laid down on the lawn; a big group of musicians came down from New York to play music for dancing. Wonderful food arrived, with dozens of waiters to serve it, and in the main hall a bar was set up, serving every possible kind of alcoholic drink. I remember the sense of excitement at the beginning of the party. By seven o'clock the last swimmers have come in from the beach and are dressing upstairs; cars from New York are drawing up every minute, and already the halls and sitting rooms are full of girls in bright dresses with the newest, strangest hairstyles. Trays of cocktails are floating through the garden outside, until the air is alive with talk and laughter. The lights grow brighter as darkness falls, and now the musicians are playing cocktail music and the voices are higher and louder. Laughter is easier, minute by minute. The party has begun.

Original version There was music from my neighbor's house through the summer nights. In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the -whisperings and the champagne and the stars. At high tide in the afternoon I watched his guests diving from the tower of his raft or taking the sun on the hot sand of his beach while his two motor-boats slit the waters of the Sound, drawing aquaplanes over cataracts of foam. On weekends his Rolls-Royce became an omnibus, bearing parties to and from the city, between nine in the morning and long past midnight, while his station wagon scampered like a brisk yellow bug to meet all trains. And on Mondays eight servants including an extra gardener toiled all day with mops and scrubbing brushes and hammers and garden-shears, repairing the ravages of the night before. Every Friday five crates of oranges and lemons arrived from a fruiterer in New York — every Monday these same oranges and lemons left his back door in a pyramid of pulpless halves. There was a machine in the kitchen which could extract the juice of two hundred oranges in half an hour, if a little button was pressed two hundred times by a butler's thumb. At least once a fortnight a corps of caterers came down with several hundred feet of canvas and enough colored lights to make a Christmas tree of Gatsby's enormous garden. On buffet tables, garnished with glistening hors d'oeuvre, spiced baked hams crowded against salads of harlequin designs and pastry pigs and turkeys bewitched to a dark gold. In the main hall a bar with a real brass rail was set up, and stocked with gins and liquors and with cordials so long forgotten that most of his female guests were too young to know one from another. By seven o'clock the orchestra has arrived - no thin five-piece affair but a whole pit full of oboes and trombones and saxophones and viols and cornets and piccolos and low and high drums. The last swimmers have come in from the beach now and are dressing upstairs; the cars from New York are parked five deep in the drive, and already the halls and salons and verandas are gaudy with primary colors and hair shorn in strange new ways and shawls beyond the dreams of Castile. The bar is in full swing, and floating rounds of cocktails permeate the garden outside until the air is alive with chatter and laughter and casual innuendo and introductions forgotten on the spot and enthusiastic meetings between women who never knew each other's names. The lights grow brighter as the earth lurches away from the sun and now the orchestra is playing yellow cocktail music and the opera of voices pitches a key higher. Laughter is easier, minute by minute, spilled with prodigality, tipped out at a cheerful word. The groups change more swiftly, swell with new arrivals, dissolve and form in the same breath — already there are wanderers, confident girls who weave here and there among the stouter and more stable, become for a sharp, joyous moment the center of a group and then excited with triumph glide on through the sea-change of faces and voices and color under the constantly changing light.