Dux
by Brendan Gisby
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: Sometimes it makes no difference if you come top.
_____________________________________________________________________
The boy walked several paces behind his mother as they climbed the hill home. He didn’t know that she had begun to speak to herself in that soft brogue of hers. Nor did he know that tears were running in tiny twin rivulets down her powdered cheeks. All he could hear was the click-clacking of her stilettos on the pavement as she strode on. And all he could see was her flower-patterned summer frock swishing and her long, blue-black hair bouncing.
He didn’t notice her unhappiness, nor her rising anger, because he was too preoccupied examining and re-examining the contents of the little cardboard box clutched in his left hand. Only half-an-hour earlier, the pale green box, bearing the name of an Edinburgh jeweller on its lid, had been presented to him by the headmaster at the school prize-giving down the road.
For the third time since he and his mother walked out of the school, the boy carefully lifted the lid with his right hand to admire his prize. Inside the box, resting on a bed of cotton wool and sparkling in the sunshine, was an oval-shaped silver medal, which had a king’s crown at its top, miniature scrolls round its edges and a heraldic shield in its centre.
Even though he had already memorised the words, he turned the medal over to read the inscription yet again. There was the name of his school along the top. Below that, in bigger capital letters, was the word “DUX”. Then there was his own name and finally the school year “1961 - 1962”.
He was immensely proud of the medal. In previous years, when he had come top of his class, he had received books as prizes. But this was much better, a prize that would last forever. As well as that, his name would soon be stencilled in gold letters on the school dux board, up there to be read and venerated by future pupils for many years to come.
He turned the medal back on its front, gave it one last gaze and replaced the lid. That was when his mother’s voice rose and he could hear clearly what she was addressing to the air around her.
“Remember, it’s my son who won first prize. It’s my son who’s the dux of the school. But not a one o’ yous had the courtesy to come over and congratulate me, his mother. No, yous were too busy congratulating each other, slapping each other on the back. And for what? For your kids receiving the second and third prizes – and, even worse, the religious prize. The religious prize, for crying out loud!”
She came to a halt while she fished inside her handbag for a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes with it. Then she resumed her march and her tirade.
“Well, yous can keep your tea and fancy cakes. And your bone china cups and saucers. And yous can keep your little cliques. Treat us like outsiders, like outcasts, if you will. Think yous are better than us, if you want. But just remember, we’re the winners here. We don’t need yous – not a one o’ yous.”
The boy suddenly felt ashamed. After the prize-giving ceremony, he had been too busy basking in his own glory, too keen to show off the medal to his classmates, to think about his mother’s welfare. He remembered seeing her standing alone, cup of tea in hand, while the headmaster, the teachers and the other parents drank tea and ate cake and chatted in a number of noisy huddles. Even his mother’s neighbour and best friend, who had stood with her to begin with, had left to join one of the huddles. He understood now why his mother had virtually dragged him away from the school.
He slid the box into a trouser pocket and ran to catch up with his mother. He knew it wasn’t what a twelve year-old boy was expected to do, but he took her hand in his.
“Dinnae worry aboot any o’ them, Mum,” he said. “You an’ me, we can be outcasts thegither.”
Swearwords: None.
Description: Sometimes it makes no difference if you come top.
_____________________________________________________________________
The boy walked several paces behind his mother as they climbed the hill home. He didn’t know that she had begun to speak to herself in that soft brogue of hers. Nor did he know that tears were running in tiny twin rivulets down her powdered cheeks. All he could hear was the click-clacking of her stilettos on the pavement as she strode on. And all he could see was her flower-patterned summer frock swishing and her long, blue-black hair bouncing.
He didn’t notice her unhappiness, nor her rising anger, because he was too preoccupied examining and re-examining the contents of the little cardboard box clutched in his left hand. Only half-an-hour earlier, the pale green box, bearing the name of an Edinburgh jeweller on its lid, had been presented to him by the headmaster at the school prize-giving down the road.
For the third time since he and his mother walked out of the school, the boy carefully lifted the lid with his right hand to admire his prize. Inside the box, resting on a bed of cotton wool and sparkling in the sunshine, was an oval-shaped silver medal, which had a king’s crown at its top, miniature scrolls round its edges and a heraldic shield in its centre.
Even though he had already memorised the words, he turned the medal over to read the inscription yet again. There was the name of his school along the top. Below that, in bigger capital letters, was the word “DUX”. Then there was his own name and finally the school year “1961 - 1962”.
He was immensely proud of the medal. In previous years, when he had come top of his class, he had received books as prizes. But this was much better, a prize that would last forever. As well as that, his name would soon be stencilled in gold letters on the school dux board, up there to be read and venerated by future pupils for many years to come.
He turned the medal back on its front, gave it one last gaze and replaced the lid. That was when his mother’s voice rose and he could hear clearly what she was addressing to the air around her.
“Remember, it’s my son who won first prize. It’s my son who’s the dux of the school. But not a one o’ yous had the courtesy to come over and congratulate me, his mother. No, yous were too busy congratulating each other, slapping each other on the back. And for what? For your kids receiving the second and third prizes – and, even worse, the religious prize. The religious prize, for crying out loud!”
She came to a halt while she fished inside her handbag for a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes with it. Then she resumed her march and her tirade.
“Well, yous can keep your tea and fancy cakes. And your bone china cups and saucers. And yous can keep your little cliques. Treat us like outsiders, like outcasts, if you will. Think yous are better than us, if you want. But just remember, we’re the winners here. We don’t need yous – not a one o’ yous.”
The boy suddenly felt ashamed. After the prize-giving ceremony, he had been too busy basking in his own glory, too keen to show off the medal to his classmates, to think about his mother’s welfare. He remembered seeing her standing alone, cup of tea in hand, while the headmaster, the teachers and the other parents drank tea and ate cake and chatted in a number of noisy huddles. Even his mother’s neighbour and best friend, who had stood with her to begin with, had left to join one of the huddles. He understood now why his mother had virtually dragged him away from the school.
He slid the box into a trouser pocket and ran to catch up with his mother. He knew it wasn’t what a twelve year-old boy was expected to do, but he took her hand in his.
“Dinnae worry aboot any o’ them, Mum,” he said. “You an’ me, we can be outcasts thegither.”
About the Author
Brendan Gisby is McStoryteller-in-Residence. He's the author of three novels, three biographies and several short story collections.
His official author's website is Blazes Boylan's Book Bazaar at http://the4bs.weebly.com.
And his books are displayed at these links on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com.
His official author's website is Blazes Boylan's Book Bazaar at http://the4bs.weebly.com.
And his books are displayed at these links on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com.