Working-Class Hero
by Brendan Gisby
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: One strong one only.
Description: A small skirmish of the Class War is played out on Princes Street in Edinburgh.
Swearwords: One strong one only.
Description: A small skirmish of the Class War is played out on Princes Street in Edinburgh.
Aside from the fact that it was nearly midnight in the middle of Edinburgh’s Princes Street in the twenty-first century, the situation was shaping up to be another High Noon showdown. The “outlaw” on this occasion was striding forward from the east. A tall, elderly man with a military bearing, he sported a well-trimmed silver moustache and wore a camel coat and trilby hat. This upper-class Arthur Daley was also brandishing his walking stick in front of him like a sword in order to clear the riff-raff blocking his path ahead.
Knowing instinctively that he, too, would be in Camel Coat’s path, the “marshal” watched the latter’s progress carefully. He could see that a bevy of excitedly chattering young women followed in Camel Coat’s wake. Daughters and their friends, perhaps, he thought, but then decided he couldn’t give a fuck who they were. He knew only that he and his wife were not going to budge for Camel Coat.
They had found an ideal spot from which to see the fireworks display and hear the accompanying music. Although they were standing back quite a distance from the crush of the crowd along the railings of Princes Street Gardens, they still had an excellent view of Edinburgh Castle, around which the fireworks would explode. Nor were they far from the bandstand in the Gardens, where the orchestra would be playing.
The whole length of Princes Street was teeming with people who, like them, had come to experience this inaugural extravaganza to mark the end of Edinburgh’s annual International Festival. The cheeriness that ran through the crowd applied to them, too. They had wined and dined at their favourite restaurant beforehand. And now they were in a perfect jovial mood to enjoy the promised spectacular in their home city.
But storming towards them was that potential threat to their enjoyment, his walking stick waving before him, the gaggle of women close behind and the crowd parting as he advanced. The marshal wondered to himself why people were succumbing to Camel Coat’s arrogance by moving out of his way so readily. Then suddenly the man himself appeared in front of him; not seeing his diminutive figure, though, looking beyond it, expecting this latest obstacle to move as well.
With his wife standing safely behind him, the marshal stood his ground. But Camel Coat continued to thrust forward and so fiercely that both the marshal and his wife were in danger of toppling over. Acting on reflex, the marshal delivered a right uppercut to Camel Coat’s solar plexus. It was done swiftly and with all the power of his own stomach muscles behind it, a technique he had learned on the streets at an early age. He heard Camel Coat groan and he felt the rush of the man’s breath as he bent almost double. But just as suddenly as he had appeared, Camel Coat was gone, propelled by his own momentum past the marshal. The marshal’s last image of the outlaw was of him turning his head to look for his assailant, a pained and puzzled expression on his face. Then he and his noisy retinue disappeared into the crowd.
The marshal’s action had been executed so rapidly and covertly that no-one, not even his wife, appeared to have noticed it. But that didn’t matter to him. He had struck a blow for his class, hadn’t he? For the working-class people. A blow in remembrance of his downtrodden father, who had died young and in poverty. Retribution for his own years of struggle against penury to make something of himself. Revenge for all the humiliations that the Camel Coats of this world had made him and the multitude of unprivileged others suffer.
But it didn’t feel like a victory. He kept seeing that last image of Camel Coat, that hurt and bewildered and frightened face. He realised guiltily that all he had done was to punch an old man, albeit an arrogant one, in the stomach. And the worst part of it all was that the man didn’t know who had punched him and why. He felt sick.
Knowing instinctively that he, too, would be in Camel Coat’s path, the “marshal” watched the latter’s progress carefully. He could see that a bevy of excitedly chattering young women followed in Camel Coat’s wake. Daughters and their friends, perhaps, he thought, but then decided he couldn’t give a fuck who they were. He knew only that he and his wife were not going to budge for Camel Coat.
They had found an ideal spot from which to see the fireworks display and hear the accompanying music. Although they were standing back quite a distance from the crush of the crowd along the railings of Princes Street Gardens, they still had an excellent view of Edinburgh Castle, around which the fireworks would explode. Nor were they far from the bandstand in the Gardens, where the orchestra would be playing.
The whole length of Princes Street was teeming with people who, like them, had come to experience this inaugural extravaganza to mark the end of Edinburgh’s annual International Festival. The cheeriness that ran through the crowd applied to them, too. They had wined and dined at their favourite restaurant beforehand. And now they were in a perfect jovial mood to enjoy the promised spectacular in their home city.
But storming towards them was that potential threat to their enjoyment, his walking stick waving before him, the gaggle of women close behind and the crowd parting as he advanced. The marshal wondered to himself why people were succumbing to Camel Coat’s arrogance by moving out of his way so readily. Then suddenly the man himself appeared in front of him; not seeing his diminutive figure, though, looking beyond it, expecting this latest obstacle to move as well.
With his wife standing safely behind him, the marshal stood his ground. But Camel Coat continued to thrust forward and so fiercely that both the marshal and his wife were in danger of toppling over. Acting on reflex, the marshal delivered a right uppercut to Camel Coat’s solar plexus. It was done swiftly and with all the power of his own stomach muscles behind it, a technique he had learned on the streets at an early age. He heard Camel Coat groan and he felt the rush of the man’s breath as he bent almost double. But just as suddenly as he had appeared, Camel Coat was gone, propelled by his own momentum past the marshal. The marshal’s last image of the outlaw was of him turning his head to look for his assailant, a pained and puzzled expression on his face. Then he and his noisy retinue disappeared into the crowd.
The marshal’s action had been executed so rapidly and covertly that no-one, not even his wife, appeared to have noticed it. But that didn’t matter to him. He had struck a blow for his class, hadn’t he? For the working-class people. A blow in remembrance of his downtrodden father, who had died young and in poverty. Retribution for his own years of struggle against penury to make something of himself. Revenge for all the humiliations that the Camel Coats of this world had made him and the multitude of unprivileged others suffer.
But it didn’t feel like a victory. He kept seeing that last image of Camel Coat, that hurt and bewildered and frightened face. He realised guiltily that all he had done was to punch an old man, albeit an arrogant one, in the stomach. And the worst part of it all was that the man didn’t know who had punched him and why. He felt sick.
About the Author
Brendan Gisby is McStoryteller-in-Residence. He's the author of four novels, three biographies and several short story collections.
His official author's website is Blazes Boylan's Book Bazaar. 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. And his books are displayed at these links on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com.