Maroon Gates

 

Maroon Gates

 

The drive was smooth as the 2006 black Mercedes pulled up behind a dirty white bus with a red coat of arms imprinted on its side; it was filling up with school children.

 

A tall old man in a grey suite stepped out of the front door and opened                         the door behind, a kid five foot seven stepped out; his skin was olive and his eyes almost black, his hair was combed back perfectly as if by glue. What he was wearing was sickening, to wear and to see, his grey shorts where too small, his shirt was too big as if it was a dressing gown, the dark red tie was the ugliest thing he had ever seen and the socks, they where the best item among them; plain grey, no gold strips and no red coat of arms.

 

And so he stood there, scratching his leg in front of the great maroon gates. 

He messed up his hair as he walked down the cobble path to his class room or formal chamber as it was called, he began to think why they had sent him here to Winston North, why not to a nice modern school. At that moment he realized why he went this particular school; he was British, the agency had probably thought he was a pompous little git who liked tea and little cucumber squares, the thought made him sick, he hated cucumbers. He was beginning to regret accomplishing that stunt last month.

 

There was a light tap on his shoulder, he looked right and saw an old wooden ruler with the markings ‘Made in Britain’ resting on his shoulders, he looked up it as if it was the barrel of a gun, a short old lady with big glasses looked up at him with no expression. He turned and looked at her face on; she had pale sagging skin, huge eyes, a witch-like nose and greasy grey hair that was tied up in a bun.

 

“Good morrow,” she said,  “Mr. Galloway is it?”

“Jack,” he replied.

“Hush, hush, Mr. Galloway,” she waited, “I’ve heard you’ve been a bad boy. Tagging on the Statue of Liberty, while your uncle was having a meeting with George W. Bush about ending the war in Iraq!” Jack scowled.

“My name is Miranda Abigail De Bourdge,” she signalled for him to follow her

“Well Mir…” She interrupted, “But you shall call me Madame De Bourgde!”  Her eyes were fiery.

“Oh,” she took a bite from a scone as she sat down at a little marble table              

“That bus is yours. Tah tah! Cheerio!” she grinned.

 

He came to the bus and took a seat next to a boy who seemed to love brussel-sprouts, he had a whole bag full and he was eating them joyfully.

 

Then the teacher stood up, he was about 35 years old, his eyes were a bright green hue and his brown hair was messy.

 

“Good morning everybody, as you all know I am known as Mr. Woodcock, but seeing that there are no other teachers around, I would like you to please call me David, which is my first name,” he looked out the window.  “But you can always call me Dave, Davy, Dr. D, Mr. D or Mr…” A scrawny old lady walked in.

“Good morrow everybody, as you should all know from our last meeting, you will call me Madame Chillon!”

“Hey Dr. D, how ‘bout ‘THE DAVENATOR’ or…”

“Excuse me?”  She looked like a piece of iron. “What did you call Mr. Woodcock?”

“I’m sorry Madame Chillon.”  He shrunk into a corner by the window.

“You should be, next time you shall be sorry.”  The boy and Mr. Woodcock gulped.

 

“Well lets go, to, as you all know Kakepuku, ‘Mountain of Spirits’ as known by the locals,” Mr. Woodcock announced cheerfully.

 

They were passing through what looked like the city center, very nice at that, when Madame Chillon announced that they would be singing ‘God Save The Queen’.

 

“God save our gracious Queen,
Long live our noble Queen,
God save the Que…” the same boy interrupted her.

“Mud on your face yah big disgra…”

“Excuse me?”  She was angry.

“Sorry Madame Chillon,” again shrinking into the corner.

She scowled and walked away.

Reviews

[me, myself and brenton]

its good i like howe youve described the boy and yeah