Guesteur Guessed Dressed

(Josie Sayz: More archiving. This was a piece from my ‘Humour Writing’ module. I had to write a poem (which I called ‘Bad Boy Frank: https://josiesayz.blogspot.com/2016/01/bad-boy-frank.html) and a flash fiction piece. This one is loosely based on my History teacher/form tutor, Mr. Corfield, in secondary school. I had fun re-reading this piece).

Glancing down at my new timetable I sighed. It was the first day back at school after the summer holiday and my first lesson was History. Now don’t get me wrong, I like History; it’s my favourite subject. It’s just that our school’s History teacher, Mr. Guesteur, he’s… well, he’s a little bit weird, to put it lightly.

We entered the classroom at nine o’clock, but Mr. Guesteur was nowhere to be seen. “Yes,” someone cheered, “Maybe he’s away and we’ll have a cover teacher.” That’s what I hoped. That’s what we all hoped.

On the white board read the words ‘GEORGIAN ENGLAND.’ Perhaps this was a sign that Mr. Guesteur wasn’t here. Maybe it was a clue left behind, so that the cover teacher could find textbooks for us to copy out of. Although, to have your teacher missing on the first day of school did seem a little odd.

Several minutes passed and still we were teacherless. “This is it,” someone announced. “If no one turns up in a minute I’m leaving.” As if in response to their comment, the classroom door swung open.

“All rise,” came a male voice. Heads turned. A dark figure stood in the doorway. “I said: All rise!” Stunned by his strictness we did as he commanded. Then he entered the room. Before us stood a short man in a navy three-quarter-length justacorps, with golden edging. He wore a waistcoat and breeches, with a white wrist ruffled lace shirt. His low-heeled leather shoes fastened with golden buckles and his white stockings matched his powdered curly wig, which tied back with a black ribbon.

Someone sniggered, “Mr. Guesteur what’s that you’ve got on your head?”

“That is no way to speak to a Georgian member of the Commonwealth! For your information this is a powdered wig, all the rage during the Georgian period. Men used to wear them in order to improve their social status,” Mr. Guesteur told him with a nod.

“But this isn’t the Georgian period, Sir,” someone shouted at him. “It’s the twenty-first century.”

“Silence!” he roared. “Did I say you could speak? You’re lucky I do not have a cane, or I would whip you for your rudeness.”

The trouble with Mr. Guesteur was when he taught a certain period, he not only dressed as if he was from that period in time, but he also acted as if he was from that period in time. But what was worse, was that he actually thought that he was cool.

A week later, in our next History class, again, Mr. Guesteur was not there when we arrived. “Maybe they’ve sent him to the loony bin,” someone said. I couldn’t even bring myself to look at the whiteboard to find out what period we would be studying.

‘What absurd outfit will he be wearing this time?’ I began to wonder. Whatever it was it, I decided, it couldn’t be worse than the last time.

Five minutes crept by, then as people became restless the door opened. “Behold, sit down quietly class. For we doth have much Medieval history to cover and not a lot of time.” There was an echo of groans, as Mr. Guesteur clattered into the room. The full suit of plate armour, which he was wearing, rattled as he walked. Struggling to the front of the room Mr. Guesteur stood boldly, smiling, pleased with his entrance. Sinking lower into my seat, I sighed with defeat. I was wrong. It could get worse.

The next History class came, and the one after that and the one after that. Each time Mr. Guesteur came in a more bizarrely dressed outfit. For the Elizabethan period he wore a waist length royal-red cape with a jerkin, box pleat neck ruff and a flat cap. He also wore trunk hose, a codpiece – which most of the class laughed at – and netherstocks (which were really just stockings, but don’t let Mr. Guesteur know I said that). He strode around the room with a wooden tankard in his hand, cursing ‘The Virgin Queen.’ Then, he wore a venetian red buff coat, rounded helmet, tassets and baldric with an imitation sword, carbine and a powder flask, when studying the British Civil War. And then when we studied Ancient Rome, he came to class wearing a toga.

Some guys in my History class have even started having bets as to what Mr. Guesteur would be wearing to each class. However, even Mr. Guesteur, himself, exceeded our expectations when it came to studying World War II and he arrived at class dressed as Hitler.

Having suffered countless Monday mornings of History with the unpredictable Mr. Guesteur (or Mr. Jester as he was now known amongst our class) I now dreaded Mondays. The week before Christmas break came; I entered my History class and sat in the corner. It wasn’t fair. All other classes would be having free time, or watching films, as it was the last of lessons before the half term holiday, but not us. Marked on the board was the topic, ‘EGYPTOLOGY.’ Having noticed a sarcophagus standing upright at the front of the room, I dreaded to think what kooky outfit Mr. Guesteur had in store for us this week.

Aaron and Ben, known throughout school as the school’s bad-boys had been betting with sweets, what outfit Mr. Guesteur would be wearing to each lesson. This week, Aaron had bet Ben a bag of Skittles that Mr. Guesteur would come dressed a sphinx. Ben, on the other hand, had bet him a packet of Fruit Pastilles that Mr. Guesteur would come dressed as Tutankhamun. We sat and we waited.

Five minutes passed by and still Mr. Guesteur was nowhere to be seen. “Aaron,” Ben began, giving his friend a nudge. “I dare you to open that coffin.” Ben pointed at the Ancient Egyptian stone resting against the whiteboard.

“It’s a sarcophagus,” I told them, but they didn’t listen.

“What’s in it for me?” Aaron asked him. Since starting their betting game, neither Aaron nor Ben ever did anything anymore without some form of bet being in place or with some form of junk food being at stake.

“Packet of Walkers crisps?” Ben suggested. Aaron shrugged.

“Easy,” he boasted. Getting up from his chair Aaron swaggered over to the mummy’s casket. Clasping his fingers around the stone lid Aaron gasped, “This is heavy,” before heaving the door open. He yelped, as the contents revealed itself. Inside, staring back at him was a bandaged corpse – a preserved Ancient Egyptian mummy. Many laughed at Aaron’s fear. Aaron turned around to face us laughing off his fright. “Mr. Guesteur’s more of a freak than I thought,” he snorted. “He’s got a real mummy.” Heads arched as they tried to see the ancient mystery. Turning back to face it, Aaron, leaned forwards, examining it more closely. “Yuck!” he exclaimed, “It reeks too.”

“Touch it,” Ben said.

“I’m not gonna touch it.”

“Touch it!” Ben said again. “I bet you a Mars bar you’re too chicken.”

Returning his sight to the mummy, Aaron shuddered. Not wanting to seem scared in front of the whole class, and wanting Ben to buy him a Mars bar, Aaron leant into the case and prodded the mummy’s face. The mummy moved. Flinching backwards, Aaron screamed. Several people sniggered. With a fierce glare, Aaron spun around to see who had laughed. Everyone gasped. Not at Aaron, but at the mummy. Its head titled to the side and its shoulders wriggled. Aaron staggered backwards; his mouth open. Bending its knee joints slightly, the mummy hopped forwards. Everyone screamed.

Shaking away his fear, Aaron tried to regain his cool. “Whatever,” he said with a shrug. “I wasn’t scared,” he laughed nervously. Realising that this must be Mr. Guesteur’s costume for the day, Aaron put on his tough-guy-act and projected, “I knew it was you all the time, Sir.”

Just then, the classroom door opened. “Sorry I’m late class,” Mr. Guesteur began. “I was having trouble with my costume,” he said wearing a pharaoh outfit, complete with nemes head piece, shendyt royal apron and a sceptre. Aaron’s jaw dropped as he looked over at Mr. Guesteur. Then as Aaron turned back to the mummy, he fainted.

- Josie -