Southend U3A

Writing for Fun

November 2019

Foregone Conclusion - Anne Wilson

Mrs. Durston’s devotion towards her only child was without parallel: she doted on him ostentatiously. Having given up hope of ever conceiving she had finally given birth to him at a shade over forty and had been compensating for her tardiness ever since.

Mr. Durston was much more measured in his approach towards his son. Equally as elated initially at the miracle that had befallen his hitherto barren wife, he had quickly come to realise that the old maxim ‘three’s a crowd’ had most likely been coined by a father whose nose had been put out of joint following the birth of a child. Durston Junior was a sober, industrious child who was as inclined towards frivolity as a novice nun in an enclosed order. In short, he was a prig – indulged and protected from the rough and tumble of all things child-like by a mother who cosseted him. Always clean and smartly dressed he was unfailingly polite but haughty and superior and disconcertingly sure of himself.

The novelty of his late arrival on this earth had resulted in him being pushed into a whole range of activities by an over-enthusiastic mother so that he resembled a performing animal rather than a growing boy. Irritatingly he was one of those children who excelled in all of them.

‘My darling, you play that piece beautifully,’ Mrs. Durston once gushed with tears in her eyes as her son’s fingers glided over the piano keys. ‘You’re so musical. In time I’m sure you’ll be able to compose too. Who knows, you could be another Mozart before we know it?’

‘Nothing like setting your sights at the bottom and working up’ muttered an exasperated Mr. D as he buried himself in his newspaper.. ‘Let’s hope our son lives a bit longer than he did.’ ‘You’re such a clever little boy,’ she said on another occasion, hugging her son to her maternal bosom until he turned puce through lack of oxygen. ‘No-one can read out loud quite in the way you can. You brought the passage to life. I could almost have been at the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party.’

‘Sometimes I feel I am,’ responded her husband as he sipped his tea.

Their child prodigy beamed with pleasure and self-satisfaction.

In the light of all these talents it was hardly surprising to find yet another string had found its way onto the Durston bow when he bounced into the living room one evening and announced in his shrill, little voice. ‘Mummy, guess what? ‘I’ve been selected to represent the school at the inter-schools Spelling Bee.’

She squeezed her child’s face adoringly. ‘Have you my little darling? How marvellous!’

When the boy dashed out of the room, Mr. Durston was confronted by the bewildered face of his wife to whom he had to explain the mechanics of the quiz.

There are some children who would not have been best pleased at having to temporarily forsake their leisure activities in order to pore over the internet predecessor known as a dictionary but Durston Junior had no such objections. He was such a solitary boy there had never been any requirement for communication or interaction with other boys and therefore it was no sacrifice to spend night after night spent immersed in a large tome from his father’s study. He assiduously ploughed his way through the alphabet with great glee, memorising as much as he could for the contest that lay ahead of him. ‘I don’t know why he’s sitting there night after night trying to prepare himself,’ muttered Mr. D. ‘The result is probably going to be a foregone conclusion anyway. It always is.’

‘What’s a foregone conclusion, Mummy?’ asked the prodigy, by-passing his father completely, which was his usual tendency.

She beamed in maternal devotion.

‘It means, my little darling, that no-one else there will be as clever as you are.’

Mr Durston Senior winced.

Trousers neatly pressed and resplendent in his pristine school blazer, Durston Junior sat in aloof confidence with the other children on the venue platform whilst his fellow-competitors betrayed tell-tale signs of nerves; some fidgeting on their seats and others scratching at delicate parts of their anatomies, Durston Junior remained still and looked every inch an eventual winner – even before the first round had taken place. His father noted sadly noted that not one of his son’s peer group was present to support him. His son was not a popular boy. Round upon round yielded several mistakes of the schoolboy ‘howler’ variety, emitting groans from the audience and elimination from the competition. One by one, dejected boys shuffled off to sympathetic applause from the audience and many unashamedly collapsed into the arms of supportive but disappointed parents. By the end, only Durston Junior remained and one other. In a moment of uncharacteristic passion, Mrs. Durston clutched her husband’s hand but he did not notice.

‘Accommodation,’ said the announcer.

‘A-C-C-O-M-M-O-D-A-T-I-O-N. Accommodation’ replied Durston Junior’s opponent.

‘Psychiatrist,’ said the announcer.

‘P-S-Y-C-H-I-A-T-R-I-S-T. Psychiatrist’, replied Durston Junior.

‘Separate,’ said the announcer.

‘S-E-P-A-R-A-T-E. Separate,’ replied the opponent.

‘Despicable,’ ‘Tenacious’, ‘Illustrious,’ – the words went back and forth like a tennis ball in a lengthy rally, with each competitor guessing correctly. The applause ebbed and flowed, with the bias towards Durston Junior’s opponent. After another five rounds there was still no sign of a winner.

‘Illegible.’

‘Definition, please’ requested Durston Junior’s opponent, shuffling his feet. Mrs. Durston sat forward eagerly in her seat. Was her son’s rival eventually losing confidence? ‘Illegible. Hard to read or unreadable.’

The response was measured. ‘I-L-L-E-G-I-B-L-E. Illegible.’

Mrs. Durston sank back in her seat, disappointed. Had the boy’s initial hesitancy been a subterfuge? It was now her son’s turn.

‘Foregone.’

‘Definition, please,’ shot back Durston Junior.

‘Foregone, as in Foregone Conclusion,’ responded the answer. ‘A result regarded as inevitable.’ The child prodigy shot a knowing glance at his mother, remembering that the expression had been discussed in their house only a few days before.

‘F-0-R-G-O-N-E. Foregone,’ came the rapid response.

There was a short silence and some of the audience groaned.

‘I’m so sorry,’ said the announcer, breathing a heavy sigh. ‘That spelling is incorrect when it relates to the definition I gave you. If you had not asked for one, your spelling would have been correct when it relates to the other meaning of the word and I would have allowed it.

Lip wobbling, Durston Junior reluctantly stretched out a moist hand to the victor, whilst his parents looked on with conflicting emotions.

The winner’s father strode over and put his hand on Mr Durston’s shoulder.

‘That was a close run thing, he conceded. ‘You must be really annoyed at the inflexibility of the organisers. I know I would be in your position.’

Mr. Durston shrugged. ‘One of those things, really.’

‘Good God, man,’ was the response. ‘Don’t you care? There’s a £1,000 prize at stake, plus the honour of your son’s school.’

‘I don’t, really,’ said Mr. Durston putting on his coat. He looked over at his son. ‘You see, it will do him good to know there’s no such thing in life as a foregone conclusion.’ He smiled knowingly. ‘That’s F-O-R-E-G-O-N-E, of course. In my son’s case the opportunity is now ‘F-0-R-G-O-N-E. Goodnight.’