Authors: Kevin Holohan
“You told me to get out, sir.”
“No, sor. I told you that I didn’t understand. Ní thuigim. I don’t understand. Understand?”
This was one of Mr. Pollock’s favorite ways of slighting the boys. “Sor” in Gaelic meant louse and it was the custom during colonization for the tenants to take what little pleasure they could get by addressing their rack-renting landlords with the word.
McDonagh saw a great opportunity for further confusing the issue by asking if “Ní thuigim” meant “I understand” or “I don’t understand,” but something glinted dangerously in Mr. Pollock’s eyes and he thought the better of it. Just as he was about to answer, Mr. Pollock suddenly turned sideways and his leather was out and he was smacking McDonagh hard across the right hand.
“Ní thuigim. I don’t understand. Ní thuigim. Repeat!” he shouted at McDonagh, each syllable punctuated with the sharp sound of the leather on the boy’s palm.
“Ní thuigim, I don’t understand,” said McDonagh tonelessly.
“Suigh síos,” barked Mr. Pollock, and then watched McDonagh as if defying him to deliberately misunderstand that one. McDonagh walked sullenly back to his desk and sat down as instructed.
The heavy post-leathering silence settled down on the boys like dense soot. The lines were drawn. No messing around. It was true what they’d heard. Pollock
was
a complete bastard. He was as bad as any of the Brothers. This was the shape of the year to come.
Grimly they copied down the timetable Mr. Pollock wrote on the blackboard, dismayed to see that Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays were going to start with double Irish with him and last thing Friday was Religion with him.
Mr. Pollock walked around the class checking that they were copying correctly. “You would want to take more care of your handwriting, Mr. McDonagh,” he said pointedly as he passed the boy’s desk. McDonagh said nothing and went on writing with his swollen, throbbing hand.
“Now, we will walk silently down the stairs and proceed to the hall for the mass,” announced Mr. Pollock when he had completed his circuit of the class.
F
ather Flynn cleared his throat nervously. This was his first school mass as chaplain to the Brothers of Godly Coercion. As the newest priest at Saint Werburgh’s parish, this extra duty had fallen to him. He had trimmed his beard three times the previous night. The uneven growth he now presented to the world was what he determined to be his most youth-friendly, approachable, and understanding face.
He smiled broadly at the hallful of boys in front of him and let rip: “We are all God’s family. And He has asked us to go on a journey with Him. As we begin this new school year, we are like pioneers in the cowboy films that I am sure you boys like so much. You know the ones with the covered wagons going across the desert in search of their promised land. Well, Jesus is like our scout. He rides ahead of us and checks the way and then comes back to warn us of any dangers that might lie ahead.”
“Deadly! Jesus and the Holy Ghost trying to sell crucifixes and holy medals to the Apaches,” whispered Scully.
Lynch started to chuckle. That was always dangerous and Scully knew it. Lynch had one of those soft, shaking, crazed chuckles that was really contagious. With anyone else Scully could pass off his remarks and keep a totally straight face himself, but if Lynch started to giggle …
“Many times when Jesus returns from His scouting missions we are too busy or proud to listen to Him. Many things can get in the way. Sometimes we are distracted by our children crying or we are worried about finding food or water, or sometimes we are working out how long we will have to save up for those new football boots. Sometimes we don’t listen to Our Lord and insist on walking into danger …”
“And then the Apaches cut yer balls off and wear them round their necks on a string.” Scully couldn’t help it. It just came out.
Lynch started to shake in the plastic chair beside him. Scully was starting to go too. He was chugging with silent hysterics and starting to sweat.
“We must try to listen to Our Lord when He warns us of the dangers. We must open our hearts to Him …” continued Father Flynn.
“Shut up, ye wanker, or I’ll open yer head for ye,” muttered Lynch. It wasn’t funny, but it was enough. They were both now giggling helplessly. Lynch tried to cough his laugh away. That made Scully worse. He tried really hard not to listen to any more of Father Flynn’s sermon. Another crack and they would be laughing out loud and then there would be trouble.
Scully put his fingers in his ears and started to hum softly: anything not to hear Father Flynn say something stupid like “The Lord is there to save our scalps,” anything but that. He felt Lynch’s rocking beside him subside and decided it was safe. He took his fingers out of his ears. The sermon was over. They were on the home straight. Soon it would be lunchtime.
Mr. Pollock then struck up on the warped, untunable school piano. He launched into “The Lord Is My Shepherd” with far more gusto than ability, hitting bum notes with artful and oblivious incompetence. Lynch started to sing along, following Mr. Pollock’s bum notes. That did it. Scully was in hysterics. His shoulders shook violently as he tried to stifle the laugh.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, the bulk of Brother Loughlin burst through the sea of plastic chairs. Scully saw him coming but there was nothing he could do; he was caught. Lynch put on his most angelic face and continued to sing tunelessly along with Mr. Pollock’s playing. Brother Loughlin grabbed Scully by the strands of hair above the ear and dragged him out of the hall.
“So, Mr. Scully? Something funny about ‘The Lord Is My Shepherd’ then, is there?”
“No, Brother,” mumbled Scully as the words
The Lord Is My Apache Wearing Loughlin’s Balls Round His Neck
flashed momentarily across his mind.
Somehow his face betrayed a hint of inner smirk. In a surprising blur of speed for someone so bulky, Brother Loughlin whipped his leather out of his sleeve and smacked Scully across the face with it.
The boy’s face smarted and tingled. He had been caught completely off guard. His eyes watered but he stared at Loughlin as steadily as he could. He would not give the bastard any satisfaction.
“So, Mr. Scully? Anything else to say for yourself? Any smart-alecky remark you would like to make?”
“No.”
“No, BROTHER!” shouted Brother Loughlin. He grabbed Scully’s right hand and began to leather him, punctuating each word with a blow. “I’ll! Teach! You! Manners! You! Little! Thug! Now get back to your seat and no more messing out of you!”
Brother Loughlin pushed Scully through the doors into the hall.
“Go in peace now to love and serve the Lord,” intoned Father Flynn from the altar on the stage as he blessed them all. Mr. Pollock struck up the last hymn, “Nearer My God to Thee.” It was one of his favorites. That only increased the mauling he subjected it to.
Scully walked slowly back to his seat and stood beside Lynch, who looked sideways at him with the minimum of head movement.
“Fucking bastard! Fucking fat bastard!” hissed Scully under his breath.
Lynch nodded and went back to annihilating the hymn with tuneless gusto: “Neeeeerer my Goooooodddd toooooo Theeeeeeeee, neeeeeeeeyrer tooooooooooo Theeeeeeeeeeee. Eeeeeeeeen tho it beeeeeee a crosssssssssss …”
Scully smiled wanly and rubbed his hands together to deaden the stinging. “Fat fuck, he’s dead,” he continued to mutter under the strains of half-hearted hymn-singing around him.
There were still two verses to go when the lunch bell rang out from the yard. Mr. Pollock’s playing seemed to slow down. Lynch gave up his derisory singing and started to shift agitatedly from foot to foot. It was one thing to waste what would have been double math class with this mass, but it was very much another to start messing with the lunch break. Lynch felt very strongly about this.
With a final chord that could only be described as G-demented, Mr. Pollock put “Nearer My God to Thee” to uneasy rest and the mass was finally over.
“All boys will assemble outside with their form master and return to their classes and gather up their things. Today being Friday, we will be granting you a half day. Monday will follow the timetables you have been given,” announced Brother Loughlin from the stage.
There was no cheering or whooping to celebrate the half day. All energy was expended in getting outside as quickly as possible. As Mr. Pollock and his class were close to the back, they got themselves organized and reached the school first. The first boys stopped suddenly and stood at the edge of the yard.
“What’s wrong with you boys there? Move on!” snapped Mr. Pollock from the back of the group. He stepped forward and then he too stopped in his tracks.
The gray concrete of the yard was littered with another, different gray. Strewn around were shattered roof slates that lay there like birds that had suddenly turned to stone and plummeted from the sky. There was not a breath of wind. As they watched, another slate slid from the roof and sailed to the ground where it smashed into pieces with a weird metallic crash.
Mr. Pollock looked cautiously up at the roof of the school. He could see nothing.
“Right, you boys, stay close to the wall. Get your things from the class and go straight home. Straight home! No loitering about the yard!”
They ran for the door and up the stairs.
“Deadly! The place is falling to bits!” shouted McDonagh.
“Wonder who done them slates. I’d never’ve thinkin’ of that,” remarked Lynch admiringly.
As they left they saw Mr. Pollock supervising proceedings, letting one class at a time go up and get their things. His voice was a brittle whine as he shouted instructions and lashed out with his leather at the inattentive and the overeager.
Dermot McDermott, School Janitor, Grade IV, sat quietly in his shed behind the school hall waiting for the kettle to boil. As first days went, this had not been a bad one. There had been no mess-ups in classes or desks, and while they were all at mass he had been able to patch the puncture on the back wheel of his bicycle.
McDermott pulled his milk crate over to the door and sat watching the sparrows pick at the moss on the twenty-foot wall that separated the school from the adjoining Lombard Street Jezebel Laundry. It was still not too cold and he could sit beside the open door and enjoy his tea. From the yard he could hear the muted sounds of the boys drifting home. A nice cup of tea and then he could head home by way of Stern’s, the butchers, and get a few nice bits of lamb’s liver for the tea. Mrs. McDermott was very partial to the bit of liver.
From the pocket of his overalls he removed a small notebook and a stubby pencil that he had taken from Hackett’s, the bookmakers at Binn’s Bridge. He stared at the sliver of sky above the wall that divided the school from the laundry and wrote:
In the autumn of desire
Screeds of cloud flow tear
Across the mind’s eye
Billowing, billowing
Filled with the rain
Of promise.
How many autumn breezes
Have promised to keep
Close to—
“Mr. McDermott, I want you to look at the roof!”
Brother Loughlin was standing over him looking down at the notebook with profound distaste. It was all very well for a member of the working class to know how to write, but one who did it for recreation was deeply suspect in Brother Loughlin’s estimation.
“And what might be the matter with the roof, Brother?”
“There are some slates that have fallen off on the school side. The yard is littered with them. You might want to take a look at it now that we have given the boys a half day. Best get it fixed before they all come back on Monday.”
“But I’m not a roofer. I’m a janitor.”
“I am well aware of that, Mr. McDermott, but where do you expect me to find a roofer at this hour on a Friday afternoon?”
“It’s all the same to me.”
“Are you saying you won’t fix the roof?”
“Ah, no. That wouldn’t be exactly what I am saying. What I am saying is that it would probably be better to get a certified, accredited roofer to look at it. I could see if there’s any of the lads I know would take a look at it for you.”
“Mr. McDermott! I don’t have time for this hairsplitting! Either get up on that roof or find yourself another position!”
“But Brother, I could be sanctioned for crossing over demarcation lines. Brannigan Brothers could blackball me. You know they run the whole shebang. I’d love to fix the roof for you but I’m a janitor. I can’t be doing that. Imagine if there were roofers wandering in here off the streets to mop out the toilets or lock the gates or—”
“The roof, Mr. McDermott!”
“All right. All right. I’ll take a look at it.”
“Good, and don’t be too long about it.”
Before McDermott could say anything else his kettle started hissing and spitting, threatening to extinguish his kerosene stove.
“I didn’t know you had a stove in here, Mr. McDermott,” said Brother Loughlin archly, every syllable implying that there probably shouldn’t be one in the janitor’s shed.
“I said I’ll go and look at it now.”
“Well be quick about it then!” replied Brother Loughlin and strode away.
“Ah, go ask me arse, ye big fat fucker!” muttered McDermott, then turned off the stove.
“Ah, for fuck sake!” exclaimed McDermott when he finally made it on to the roof. While sitting in his shed bloody-mindedly finishing his tea, he had convinced himself that the roof would be a minor matter of a few loose slates. A couple of nails and a couple of bits of plywood to patch the holes and he would be off home.
Now, as he stood unsteadily on the steeply pitched roof, he saw that the slates had not all slid from the same part of the roof. With almost mathematical precision the slates had fallen from roughly fifty different spots and the area of damage spread over the whole west side of the roof.
“I’ll be here all fucking day!” McDermott moaned aloud and turned to make his way back down to collect the necessary tools. As he moved he noticed the roof joist in one of the nearby holes was almost completely rotted through. “No way I’m fixing that as well.” He made his way carefully back to the gable end and climbed down.