The Brothers' Lot (5 page)

“Anthony, sir.”

“Well,
Antney, sir,
Brother Loughlin is the Head Brother.”

“Ehm, ehm, ehm, Brudder Loughlin, sir,” repeated Anthony carefully.

Mr. Pollock took the note from the boy’s trembling hand and nodded grimly while he read it.

“Go raibh maith agat. Tell Brother Loughlin they will be there in a moment,” said Mr. Pollock.

“Yes sir,” answered Anthony, and darted from the class in relief.

“Mr. Bradshaw, I see by the smirk on your face that you enjoyed that little interlude. Let us see how you enjoy your visit to Brother Loughlin’s office. Out! Now!” barked Mr. Pollock.

Bradshaw stood up and slowly moved toward the door.

“And you can join him, Mr. McDonagh,” added Mr. Pollock.

McDonagh got up and he and Bradshaw left. The puzzlement abroad in the rest of the class was not evident in the two boys. They had a pretty good idea of what they were in for.

Mr. Pollock managed to kill the rest of the double class by inspecting all the books in the cupboard and making each boy sign for what he received. A collective sigh of relief greeted the bell that signaled the ten minutes of morning break.

6

O
utside Brother Loughlin’s office was not a pleasant place to be. There was nowhere but Mrs. Broderick’s adjoining office to wait in. She had been at the school longer than anyone. Even Loughlin was a little scared of her. Some of the more articulate sixth years had christened her Only the Good Die Young.

McDonagh, Bradshaw, and Slater from 5-F stood awkwardly half in and half out of her office. Mrs. Broderick ignored them and harrumphed her way through whatever it was she did to pieces of paper to keep the school running. Slater and Bradshaw rubbed their palms together behind their backs to work up some heat that would dull the inevitable leathering they were going to receive. Small break had come and gone and still nothing had happened. The waiting was the worst. They knew it. Brother Loughlin knew it. It wasn’t subtle but it worked.

McDonagh, Bradshaw, and Slater were not new to this experience, but this was one of the more severe raps they had been got on recently, even counting the fire in the toilets that had never been conclusively pinned on them. This time they were in for it. The three of them had been seen at the end-of-year sports day in June carrying Mr. Laverty’s tiny car into the middle of the waste ground beside the Saint Francis Industrial School sports field. What annoyed Mr. Laverty more than the moving of his car were the sticky multicolored spits they had left on the door handles and windshield.

They watched the brown door behind Mrs. Broderick’s head. On the right-hand side was a little gadget with lights on it. At the moment the red light read
Engaged
. When it changed to the green
Enter
they would have to go in. They were unsure if it would be a group beating or if they would be broken down individually. Their hearts sank as they heard the unmistakable hurried squeaking of crepe-soled brothel-creepers approaching. Mr. Pollock entered, glowered at them, and wiped the sweat from his head.

Seconds later a gaggle of angry Brothers crowded into the doorway.

“I told you I would deal with this,” Mr. Pollock snapped at them.

“Out of the way!”

“This is an emergency!”

“We have to see him now!”

“Brothers! Gentlemen!” weaseled Mr. Pollock in a pitch honed to cut through even the most uproarious cacophony of voices.

Brother Tobin, the Physics and Geography teacher, broke past Mr. Pollock and barged into Brother Loughlin’s office waving the newspaper. “Take a look at that then!” he stammered, his tobacco-stained shock of gray hair standing up in alarm.

Brother Boland and Brother Kennedy followed Brother Tobin and soon there was a shouting match going on. Mr. Pollock strode into Brother Loughlin’s office and closed the door behind him with a sickening vacuum-like
clunk
.

The boys could make out the agitated rising and falling tones inside Brother Loughlin’s office but none of the words. Mrs. Broderick too was obviously trying hard to hear what was going on, but as soon as she noticed the boys were aware of this, she glowered at them contemptuously and went back to stapling bits of official-looking paper to other differently colored bits of official-looking paper.

Mr. Pollock’s head suddenly appeared in the crack of the open door: “You boys, yes, you boys there, back to your classes! We’ll deal with you later.”

A reprieve? No way. They were dead. It was just a question of time. Whatever was going on, it was just temporary. Nonetheless, they were all pleased by the worried look on Mr. Pollock’s face. They were so elated, in fact, that on the way back to class they stopped in the outside toilets for a smoke.

“Well, what do you say to that?” challenged Brother Tobin as he pushed the paper into Brother Loughlin’s pudgy hands. Brother Loughlin and Mr. Pollock went into a little managerial huddle over the paper and read:

We, Fionn and Patrick Sweeney, hereby make known our application for planning permission for development on the site of The Brothers of Godly Coercion School for Young Boys of Meager Means at Greater Little Werburgh Street, North, in the city of Dublin (Lot #867-3D/9A, Folio 4287 of the Register of Freeholds) for the construction of a storage and warehouse facility to service the nearby port and docks on this day of September nineteenth …

“This is outrageous,” blustered Brother Loughlin. “This cannot be right. There must be some mistake. We’ll get to the bottom of this and there will be no more about it!”

“They’re out to destroy the Brotherhood,” hissed Brother Boland.

“Who’s they?”

“Those Sweeneys and their cronies, whoever they are.”

“Probably with the Labour Party.”

“I don’t remember ever teaching any Sweeney at this school.”

“Brothers, Brothers, stop this nonsense! I will take care of this. It is some silly clerical misunderstanding. I’ll get to the bottom of it,” cried Brother Loughlin above the din.

“When?” asked Brother Boland, unconvinced.

“Now! So please get back to your duties and I will take care of mine.” Brother Loughlin waved his hand imperiously toward the door.

“I don’t like the sound of it, I tell you, not one bit,” worried Brother Boland as he left.

“No, that’s fine, I’ll wait … Yes … Thank you,” Brother Loughlin muttered into the mouthpiece of his telephone. This was his fifth call.

Mr. Pollock paced the room nervously and looked out through the wire-reinforced glass onto the drab street and the burnt-out garage across the way. Brother Loughlin was finding the slow, badly oiled wheels of local government a little trying. He was on his third cigarette already and he normally waited to smoke until after lunch when Mrs. Broderick brought him his two o’clock cup of tea.

“They’re putting me onto someone higher up,” he informed Mr. Pollock, who was not at all concerned by this apparent threat. He was convinced it was a prank. He just wanted to be sure so they could wholeheartedly get back to dealing with McDonagh, Bradshaw, and Slater. It was the best excuse for vindictiveness that had come his way since May and he was not going to let it slip by. It was always healthy to start off a new year with a good punishing of recidivist troublemakers.

7

R
ight then, you ungovernable rabble. Settle down!” Brother Kennedy strode up and down in front of the boys. He was not at all happy about this, but the Conclave of Brothers Superiors had decided that if the Department of Education was going to insist on Physical Education classes, it could not be trusted to a lay teacher to administer them in a manner guaranteed to preserve the Brothers’ ethos. Brother Kennedy had been selected by lot. His knowledge of Physical Education was limited and extended little further than the precepts laid down for the Brothers in a recent circular from the National Conclave that exhorted them to abstain from:

1. The use of intoxicating drink.

2. The wearing of soft hats (berets and birettas excluded).

3. The public fondling of young boys.

4. Peering into trams, omnibuses, hansom cabs, taxis, or other public conveyances likely to cause impure thoughts.

A quick survey of the list left Brother Kennedy with two fairly uncontroversial if useless principles to impart as a philosophy of Physical Education.

“How many of you here wear soft hats or peer into trams or buses?” he asked suddenly. No one moved. Experience had taught them that open-ended questions without clearly defined consequences attached to the answers were best avoided. No one even dared to point out that trams had not run in Dublin for years.

“Well, let me tell you that whether you do or don’t do either of those things, if you are not vigilant you will find yourselves drifting into such depraved activities. It may begin with soft woolly hats, but mark my words, it will not end there. Then there will be the trilby, the fedora, the soft slouch, or any number of feeble pieces of millenary, and before you know it, you will find yourself peering into public conveyances with lustful intent, and that way lies sickness and depravity and the path to Hell and damnation.”

Brother Kennedy paused for breath. His bald head was already glowing bright red with the exertion of his discourse.

“You, boy, what is your name?”

“Vincent O’Connor.”

“Vincent O’Connor, BROTHER!” Brother Kennedy barked.

“Vincent O’Connor, Brother,” O’Connor replied.

“What sports do you play, O’Connor?”

“Ehm, football, relievio.”

“Define football.”

“Soccer.”

“Soccer, BROTHER!”

“Soccer, Brother.”

“Soccer, ha! Bloody vile foreign garrison game! And what is relievio?”

“You have two teams and one tries to catch the other and put them in the den, but if you get in the den without being caught and shout
Relievio
, then all your team are free again,” explained O’Connor.

“That is not a sport! That is a corner boy’s street game! Out to the line!”

As they were standing in the middle of the gym hall, no one was quite sure where the line was supposed to be. O’Connor took a guess and started walking toward the stage.

“Not over there, you fool,” cried Brother Kennedy and swooped toward him. He grabbed the boy by the hairs above the ears and dragged him over to the side of the hall near the climbing ropes. “If you don’t know what you are supposed to be doing, ASK!” he shouted, and delivered a couple of strong raps to the boy’s head to enforce his point. “You, boy! What’s your name?”

“Francis Scully … Brother.”

Brother Kennedy arched what traces of eyebrows he had at him. “And what sports do you play, Scully?”

“Pullin’ me prick,” whispered McDonagh behind Scully.

“Pullin’, ehm,” began Scully. McDonagh drew in his breath sharply. There’d be murder. “Ehm, what do you call it, Brother? Pullin’ me, ehm, the rope, like, tug of war!” announced Scully triumphantly.

“That is not a sport, you stupid amadhán!” shouted Brother Kennedy.

“But it’s in the community games, Brother,” protested Scully.

“I’ll community-games you! Out to the line!”

Scully joined O’Connor beside the climbing ropes. They both started rubbing their hands together behind their backs.

“You, boys! Hands by your sides!” called Brother Kennedy across the hall. He knew well what they were doing. He had not spent thirty years leathering recalcitrant thugs without learning a thing or two.

Scully and O’Connor sullenly complied.

“You, boy, there, what’s your name now?”

“Finbar Sullivan, Brother.”

“Oh, the new boy. Quite a Gaelic footballer and a hurler, I believe,” mused Brother Kennedy approvingly.

Finbar felt himself severely on the spot. He could sense the swell of scrutiny press around him. He had to do something or he would be marked as a “good pupil,” and it would be doubtful if he could make it through the week.

“Only when the soccer season is over, Brother,” he found himself saying. It was like someone had gotten inside his head and was finding new circuits in his makeup that he had never known before. It was by equal measure exhilarating and frightening.

Brother Kennedy stared at him in disbelief. This was inconceivable. It was all very well for Dublin guttersnipes to know no better than the street game of soccer, but for a boy from the noble County of Cork to not only know how to play Gaelic games but to turn his back on them deliberately in favor of the foreign evil of soccer was beyond perfidy.

“Out to the line, you ingrate!” he barked, the veins in his forehead showing dark blue against the bright red of his skull.

In twenty minutes all except Maher, who’d had polio and wore braces on his legs and thus could not reasonably be victimized for his lack of sports playing, at least not on the first day, were standing on the line.

Brother Kennedy contemplated the group. He walked right up to Finbar, his eyes gleaming malevolently. “Go to Brother Loughlin and ask him for the extra leather,” he hissed, and frog-marched Finbar to the door. “And no delaying or I’ll have your guts for garters.”

Finbar stood outside Mrs. Broderick’s office and tapped lightly on the door frame.

“What is it you want?” Mrs. Broderick lifted her head and brought the full force of her cold, empty stare to bear on him.

“Ehm, Brother Kennedy sent me to, ehm, get a leather, the extra leather.”

“Brother Loughlin is in the monastery.” She pointed across the yard with her twiglike fingers and offered no further explanation.

“But, but—”

“No buts, young man. You were sent to Brother Loughlin and to Brother Loughlin you will go. I’m sure he’ll have some words of advice for you.”

Finbar walked heavily across the yard and past the downstairs lab. He edged in the door, and just beyond the corridor that led to the back lab he saw the big double door to the monastery. He pushed it open carefully and was assaulted immediately by the smell. The predominant odor was one of floor wax, but within it were tinges of old cabbage, sweat, and whatever toxic thing Mrs. McCurtin, the housekeeper, used to polish the brasses. Finbar breathed as shallowly as his mounting unease would let him. His shoes squeaked on the polished floor. The silence around him seemed to be weighing the moment, gauging when the best time would be to pounce and devour him.