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Authors: Kevin Holohan
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Loughlin.
Brothers Mulligan and Cox shuffled out and closed the door carefully behind them.
“Now, Brian, why don’t you show me exactly what you think Brother Cox tried to do to you …”
9
A fter lunch Scully, Lynch, and McDonagh trudged up the stairs, Lynch pushing his way through a bunch of sixth years who had one look at him and thought the better of taking issue with it. That was the way with Lynch. Even as a first year he had been going around in-timidating third years. It wasn’t that he was particularly big or strong looking. He just had that crazed broken-glass glint in his eye of someone who really didn’t give a shit. Few things are scarier than people who are so perfectly un-touched by any sense of caution or consequence. One of the few reasons Lynch was in school at all was that it was a condition of his da’s parole. It was not a great setup but it did keep his da off his back.
Mr. Murphy was already in the class pulling things from his bag when they arrived. Known to a lot of the boys as Spud, Mr. Murphy was one of the only soft places in the rocky barren landscape of the teaching staff. He was supposedly the History teacher, but even those who really liked him had to admit that he was a hopeless instructor in any conventional sense of getting the crap that you needed for exams into your head. He was, however, generally regarded as a good sort.
Spud had a mischievous twinkle of light in his eye and a ready smile that set him apart. The Brothers just about tolerated him, knowing from their last attempt that he kept a thorough diary and they could not fire him without some very solid pretext. The other lay teachers resented him and his easy way with the boys which they felt undermined their authority. He could not have cared less.
Spud closed the classroom door and the atmosphere was unlike anything Finbar had so far experienced. Gone was the boys’ wary, watchful belligerence. Instead it felt like a bright airy space where laughter might erupt at any second. Everyone relaxed in the knowledge that you had to really piss Spud off before anything nasty would happen.
“Having a good return to school, genitalmen?” asked Spud.
“Are you?” called McDonagh.
Spud grinned. He had taught most of these boys since first year. Even though many had failed History in their Inter Cert, they would persist with it, knowing that under Spud’s tutelage they would probably fail it in the Leaving Cert too. The important thing was to have three classes a week where they came in contact with someone who seemed to be from the same planet as them.
“Oh yeah, delighted to be back,” he droned in a pained tone.
The boys laughed. Finbar was at first shocked by this sound, so alien to the school. It felt like he was temporarily inside some charmed circle.
“Well, anyway. It looks like I will have you lot in my nightmares for another two years then. Anyone new?” Spud peered around the class.
Finbar could feel himself going red again. Should he put his hand up or just hope the question would go away? Smalley Mullen was having none of it. “Bogman is new!” he called out. Finbar reluctantly raised his hand.
“I assume that is not your real name.”
“No sir. Finbar Sullivan, sir.”
“And where did you come from, Finbar?”
“Eh, Cork City, sir.”
There were a few giggles and echoes of Finbar’s accent and Spud raised his eyebrows in tired admonishment. He nodded and, as he pulled another piece of paper from his bag, added: “That’s nice. My mother was from Cork. Well, Finbar, welcome to the stately pleasure dome of Little Werburgh Street. They’re not as bad as they seem. That’s the boys, I mean. The staff are another kettle of different-colored horses that you’ll have to make up your own mind about.”
A furtive mole-faced first year knocked at the door and Spud waved him in.
“Brother Loughlin sent …” He glanced at the note he clutched in his hand, then passed it to the teacher and
Brothers Mulligan and Cox shuffled out and closed the door carefully behind them.
“Now, Brian, why don’t you show me exactly what you think Brother Cox tried to do to you …”
9
A fter lunch Scully, Lynch, and McDonagh trudged up the stairs, Lynch pushing his way through a bunch of sixth years who had one look at him and thought the better of taking issue with it. That was the way with Lynch. Even as a first year he had been going around in-timidating third years. It wasn’t that he was particularly big or strong looking. He just had that crazed broken-glass glint in his eye of someone who really didn’t give a shit. Few things are scarier than people who are so perfectly un-touched by any sense of caution or consequence. One of the few reasons Lynch was in school at all was that it was a condition of his da’s parole. It was not a great setup but it did keep his da off his back.
Mr. Murphy was already in the class pulling things from his bag when they arrived. Known to a lot of the boys as Spud, Mr. Murphy was one of the only soft places in the rocky barren landscape of the teaching staff. He was supposedly the History teacher, but even those who really liked him had to admit that he was a hopeless instructor in any conventional sense of getting the crap that you needed for exams into your head. He was, however, generally regarded as a good sort.
Spud had a mischievous twinkle of light in his eye and a ready smile that set him apart. The Brothers just about tolerated him, knowing from their last attempt that he kept a thorough diary and they could not fire him without some very solid pretext. The other lay teachers resented him and his easy way with the boys which they felt undermined their authority. He could not have cared less.
Spud closed the classroom door and the atmosphere was unlike anything Finbar had so far experienced. Gone was the boys’ wary, watchful belligerence. Instead it felt like a bright airy space where laughter might erupt at any second. Everyone relaxed in the knowledge that you had to really piss Spud off before anything nasty would happen.
“Having a good return to school, genitalmen?” asked Spud.
“Are you?” called McDonagh.
Spud grinned. He had taught most of these boys since first year. Even though many had failed History in their Inter Cert, they would persist with it, knowing that under Spud’s tutelage they would probably fail it in the Leaving Cert too. The important thing was to have three classes a week where they came in contact with someone who seemed to be from the same planet as them.
“Oh yeah, delighted to be back,” he droned in a pained tone.
The boys laughed. Finbar was at first shocked by this sound, so alien to the school. It felt like he was temporarily inside some charmed circle.
“Well, anyway. It looks like I will have you lot in my nightmares for another two years then. Anyone new?” Spud peered around the class.
Finbar could feel himself going red again. Should he put his hand up or just hope the question would go away? Smalley Mullen was having none of it. “Bogman is new!” he called out. Finbar reluctantly raised his hand.
“I assume that is not your real name.”
“No sir. Finbar Sullivan, sir.”
“And where did you come from, Finbar?”
“Eh, Cork City, sir.”
There were a few giggles and echoes of Finbar’s accent and Spud raised his eyebrows in tired admonishment. He nodded and, as he pulled another piece of paper from his bag, added: “That’s nice. My mother was from Cork. Well, Finbar, welcome to the stately pleasure dome of Little Werburgh Street. They’re not as bad as they seem. That’s the boys, I mean. The staff are another kettle of different-colored horses that you’ll have to make up your own mind about.”
A furtive mole-faced first year knocked at the door and Spud waved him in.
“Brother Loughlin sent …” He glanced at the note he clutched in his hand, then passed it to the teacher and
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