Most of the boys attending St Bart’s were boarders, so Father Aquinas warned them that they would not only be scholarship boys, but also two of the very few day pupils. They had spoken to him one day when they went up for a look around before the school opened. He never mentioned the night of Mr Lynch or the whiskey and neither did they. Patrick’s father had gone missing for a few days after that incident, much to everyone’s relief, but like a bad penny he turned up again, with no recollection of having ever turned up at Seán Tobin’s funeral. In fact, it was a source of rage to him that his wife hadn’t informed him of the death of his neighbour. Liam knew he was back when he found Mrs Lynch in their kitchen with his mother applying a cold compress for a black eye and a cut lip.
Father Aquinas brought them into the monastery and once again gave them tea and fruit cake as they chatted easily about the coming years. He taught in the junior school, of course, but all the priests and brothers lived together, so he told them who would be teaching what subjects.
Liam hid his disappointment when he heard that Father Xavier would be teaching Maths. Firstly, because he found the subject so difficult but he also remembered the superior attitude of the priest the night he and Patrick had come looking for help when he thought he might have murdered Mr Lynch. Father Xavier had light blue eyes and very pale skin. He had one of those silly hairstyles where he combed a long dark oiled piece from the side of his head over the bald top in an effort to make it look like he had hair, but the reality was it looked ridiculous. Everyone knew he only liked the wealthy people’s sons, and he was unashamed in his favouritism. Liam and Patrick were both trying to avoid him as much as possible.
Daddy used to annoy Mammy by saying, ‘Isn’t it a right oddity that they find plenty of vocations up the long avenue, not so many in the cottages.’ Liam didn’t know what he meant but when he asked him one day as they were walking home from town, he explained, ‘Not all of them, Liam, but some people in the Church are very fond of money and fond of people with money, so sometimes I wonder if they are more interested of making nuns and priests of wealthy people’s sons and daughters than those children of the poorer people. Your mother wouldn’t hear a word said against the Church, and I’m a good Catholic, who goes to Mass and all of that, but I’m not blind either. That’s all I meant.’ Liam knew from the tone he used that that was the end of the conversation. Liam had a feeling that Father Xavier might just be the kind of priest Daddy was talking about. Still, Liam had been brought up to believe that you judge a person by their words and deeds not by their address or any other trappings of wealth, so he held his head high as he passed a group of boys a little older than himself. They were resplendent in navy blazers with royal blue piping and grey flannel trousers. Their shirts were crisp and white and their black leather shoes gleamed with newness.
Liam was wearing a pullover. ‘You didn’t have to have a blazer,’ the man in the shop had said when he came in with Mammy—the uniform was either a pullover or a blazer. There were two full pounds difference in price between them so despite Mammy’s misgivings, Liam insisted on getting the pullover.
He realised now that he was the only one without a blazer. As he entered the hall, his eyes scanned anxiously for Patrick. Relieved, he spotted him and walked over to where he stood, also in a blazer.
‘How come you had to come in early?’ Liam asked.
‘I needed to get a blazer. The day I came in looking for a uniform, all the blazers were from fellas who were finished school so they were huge. Father O’Keeffe, he’s in charge of uniforms, sent word that I was to come in early and get fitted.’ He looked older, Liam thought, in his nearly new uniform. Mrs Lynch had let the trousers down since the ones he got were too short and she pressed them around a hundred times so the original crease wouldn’t show—well not unless you were examining them anyway. She turned the collar and cuffs of the shirts he got, marvelling at the fact that nobody had done it before, and with his striped tie, Liam thought his friend looked very grown up and sophisticated. He’d grown over the summer, as well, so he was a good head taller than Liam. He fought the urge to wish he had a blazer too, knowing his father would expect him to rise above such silliness.
Other boys their age filtered into the hall slowly, most of them in pairs or threesomes, though one or two looked forlorn and lonely. The hubbub of chatter that seemed so loud outside was subdued by the presence of several black soutaned priests, who were standing on the stage at the top of the long room. Most boys held suitcases, presumably containing their belongings for a whole term spent at school. He tried to imagine what it would be like to live in the school and felt sorry for one lad standing alone, who was trying unsuccessfully to hold back the tears. Liam nudged Patrick and nodded in his direction.
‘Shall we ask him if he wants to stand with us?’
Patrick grinned, ‘Do sure, he looks like the cows we used to see waiting in line to go into Slattery’s slaughterhouse! Though he looks fairly well-heeled, so he mightn’t want to be seen with two paupers like us.’
Liam walked across to where the apple-cheeked boy stood. He was slightly chubby with blond curls and looked like an angel that you’d see in holy pictures. He was what his mother would have called a nice soft boy, who showed all the signs of being well-fed and well-minded.
‘Do you want to come over near me and my friend rather than stand on your own?’ Liam asked, feeling kind of foolish and slightly regretting his decision.
The boy looked at him as if he were a terrifying animal.
‘We’re new as well, and we don’t know anyone either,’ he added, hoping to relax the boy.
‘All right,’ he replied and followed Liam back to where Patrick stood waiting.
‘I’m Liam Tobin, and this is my friend, Patrick Lynch. We’re from Chapel Street, just under the Goldie Fish, and we’re here on a scholarship.’
They had made a decision soon after getting the scholarship that they would tell everyone their status right away. Patrick said it would take the power away from anyone who would try to put them down about it if they said it loud and proud. Liam had smiled when he said that, it was just like something Daddy would have said.
They waited for him to reply and after a few seconds he did. ‘My name is Hugo FitzHenry, and my mother is paying for me to come here though I fervently wished she wouldn’t.’ His voice sounded very posh to Liam’s ears.
‘Why not? Why don’t you want to come here?’ Patrick was curious. Hugo observed them for a moment, his china-blue eyes unblinking. Then he spoke again, in the strange accent.
‘Well, for several reasons really. Firstly, I loathe school in all its forms. I had a governess, then a tutor, and eventually I was sent to the village school, all uniformly dreadful experiences. Secondly, I have to leave my pony, who hates it if I go away even for one night, and thirdly, I like sleeping in my own bed and all the comforts of home. Cook makes me creamy porridge and a boiled egg with toast soldiers every morning, and she warms my socks and vest in the oven before I put them on in case I get a chill. I don’t feel I am to be regarded with the same level of adoration here.’ He smirked at the last bit as he glanced around the austere hall, and his accent sounded almost English. The boys couldn’t imagine what kind of a background he came from but if he had a pony of his own, they must have land and therefore he must be rich. They didn’t know any rich people so this Hugo FitzHenry was a novelty.
Liam and Patrick exchanged a look that said, ‘Listen to your man,’ and smiled conspiratorially. At least he had cheered up and he seemed happy to be with them. Liam wondered if he was in the wrong place, he was definitely gentry and they were all Protestant—the descendants of the English invaders.
‘Sorry now, but you do know this is a Catholic school, don’t you?’ he said, anxious that the poor lad wasn’t in the wrong school.
‘Mama...er…my mother converted to Catholicism to marry my father and now she’s more devout than those born to the faith, certainly
more than he ever was. It really is most trying. And the most tragic result of her passionate indoctrination into the Church of Rome is her only child being locked up here for the foreseeable.’ He sighed dramatically.
‘Converted from what?’ Liam asked confused. Hugo’s vocabulary was like nothing he’d ever heard before.
‘C of E of course, she’s from Berkshire. My grandparents nearly went mad, they didn’t want her to marry my father in the first place, but to relinquish her faith in favour of papacy, well that really was the definitive blow.’ He winked conspiratorially. ‘Though they weren’t particularly devout either, but they didn’t know any Papists, which was a fact more by design that by accident if you know what I mean.’
Patrick and Liam were dumbfounded. They didn’t even understand half of the words he said, it was like he swallowed a dictionary.
‘So your mother is a Protestant?’ Patrick was incredulous.
‘No, that’s what I’ve explained. She was Church of England then she met my father. In Paris, I think, sometime shortly after the war. He was a writer and she fell in love with his bohemian ways. Though the fact that he also was heir to a large estate in County Waterford probably oiled the wheels of romance.’ He grinned. ‘Anyway, he was Catholic and so the only way they could marry in the Catholic Church was for her to convert, and he couldn’t inherit if he married outside the faith, so she did. The funny thing was my father wasn’t interested in religion at all; he used to say she only did it to annoy her parents, which is entirely believable if you met her. But, much to the incredulity of all concerned she became quite zealous, daily communicant and so on. Papa was just pleased she found some way to fill the days at Greyrock. She’s charming and lovely, of course, but a little, shall we say, flighty and utterly infuriating.’
Liam didn’t know what to say. He never heard anyone speak about their family like that. He was like someone he’d read about in a story, not a real person who would be in his class in school.
‘So, you chaps are here on scholarships, are you? You must be frightfully clever in that case, so I would be delighted to strike up a friendship if it was agreeable to you both. Where did you say you hailed from?’
Patrick stifled a laugh. ‘Well, Hugo, we’re locals. I’m from a street at the bottom of the hill there and my friend Liam lives across the road and down a bit. We haven’t a pony, or any land, and I’ve no idea what toast soldiers are. I never met anyone who had been to Paris and I never spoke to a Protestant before, so there you have it.’
Hugo pealed with laughter and slapped his thigh theatrically. ‘You are a hoot. Perhaps this place isn’t so bad after all. Though I see I will have some work convincing you that I’m not any kind of Protestant, worse luck. They are altogether less enthusiastic about all of this religion stuff, but what Mama wants, it seems Mama must have, so here I am.’
‘What does your father think about it? Did he pick this school?’ Liam asked.
A cloud passed over Hugo’s cherubic face and his eyes were downcast. ‘My father died just six months ago. He was wounded at El Alamein in 1942; he was there with Monty putting a stop to Rommel. He came home though so many didn’t, but he was never strong. He had some shrapnel buried in his chest. The doctors said it could kill him if they tried to remove it so it was better left where it was. He met mother at a dance when she was visiting some friends in Paris in the late forties and that was that. They met in Paris and a few years later, married in England, and then came to live back at Greyrock—that’s home, outside Lismore. They waited a long time for my arrival but along I came in 1955. He got pneumonia last winter and he died.’
Liam recognised the pain behind the words. Gone was the jokey, almost pantomime performance, and all that was left was a boy who missed his father.
‘My dad died too, three months ago—in an accident at work.’ Liam’s voice cracked with emotion.
‘I’m sorry. Did you get along with him?’ Hugo asked.
‘Yes. He was the best father in the whole wide world.’
Silence passed as each boy was lost in his thoughts.
‘What about yours, Patrick? Is your father alive?’ Hugo asked curiously.
‘Oh yes, very much so, more’s the pity, though Liam did a fairly good job of trying to finish him off a few weeks back. I’m hoping he’ll have better luck next time.’
Now it was Hugo’s turn to be shocked and his face caused Patrick and Liam to collapse into uncontrollable giggles. After a moment, Hugo joined in, and Father Aquinas looked on with satisfaction from the stage to see the three friends happily laughing together.
Chapter 10
The weeks flew by and Liam got to grips with all the schoolwork he was given every night. At least the house was quiet, and he had moved into the girls’ bedroom since there was more space. Mammy had bought him a desk, a chair, and a lamp from the second-hand shop on Blarney Street and even got someone in to put distemper on the walls. She made him a lovely patchwork quilt out of old clothes that the girls left behind. Sometimes, Patrick came over to study with him before a test, and he always remarked how cosy and nice it was. Mammy always made them scones or soda bread with jam and tea and delivered it up to the room. Patrick teased him that he was as well-minded as Hugo.
Some of the boarders and even one or two of the priests made the odd snide remark about them being poor but mostly everyone was nice. The only one they really hated was Father Xavier. He regularly made references to those who are going places and those who were not. He frequently worked into the conversation the names of the wealthy and powerful families in the city and their connections to the school. He ignored Liam but seemed to really take a dislike to Patrick, often mentioning the behaviour of drunks and undesirables while looking straight at him. Funnily enough, he never brought Hugo’s family up, and they sounded more refined than even the merchant princes of Cork.
At least, they got to go home each evening. Poor Hugo was stuck in there every night and Father Xavier slept in the boarder’s section so he was always around. Liam and Patrick suspected that Hugo hated the fact that he had to board and they could go home. Hugo quizzed Liam each morning as they shuffled into morning prayers.
‘What did you have for dinner last night?’
Liam would throw his eyes to heaven in exasperation, but he answered him honestly, ‘Bacon and cabbage.’
‘And floury potatoes with butter?’ Hugo would add hopefully.
‘Yes, spuds with butter and salt and the top of the milk,’ Liam would say with a sigh.
‘And what did you have for pudding?’
‘I’ve told you a thousand times, we don’t call it pudding,’ Liam would say chuckling.
‘All right, all right, afters then, dessert, whatever you want to call it,’ his impatience bubbling to the surface.
‘Let me think,’ Liam would deliberately hesitate. ‘Can you remember, Patrick? You came for your tea yesterday, didn’t you?’
‘Oh yes, Liam, it was gorgeous, so it was. It was rice pudding with sultanas and cinnamon and cream, or was it ice cream?’ His green eyes would dance with devilment.
Hugo groaned in agony.
‘I think we had both, Patrick, now that I come to think of it, yeah, and then there was chocolate biscuits after with the tea,’ Liam would add with a giggle.
‘I know you pair delight in torturing me, but honestly, you have no idea the slop we are given in this place. It is simply intolerable, and to think that my two so-called friends are living it up and being fed like prize pigs not two hundred yards from here, well, it’s too much, simply too much.’
It was true that Hugo had lost some of his chubbiness in the first weeks at St Bart’s. All the boarders complained about the food but none so often or loudly as Hugo did.
‘Liam, I am just going to come right out and say it. I’ve been dropping such heavy hints in recent weeks it’s a miracle you are not limping, but all to no avail, so I am left with no option but to beg.’ Liam w
as confused.
‘I know I cannot go to Patrick’s house due to the nature of Mr Lynch’s proclivities around whiskey.’ Patrick had told him about his awful father. ‘So you are my only hope. Please, dear Liam, if you care anything for my well-being, you will bring me home to your sainted mother and she will feed me and love me as I should be loved.’
Liam looked at Patrick. Was he serious? Hugo FitzHenry of Greyrock Estate with his own pony and a cook and God alone knew what else, wanted to come to his house for a meal? His friend just shrugged and smiled.
‘But, Hugo, our house is tiny, we don’t even have a garden or anything, and we’re just, well, we’re not rich or anything,’ Liam began.
‘I could pay if it’s a question of that,’ Hugo interrupted.
Liam was horrified, ‘No, Lord no, that’s not what I meant at all. It’s just it wouldn’t be what you’re used to.’
‘Frankly, Liam, what I am used to is cold lumpy porridge made on water, cold lumpy spuds as you so charmingly call them, and gristly meat, and the highlight of the week is a tiny, soft plain biscuit on a Friday night. Seriously, I’d love to come to your house. Not just for the food, though I won’t lie to you, that’s a huge part of it, but to sit by the fire, to chat to your mother, to feel more like a person and less like an inmate even for one evening.’
Jean Grainger Box Set: So Much Owed, Shadow of a Century, Under Heaven's Shining Stars Page 85
