by Des Greene
sight he’d begin to salivate. He could taste the cool chocolate layer break from the ice. It would melt slowly in his mouth. He put off the first lick of the iced orange knowing that the certainty of being fulfilled made the longing all the more delicious; then followed the blissful sensation of cool, sweet ice-water on his tongue and the explosion of acid orange as he swallowed.
The convent girls leaving Dolly’s brought him out of his reveries. They were talking loudly to each other and passed no remark on his presence. He turned again to the window and was startled to see the grey head of Dolly looking at him from behind the inner window curtain. He did not see any warmth or recognition in her eyes and he suddenly shivered lest she get angry. He turned away quickly and started to run feeling guilty. He knew that some of the older boys indulged in a bit of shoplifting and that Dolly could get very angry if she suspected she was being duped. Her look had that severity in it. The warm memory of the orange ice-pop had quickly disappeared.
As he passed the post office he could see from the big clock on the wall that he had only five minutes to get to school. He started to run. He was not alone. Other boys with a look of panic on their faces were tearing down the street to the turn into Boy’s Lane. The scene in the lane was one of hurried excitement as boys on foot and on bicycle made their reluctant way to class. The appearance of the tall cut limestone walls of the playground always made his heart beat faster. They were a foreboding sight like the walls of a prison to a convict. They were too tall for him to climb but a bigger boy could scale them but at his peril if caught. Inside all the boys were playing wildly in the concreted yard under the watchful eye of a roving Brother who walked about calmly with his leather strap slapping off his surplice every so often to remind all of the results of defying authority. The big walls were broken by the two tall gate piers, from which hung a two-leafed ornate iron gate. The gate was painted a dull green to match the colour of the tall schoolroom windows. The gates led directly to the double-door entrance to the school hallway. Outside, school bags were thrown everywhere on window ledges and in corners. They were all very similar in a cheap leather effect material with twin buckled flaps - all showing the signs of ageing and having being passed down from sibling to sibling.
Passing through that gate was like passing into a hell. There was no release once you entered. It was forbidden to leave the school-yard once you had entered. Transgression of that rule was dealt with severely. But even that severity was not enough one morning to dissuade him from running. He had, on this morning, come to school early and had left his bag on the ledge by the main door as usual. He was feeling very worried that morning having had a major beating the previous day for not having done some homework. Brother Cannice had warned him that the punishment would be doubled if he did not know his spellings the next time. He had returned home from school in pain and in such a trauma of fear that he could not concentrate on his spelling. His mind kept going blank. He kept repeating the letters loudly in an attempt to learn off by heart. The repetition should have etched itself on his soul so much had he gone over the few words. That morning he was sick with fear for the coming class. He took no notice of what was happening in the play yard but just walked about in worry. Coming near the time for the bell when there was a flurry of late arrivals, he secretly crept out the gate. He turned left along the lane and entered the Cathedral grounds and walked along by the river until it reached the lake. There he cowered in fear as he listened for the bell to stop play. The jingle of the hand-bell tore into his fear. He wanted to cry but knew that now was no release. He had roared in pain yesterday as Brother Cannice lashed at the back of his bare legs with a big stick. They had numbed under the pain so that after the first dozen he could no longer feel them. No, crying was of no use.
After a safe time he left his hideout and made for the church door. He entered quickly and lost himself in a dark corner. The last few early morning mass-goers had already left and he was alone with God. He started to pray. He prayed that he would not be caught. He prayed that his mother would not be too angry. He prayed that Brother Cannice would have mercy. He prayed for mercy. But all was in vain, because he had left his bag on the school ledge where it stood out like a clear signal of guilt. As the bell sounded for the start of class, everyone stopped where they were, and on the second bell formed lines after having collected their school-bags. The last remaining school-bag stood alone. It sent shock-waves through the boys who immediately knew what it meant. It was unheard of to come to school and then leave. Lots had played truant or mitched but none had been so foolish as to announce their truancy to the world by leaving evidence of their school-bag sitting there on the ledge.
The on-watch brother immediately plucked the bag from the ledge and brought it inside. The look in his eyes as he emerged dared any to do the slightest thing out of order. The faces of the younger boys in his class had gone white with the expected fall-out from this grim early morning discovery. They too would feel the brunt of such lunacy. Woe to anyone who got spellings wrong today. Punishments would be doubled.
When he came home for lunch on that fateful day his mother greeted him with unexpected happiness. She was in a great mood and hugged him up in her arms.
‘How is my little sumackeen?’, she asked using his pet name. Just then his older brother entered and announced: ‘Your little sumackeen was not at school today!’
His heart dropped. This was the start of it - the long road into hell again. The smiles were quickly wiped out as his mother getting angrier and angrier threw questions at him. Fear had sealed his lips and he couldn’t reply. His mother fumed and started to call him names - a bloody cur, a disgrace to the family, just like his father, a good for nothing. As her anger mounted she reached into the top cupboard and drew out the cane. He shivered at the sight of this straw-coloured elastic stick. It gave a whirr as it flew through the air. The pain as it struck the legs was like a sharp knife cutting through the flesh. It was so light it could be wielded with frightening frequency. His mother caught his left hand in hers and started to swing him round and with each turn she whacked him across the legs causing him to jump in pain. He suddenly found his voice and started to roar in agony. She shouted at him to shut up and hit him again and again. Round and round they went in a tearful circle. His cries echoed through the house. His bed-ridden, blind father heard them but he was powerless to intervene. His brother and sister heard them but they were not at risk and stayed clear. It was too far for the neighbours to hear. His mother didn’t hear the cries for mercy in her violent anger. She felt that she was at the end of her tether with a useless bed-ridden husband and a problem for a youngest son. She just lashed out as if the beatings could change things for the better.
Afterwards he lay down on his father’s bed and sobbed. He cuddled into his frail body and listened to the words of kindness and hope. His father tried to cheer him up by telling him stories. It was all he had left to help his son - those romantic stories of sailors and princes. But they went unheard this time as the young boy was cowering in fear for an even greater horror. He had the whole afternoon to think about what tomorrow’s fall-out was going to be like. Bad as his mother’s reaction was, he was in mortal fear of Brother Cannice. That evening and night carved out a scar on his soul that was never to heal. Never would he feel such an utter desolation and loneliness. When he finally fell into a fitful sleep he dreamt of a long unending rope with a continuous dull tone. The tone and the rope were endless.
Next day his mother marched him up to the school. They left a little after nine o’clock so that school would have started by the time they arrived. His mother wanted to avoid the shame and ridicule of being seen by all the boys who would eagerly tell their parents the shameful news. The boy did not remember that walk alongside his mother for he was in a continuous trauma of fear. His legs still stung from the previous day and the thought of further lashing was unbearable. His eyes followed the strident steps of his mother as she made her no non-sense way down the stre
et aware that nosy neighbours were observing her in gleeful malevolence. She had turned her nose up at them once too often. Now they could enjoy her moment of shame.
As they walked the little boy prayed with each step that brought him nearer school. As they passed the bridge even Mrs Nickey knew better than to engage his mother. She recognised the proud look of defiance in his mother’s eyes and she concentrated on her sweeping of the pavement pretending not to notice them. While she was glad that Mrs Nickey had not opened her mouth, his mother knew that the lack of intercourse was a type of snub and determined not to forget it. She was banking up her vendettas the more that life threw tragedy at her. It was her way of survival. The world was against her and she was ready to take on the world. She was so wrapped up in her own sense of hurt that the small movements of the little boy’s mouth as he recited the fervent prayers went totally unnoticed. She had no time for one who was causing her such unwanted grief.
As they turned into Boy’s Lane he shuddered at the quietness of the play yard.
