A Month of Sundays

by John Owens

  “Mr. Li is telling you that stealing food is a serious offence and one that could get you into trouble,” he translated, to the relief of the two boys. Equanimity restored, Mr. Li decided to give the miscreants the benefit of the doubt. “I will overlook the matter this once,” he said.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Now outside, the pair of you. Chaps like you should be punting a footer around the quad on a beautiful day like today, not frowsting in their studies. Mens sana in corpore sano, what?”

  The boys exchanged glassy-eyed looks but otherwise forbore to comment.

  “Right, cut along then!”

  Once more Li’s words elicited no response and the two boys exchanged further panic-stricken glances.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” said the elderly Chinaman, his voice rising in anger. “Cut along, I tell you!”

  “Back to class, lads,” said O’Driscoll quietly and the boys scuttled gratefully off.

  “Thank you for your assistance, John,” said Mr. Li, when they were alone. “I do wonder whether the boys have difficulty understanding my English. Is it clear enough to you?” O’Driscoll wondered whether it was worth hinting it was not the clarity of his colleague’s speech that was the problem, rather some of the vocabulary he employed, but decided against it on the basis that Mr. Li was such a nice man. “On the contrary,” he said brightly, “your diction would put most native Londoners to shame,” and that was at least true enough, he thought as Li smiled and they made their way companionably down the corridor and once more into battle.

  O’Driscoll passed a routine afternoon teaching P.E., did some marking and then headed to Ealing Leisure Centre for a five-a-side game. An hour’s football did wonders for his physical condition and the six pints he poured into his dehydrated body immediately afterwards had the same effect on his mental state, so he arrived home just after closing time pleasantly knackered. A couple of hours later, the flat lay silent but for the distinctive voice of Shane McGowan, which was emanating from a tiny cassette player in the corner. ‘I could have been someone,’ lamented Shane for the thirty-second time that year as O’Driscoll lay among the detritus of a large doner kebab, a can of Stella Artois cradled in the crook of his elbow. ‘Well so could anyone,’ answered Kirsty McColl in the scornful tones with which all females seemed to invest that particular lyric, and on that note, as the can of Stella toppled slowly forward and began to disgorge its contents into the crotch of his trousers, John O’Driscoll drifted into sleep and into another day.

  Wednesday

  There was an air of activity around the Kennedy White House as John O’Driscoll, Special Assistant to the President, moved authoritatively through the West Wing, nodding crisply here and there to those whose seniority entitled them to such a greeting. An authentic New Frontiersman from the top of his crew cut head to the soles of his wingtip shoes, in-between he wore the regulation Camelot uniform of dark suit, button down shirt, sober tie. Striding purposefully into the Operations Room, and nodding curtly to the secret serviceman on the door, he noticed the usual crowd - Bundy, McNamara, Rusk - gathered round a conference table, while Lyndon, as usual, sat away to one side nursing his grievances. Over on the other side of the room was the real centre of power, the President, sitting in his favorite rocking chair, with in attendance, brother Bobby, arms folded in that familiar hunched pose, and Kenny O’Donnell.

  “You wanted to see me, Mr. President?” said O’Driscoll, getting straight to the point. The Kennedys were not ones to waste time with pointless small talk.

  “John,” said the President, looking up from his yellow legal pad. “Thanks for coming over, I’ve got a job for you”. As he spoke, he took his glasses off with his left hand while his right index finger tapped a tooth in that inimitable way he had. “I want you to go out to California and sort out those squabbling bastards,” his New England accent elongated the vowel sounds of the expletive, “ahead of that damned Primary next year. We need someone who’ll kick ass and get things done. Kenny here says you’re the man for the job and I agree with him. Think you can handle it, John?”

  O’Driscoll looked evenly at Kennedy. “Mr. President, does a bear shit in the woods?” he said and there was a chuckle from the three men. You had to be in the inner, inner Kennedy circle to use profanity with the President.

  “Good, and you get on a plane tonight?” asked JFK. “I’m sure there’ll be some lovely girl who’ll have her Saturday night ruined,” he went on with a twinkle, “but I’m equally sure when you explain that it’s a matter of national importance, she’ll understand.”

  “That’s OK, Mr. President, they’ll understand” said O’Driscoll, putting a stress on the ‘they’, and generating a conspiratorial laugh from his leader.

  “Then get to it, young man. I haven’t got time to sit here chewing the fat with you gang of Irish Mafiosi,” said the President, lowering his voice. “I’ve got to discuss affairs of State with that crowd over there, God help me!” He inclined his head towards the conference table and it was O’Driscoll’s turn to laugh as he headed for the door.

  “See Evelyn for your air tickets,” called out O’Donnell , and O’Driscoll waved an arm in acknowledgement.

  He headed straight into the office of the President’s long-term secretary, who raised her face as he came in, revealing the features of... Mrs. Goodwin? Nose twitching and eyes darting, she asked what she could do for him. Totally confused, Special Assistant O’Driscoll looked through the window to Mrs. Goodwin’s left, where the White House swimming pool could be observed. Lounging around on sunbeds were several bikini-clad lovelies from the typing pool, waiting to service the President after his meeting, and the young staffer couldn’t help noticing that one of the nubile figures bore a striking resemblance to Karen Black. In the corner of the pool area, old Joe Kennedy sat in the bath chair to which a stroke had confined him, and leaning over him apparently in the process of giving him the last rites, was the unmistakable figure of Father Kennedy.

  Oh, God, thought agent O’Driscoll, it’s a dream - of course it is, it’s a bloody dream - and a moment later this intuition was proved correct as Vice-President Johnson pirouetted into the secretary’s office wearing a pink satin tutu beneath his shirt and waistcoat. The images of Camelot began to recede and the distinctly more prosaic ones of Southall rushed in to fill the space, as O’Driscoll realized that he didn’t work in the White House as a Special Assistant, or even a catering assistant, but was a primary school teacher from West London in danger of missing morning briefing if he didn’t get his skates on. Showering in record time, he grabbed a coffee and made it to school with minutes to spare.

  Briefing was noteworthy only for the announcement that the two exchange students would be arriving the next day, and as the meeting dissolved, Mr. Barnet beckoned O’Driscoll over and told him the new supply teacher was waiting in his office.

  “I think we’ll let her shadow you for the day so she can get to know the ropes and then I’ll introduce her at briefing tomorrow,” said the Head as they walked down the main corridor. “Does that meet with your approval, young man?”

  O’Driscoll replied in the affirmative and as they walked into the office, Mr. Barnet made the introductions. The figure that rose to greet O’Driscoll had the dimensions of a pear, but it was a large and battered pear, a pear that has perhaps fallen off the harvester or been knocked about on its way to market. It wore dungarees of bright yellow, a jumper of bright red, and a scarf of bright green and underneath all this, its feet were encased in a pair of oxblood Doctor Martens. The whole kaleidoscopic ensemble called to mind one of those presenters of children’s programmes for the very young, and as Mr. Barnett performed the introductions and Prudence spoke, her earnest, rather breathless voice reinforced the image.

  “Thank you so much for agreeing to be my mentor,” she said in a breathless gushing voice and as she spoke, she blinked sev
eral times. Behind the thick lenses of the glasses she wore, her eyes were transformed into enormous white spheres that vanished and reappeared with disconcerting suddenness. “Uncle Lionel... I mean Mr. Barnet said you were going to take me under your wing. I can’t wait to meet the children and see their angelic little faces looking up in awe and wonder.”

  O’Driscoll regarded her a moment while he considered his response. He thought of 5R, who he would be teaching in a few minutes, but try as he might, could not conjure up an image of them in which the word “angelic” had any place, and as for “awe and wonder” it was more likely to be found on the faces of staff as their best-planned lessons were reduced to chaos and confusion.

  His mind drifted back to his own first encounter with 5R, when as a callow new addition to the teaching staff of the school, he had been asked at short notice to cover a Geography lesson. The member of staff who had directed him towards the classroom wished him luck as she did so in tones that had seemed to O’Driscoll to have an ominous ring to them.

  “Right, settle down,” he had said with what he hoped was an air of calm authority. “Now, you’ve been looking at the geography of Russia, I’m told. So what,” he asked, turning to write on the board as he spoke, “is the capital of Russia?”

  “A pair of hairy bollocks,” came a voice from behind him, and O’Driscoll realized too late that he had committed the cardinal error of turning his back on the enemy.

  He turned and faced the class. “Don’t think for a moment that I don’t know who said that!” he said, looking sternly out at the sea of faces ranged in front of him. He was aware that his voice, far from emanating authority, sounded thin and reedy, but he carried on. “I know exactly who said that, and that person is in serious trouble, let me tell you!”

  “Who did say it?” innocently inquired a carroty lad in the third row.

  “Now you... you just...,” said O’Driscoll pointing a quavery finger at the boy before gathering himself. “Any more of that kind of talk,” he continued, “Joseph Cahill, isn’t it? Any more of that talk from you, young man, and you’ll be in as much trouble as... as... that other person I was talking about.”

  He had hoped that this display of authority would quell the mutiny but if truth be told, he barely survived the lesson and was aware that in the brutal world that is education, many aspiring teachers have had their credibility irreparably damaged by such a start. He had in the end hung on by the skin of his teeth but it was a sad reflection on the Darwinian nature of his profession that many didn’t survive such an introduction. On this sobering note, O’Driscoll dragged himself back to the present, and asked Miss Pugh if she would like to accompany him to his classroom so they would be ready for the start of the teaching day.

  “Right 5R, I’d like to introduce you to a new teacher who will be with us for the rest of the year,” he said as he began the lesson. “Her name is Miss Pugh and she’s going to be spending a couple of days seeing how we do things before working in the classroom on her own.” This was the signal for Prudence to retire gracefully to the back of the class but instead she cleared her throat and moved forward to the front of the room where she took up position in front of O’Driscoll’s desk.

  “I’d just like you all to know how much I’m looking forward to working with you,” she began, blinking twice and causing two girls in the front row to start violently. “As you get to know me, you will find that I am your friend and I expect we shall have some exciting adventures together.” As she spoke, O’Driscoll noticed glances being exchanged among the more high-spirited members of the class.

  “And children,” continued Prudence, “I do not want you to think of me as Miss Pugh. If we are to be such friends, I want you to call me by my first name, which is Prudence.” She looked at O’Driscoll. “I’m sure that won’t be a problem.”

  As far as O’Driscoll was aware, the school policy was that members of staff should be addressed by their surnames, but he didn’t want to dent Prudence’s enthusiasm, so he confined himself to replying that they could check this out later by looking at the policies folder. But Prudence had already moved on. “And do you know what, children?” she said, having evidently come to a sudden decision, “my extra, extra special friends call me by a pet name I have had since I was a child. Would you like to know what it is?” The entire room waited transfixed during the short pause that followed this comment.

  “They call me Bunny!” screamed Prudence triumphantly, jumping up and down several times and clapping her hands as she did so. At this point, O’Driscoll made a mental note not to check the policies folder, for whatever the school’s view was on the use of first names, he could say with authority that there was no precedent for staff being addressed by the names of small, furry animals.

  “Would you like to call me Bunny, children?” Prudence was now saying and O’Driscoll noticed another series of glances heliographing around the room. Assertiveness was not a quality one would immediately associate with John O’Driscoll, but he imposed himself quickly on the scene and directed Prudence with authority to the back of the room while he restored order. Amidst the bustle of the class getting ready for the lesson, Joe Cahill’s hand went up.

  “We were just wondering, sir, will be having any lessons with Miss Pugh on her own?” he asked with a gleam in his eye and the class waited with bated breath for their teacher to answer. O’Driscoll recalled seeing a wildlife programme on T.V. in which a piglet had been detached from its family group and attacked by a pack of hyenas, and there was something of that atmosphere in the classroom now. If the pupils were not exactly smacking their lips in advance of the anticipated ripping of flesh from bone, there was a febrile air in the room that boded extremely ill for the future, so giving as vague an answer as he could, he moved the discussion onto less contentious matters.

  The lesson proceeded fairly uneventfully until right at the end, O’Driscoll asked the class if anyone could use their knowledge of physical geography to account for the formations of frost that appeared on windows after a cold night. Prudence’s hand shot up and although at first O’Driscoll affected not to notice the short, bouncing figure at the back of the room, he was eventually forced to acknowledge her presence and nod for her to speak. With the same breathless delivery she had used earlier and with a series of little accompanying jumps to punctuate the words, Prudence informed the class that she had always been told they were little portraits left by the pixies as they flitted about on their mysterious night-time errands. In the breathless silence which greeted this explanation, another ominous exchange of looks could be observed passing among the pupils of 5R and O’Driscoll hastened to bring the lesson to an end and dismiss the class.

  The door had barely closed behind the last of the small exiting figures when Prudence turned to O’Driscoll and, eyes shining and hands clasped excitedly in front of her, said, “Aren’t they the darlingest little creatures?”

  O’Driscoll looked at her for a moment while he considered his response. There was no doubt that Prudence was enthusiastic, and O’Driscoll had been in teaching long enough to know that in a profession filled with the burnt out, the cynical and the disillusioned, enthusiasm was a quality to be treasured. He searched for a form of words, therefore, that while painting a relatively realistic picture of the student body, would not be so negative as to shatter the illusions of the new teacher. “We do have many wonderful children here who are a joy to teach, but there are also some who can be a bit... lively, and it’s just a case of making sure our strategies in the classroom cater for that.”

  Prudence smiled. “The only strategy that matters is for them to know that they are loved and cherished?”

  “Yes...,” he conceded, “but they need to know what behaviours are acceptable and what aren’t.”

  Prudence smiled seraphically. “Children are incapable of actually being bad and the behaviours that some call “unacceptable” are on
ly their little cries for help when they feel restricted by pointless adult rules.”

  “But don’t you think some of them need a bit more... structure?”

  “No,” said Prudence firmly. “All they need is to feel our love and trust and once they know that’s there, they blossom like flowers.”

  “Flowers?” repeated O’Driscoll.

  “Yes, flowers,” said Prudence, a note of impatience entering her voice. “Open your mind and try to think of them as budding flowers in a sunlit meadow.”

  O’Driscoll opened his mind and tried to think of them as budding flowers in a sunlit meadow but, with 5R in the frame, the only horticultural image that suggested itself was an outbreak of deadly nightshade festering dankly in the corner of a slum terrace.

  “There you are,” said Prudence, watching his convulsions with a benign smile. “I told you you’d see them as flowers. You do see them as flowers, don’t you?”

  “Er... well, not all of them,” he replied, trying to choose his words carefully. If Ms. Pugh saw the denizens 5R as little flowers, budding or otherwise, she was, in O’Driscoll’s opinion, off her rocker and a suitable candidate for the nearest funny farm. However, Prudence was now in full flow, the words rolling off her tongue in a breathless rush. “They are little budding flowers crying out for the light that will allow them to bloom and blossom and we are the providers of that light and it is only by giving them the freedom to express themselves that we can open up their little minds.” As the torrent of words subsided, she blinked again and her resemblance to an earnest but spirited owl struck O’Driscoll anew.

  “Er, yes ...” he said slowly, again seeking to find the right note. “We can discuss behaviour management strategies once you’ve had some time in the classroom. Your approach sounds very... interesting. How did it work during your teaching practice?” O’Driscoll was aware that every practitioner who attains qualified teacher status has to undertake blocks of teaching practice during which their lessons are observed and monitored by staff at the school where they are working, and also by tutors at the institution where they do their teaching qualification.