by John Owens
“Actually, I did my teaching practice at a small independent school run by a friend of Uncle Lionel... er... Mr. Barnet. The staff there was very kind to me and I mostly did shared teaching.”
There was now a small, but growing niggle in O’Driscoll’s gut that the project he had taken on so blithely might not be as straightforward as he had anticipated. Prudence Pugh, while undoubtedly enthusiastic and motivated, clearly had no reservoir of teaching experience on which to draw, not even by the sounds of it, a teaching practice in a mainstream State school, where many an idealistic young practitioner has had their first jolting experience of the realities of a typical classroom. It was, therefore, a thoughtful John O’Driscoll who finally got into his car at four o’clock and made his weary way home.
Thursday
Morning everyone,” began Mr. Barnet as he began the ritual of morning briefing. “I have only two agenda points for today. The first is to introduce Miss Prudence Pugh, who will be joining us on supply to cover Mrs. Clarke’s maternity. She’s spending a couple of days shadowing John before we let her loose on the children and I’m sure that she’s going to be an asset to the school.” This comment elicited a rapid fire series of blinks from Prudence’s great orbs that in the dimly-lit staffroom created an effect not unlike the strobe lighting that used to feature in discos before it was linked with seizures. “The next item concerns the arrival of the two exchange students, who will be starting at school today. Mrs. Goodwin has kindly agreed to look after the boys while they’re in the UK, so I’m going to hand you over to Mrs. Goodwin who will brief you on the two lads and give you her first impressions of them.”
Mrs. Goodwin moved with dignity to the front of the room. “Good morning everyone,” she said, inclining her head in the manner of a minor aristocrat opening a village fete. “As you know, we will be looking after two exchange students, Brett Donnelly from the USA and Henri Rives, (she pronounced it Henry Reeves) from France. I can say they were both happy with the standard of accommodation. I’d have been surprised if they’d said anything else, to be honest, with our background in the hotel business.”
Mrs. Goodwin paused and visibly preened as she came to the next part of the announcement. “The French boy was so impressed when he found out that Reg and I actually have, chez Goodwin, a fully-functioning bidet. I don’t suppose there’s one English residence in a hundred that has one. We only had it installed last year because of Reg’s health. He’s had this nasty fungal infection since he did his National Service in Malaya and it keeps flaring up, you know... down there. You should see it when the weather’s damp, all weepy and dribbling with a sort of purple rash all over...”
“And the American boy,” interjected Mr. Barnet with some haste, “was he equally happy with the accommodation?”
“Oh, yes,” came the reply. “He was just as impressed, although he did try to make a few comments about the garden. You wouldn’t believe it, he seemed to think we should have a basketball hoop on the wall. Well, my Reg told him straight, we don’t play that game in this country, at least the girls play something a bit like it, but definitely not boys and he’d better put that idea right out of his head, if he didn’t want the rest of the lads thinking he was ginger. After that, both boys had a good night’s sleep, and they’re in the school office now waiting to start the day.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Goodwin,” said the Head hastily. “Well, chocks away everyone and let’s get out there and give ‘em a ... er, let’s make sure the children have a good day.”
O’Driscoll’s leisurely progress down the main corridor was abruptly terminated by the arrival of a small, blinking figure in multicoloured dungarees who approached with the speed of a psychedelic express train and screeched to a halt inches away from him.
“John, I’ve got a wonderful idea for tutor time. Look,” she said, waving a large book in front of his face, “they’ve got these face masks from the Peter Rabbit stories that you can cut out. Why don’t we put them on our faces and pretend to be the characters in the stories and the children can interview us. What do you think? Do say you think it’s a good idea!” She jumped up and down and made excited squeaking noises.
O’Driscoll looked at the cavorting figure in front of him and his heart sank. “Shall we have a talk about it when we look at next week’s planning,” he said and led her wearily in the direction of their classroom.
After an uneventful day, Father Kennedy convened a brief staff meeting to talk about the service to be held in the church the following Sunday. It would be a kind of rehearsal for the first communicants, who were due to receive the sacrament in a month or so. The service would be an opportunity for the pupils to experience the rituals and routines that surrounded the act of confession, because in advance of making their first communion, all the youngsters would need to make their first confession. Hoping his attendance at the event would stand him in good stead when teaching contracts came up for discussion, O’Driscoll had agreed to support the service even though he had not himself received Holy Communion nor made an act of confession for at least a dozen years.
As he sat at the meeting table, he watched Kennedy’s expression closely but as the priest’s eyes rested on him, they did so with no more than the normal baleful expression of an ill-tempered porker. Kennedy began the meeting and it was evident that he was in a benevolent mood, for the aura of calm that surrounded his bulbous red nose was disturbed only by the gentle rising and falling of the great nostril hairs as they slumbered peacefully. As he half-listened to the priest droning on, O’Driscoll found his eyes returning again and again to contemplate the soft murmuring of that great olfactory organ. It was as if some fearsome creature of mythology had retired to its lair and fallen into a deep sleep.
Kennedy explained that several priests would take up position in the confessional boxes and that staff would sit among the pupils offering support before going in to make their own confessions. At this point, O’Driscoll realized that he would have to make an act of confession and that, with the transgressions of a dozen or so years to sift through, it would need to be a kind of edited highlights version, with a lot of the minor midfield stuff left out and only the serious penalty area criminality included. He would give that some thought on the day, he said to himself as the meeting meandered towards a close and staff started to gather their things together. I wonder what Karen’s doing now, he thought, and at that precise moment, the door opened and she entered the room, looking around her with a diffident smile that melted his heart completely.
“Ah, Miss Black” said Kennedy, giving her a leer that was evidently intended to put her at her ease. “Thank you for agreeing to take on the role of staff liaison for Sunday’s service.” He turned to the others. “Sister Bernadette and I decided it would be a good idea to have someone from the lay staff to coordinate the events and see that everything goes smoothly.” Karen smiled again and there was a murmur of approval from the group.
“Will that involve liaising with parents?” asked Geoff Turnbull.
“Not really,” answered the priest. “The role is to make sure that everything functions smoothly on the day and that there are no little... hiccoughs.” O’Driscoll could feel the priest’s eyes boring into him like gimlets as he said the last word. Assuming an expression of deep concentration, he began an elaborate search of the sleeve of his jacket for pieces of stray fluff and, having disposed in this way of three imaginary cotton threads and a hypothetical hair, placed his elbow on the table and cupped his chin in it with the air of a man perfectly at ease with the world. As he gazed benevolently around him, however, his elbow slipped and he lurched forward, jarring his jaw against the side of his hand. Sitting up as unobtrusively as he could and rubbing his chin, he realized that Karen had begun to speak. “Sorry to impose on everyone,” she said, “and I know it’s Friday tomorrow, but I was wondering if we could have a quick meeting after school, just to make sure we’re up
to speed with everything?”
O’Driscoll made the same vague assenting noises as everyone else, but inside his heart was racing. Here, surely, was an opportunity to show he could work diligently and harmoniously as a member of Karen’s team while allowing her to witness occasional flashes of individual brilliance that would mark him out as special. He was aware that these situations could throw up moments of unexpected intimacy and he imagined them leaning forward together to look at the order of service and her hair falling forward and brushing against his cheek. With this in mind, he made a mental note to pay extra attention to his grooming and personal care the next day and then, his head buzzing with anticipation, hurried towards The North Star where he had arranged to meet Duffy.
Oh, it’s you two,” said the landlord whose lugubrious expression was worn mainly for effect and actually concealed a rather tolerant nature. “Would it be asking too much for you to refrain from starting the singing until a reasonable hour tonight?” he asked. “We had a party of pensioners in last week and it got so bad, they had to turn their hearing aids off.”
“It’s all right, guv,” said Duffy. “We’re only in for a quickie - promise. Now could we have two pints to be going on with... oh, and twelve tequila slammers, please.”
The landlord allowed himself the faintest of smiles. “I wouldn’t put it past the pair of you,” he said as he poured their pints and they retired in good humour to the corner.
“Is Micky coming?” asked O’Driscoll.
“It’s funny you should ask,” replied Duffy. “He said he was yesterday, but I think he may have copped off with Faith’s mate, Maureen. They were exploring each other’s tonsils in a most thorough manner in The North Star last week.”
A moment later, the figure of Micky Quinn hove into view and when suitable refreshments had been obtained and they had returned to their seats, Duffy opened the inquisition on the events of the previous week.
“Did you cop off with Maureen then?” he asked Micky. “I phoned Faith earlier and she was most mysterious. I think the girls have been in conference.”
Micky hitched his trousers up, not an easy feat to accomplish while sitting down, and confirmed that he had indeed taken Maureen out the previous evening and then accompanied her back to her flat in Greenford.
“Did you creep away once you’d done the deed?” asked Duffy.
“No, I stayed the night,” said Quinn, “and I tell you what, she did a cracking breakfast in the morning; two eggs, three sausages and,” with a pause for effect, “black and white pudding.”
“Are you going to see her again?”
“She seemed pretty keen.”
“And what about you?” asked O’Driscoll.
Micky paused for a minute and seemed to be considering the matter for the first time. “Well...” he finally announced, “she seems friendly enough.” He took a swig from his pint and his brow furrowed in thought. “And I suppose a shag is a shag, isn’t it?”
His friends hastened to assure him of the wisdom of this assertion, a shag was definitely and indisputably a shag, but Quinn was still lost in thought and didn’t appear to hear them. “Black and white pudding,” he mused softly, a faraway look in his eyes, “you could put up with a lot for black and white pudding.” At that moment, his face cleared and he banged the table. “Yes, I think all things considered, I will be giving the young lady in question the opportunity to extend her acquaintance with the Mighty Quinn.” He slapped the table again, sending beer slopping from his friends’ glasses. “Now, whose round is it, and who would like join me in a little whiskey to help this beer go down a bit easier?”
By the way, how the hell did you pull that blonde piece on Saturday night, Duffy?” he went on incredulously, when the spirits had been safely procured and delivered. “You didn’t leave the bar for more than a couple of minutes the whole night long.”
“By the judicious use of eye contact, Michael,” replied Duffy. “The eye contact was reciprocated, and the rest is history.” O’Driscoll reflected ruefully on the fact that the only one of the lads who had a steady girlfriend, was also the one for whom casual conquests came the most easily. Duffy had a long-suffering companion, Faith, and by dint of the fact that he was currently living at home with his parents, was able to keep his extracurricular activities a secret. For O’Driscoll himself, who had his own flat, liaisons of a romantic nature were few and far between, and it was more likely that his flat would vibrate to the sound of Micky Quinn’s stentorian snore than anything of a more intimate nature. He cast his mind back several months to his own last such interaction, a hurried coupling with a girl he knew slightly in the garden of her parents’ house after a party. The furtive rutting had, he supposed, satisfied a basic need, but they had both been so pissed that he, at any rate, had felt no desire to renew the acquaintance.
“Who’s that new supply teacher?” asked Duffy, and O’Driscoll groaned as he described the nursemaiding role that had been assigned to him. “The trouble is,” he concluded, “she’s got this bee in her bonnet about dressing up and pretending to be characters out of Beatrix Potter.”
“Beatrix Potter?”
“I think so ... or it might be The Wind in the Willows.”
“Sounds like she’s one of those creative types,” said Duffy. “Just leave her with 5R for a couple of days and she’ll either turn into the big bad wolf or have a nervous breakdown and resign.”
“Trouble is I told old Barnett I’d try and keep her out of trouble,” said O’Driscoll. “Anyway, enough of all that, are we still going to Cheltenham on Saturday?”
Prudence Pugh was instantly forgotten as arrangements were made for the trip to the races. Having a weekend bet on the horses was a vice generations of O’Driscolls had indulged in and few of John’s childhood trips to town had been complete without a wizened Irishman sidling up to his father and muttering “I’ve got one at Haydock!” out of the corner of his mouth. Although O’Driscoll had inherited from his father no acumen in making his interest in racing a profitable one - indeed as he got older, he wondered whether there was congenitally defective gambling chromosome lurking in the family DNA - the experience had left him with the ability to talk in a mildly informed way about equine matters, especially in crowded bars full of other fools like himself. As the arrangements for Cheltenham were agreed and Duffy called another round in, O’Driscoll looked at his watch and reflected that if he had just one more pint, he could still be home by nine-thirty, well ten at the latest, with a quiet and alcohol-free evening ahead of him.
The next time his eyes focused on the hands of his watch, they stood at ten past four. As he surveyed the scene around him, he realized he was back in his flat and that he had just woken up. The detritus of an Indian takeaway lay scattered around and its aroma combined in a most interesting way with that of Michael Quinn’s feet, which were resting on the table only a few inches away from his own. The remainder of Quinn’s bulk was stretched inelegantly out on an armchair that was struggling with the unequal task it had been set, and Duffy was asleep in the only other chair the room possessed.
As O’Driscoll’s eyes moved across the room, they came to rest on a group of swarthy men sitting around a restaurant table and he realized that the film, Goodfellas, which they had sat down to watch a couple of hours ago must be playing in a loop because the scene being enacted was one they had watched earlier. For the fourteenth time that year and the second time that night, Joe Pesci’s high-pitched, psychotic tones could be heard requesting clarification from Ray Liotta as to whether and in what particular way he (Joe Pesci), was a source of amusement to him (Ray Liotta). As the camera focused on the darting, nervous eyes of Liotta and as Pesci’s chilling words, “Funny? Funny how?” echoed malevolently around the room a tray of saag aloo slid unnoticed down the arm of the sofa and began to disgorge its contents slowly into John O’Driscoll’s lap and on that note, h
e drifted into sleep and into another day.
Friday
O’Driscoll’s first waking thought was that the Shakespearean scorpions of the previous week had been superseded by a gang of spiders because his mind was full of elusive half-thoughts that scratched uneasily around on the edge of his consciousness and then scuttled away like malevolent arachnids when he tried to catch hold of them. He shook his head in an attempt to disperse the unwelcome visitors and, remembering the meeting with Karen arranged for later in the day and the need make a special effort with his appearance, dragged himself out of bed and opened his wardrobe.
Apart from his “going out” clothes, there was little to choose from, but his gaze eventually fell on a pair of beige chinos which, if worn in combination with the brown linen shirt that sat next to them, might bestow on the wearer the sort of rumpled elegance that Colin Firth had achieved when he played the teacher in the film, Fever Pitch. O’Driscoll brightened at this thought, for wasn’t the Colin Firth character, like himself, an Arsenal fan, and taking that as a good omen, he tried out the lop-sided smile Firth had worn to such good effect while doing up his tie in front of the mirror. He muttered the names of the 1971 double team, “Wison, Rice, McNab...” in what he hoped were authentically laconic tones before jumping into his elderly Cortina and making it to briefing in the nick of time.
Mr. Barnett stilled the buzz of conversation in the staffroom by clearing his throat and then handed over to Mrs. Goodwin for the latest bulletin on the exchange students. The school secretary appeared to be taking her role seriously for as she sat beside the Head, she wore the look of a chief constable about to commence an important press conference. “I can report that the boys spent a comfortable evening at the Goodwin residence,” she announced, acknowledging Mr. Barnett’s introduction with a sober inclination of the head. “The French lad is very quiet, spends the whole time with his head in a book, didn’t even want to play Family Fortunes when Reg suggested it. Did I tell you that Reg has got Family Fortunes on one of those disc thingies that you play through the T.V? You wouldn’t believe it, but no matter how many times you put it on, it still comes up with different questions. How do they do that? Anyway, I think Henri sees himself as a bit of an intellectual. The other lad, Brett, well, intellectual is one word you wouldn’t use to describe him.”
