by John Owens
Week Three
Monday
It was a grey and bleak prospect that met the eyes of John O’Driscoll as he gazed out of his window the following morning. Rats scurried forlornly amidst the detritus of the cash and carry and a dog nosing around across the road wore the same air of weary resignation. Upon arrival at school, O’Driscoll learned that Father Kennedy would be away on parish business for a couple of days, allowing him some respite before the dreaded moment when he would have to face his nemesis. His thoughts turned once more to the events of the day before and he wondered how on Earth he had allowed himself to get into such a ridiculous situation. After all, other people didn’t feel the need to impersonate celebrities of stage and screen to disguise their voices from priests. If they did, Saturday mornings might present a strange aspect, with cries of “It’s the way I tell ‘em!” or, “Come here, there’s more!” emanating from behind the confessional curtain.
Duffy had cried with laughter when details the disaster had been relayed to him and had forthwith bestowed on his friend the title, “Wor Johnny.” And O’Driscoll hardly dared think what Karen would think of him when the reason for the disturbance was explained to her, which it surely would be. Now, as he stood at the back of the staff room, his usual Monday morning feelings of depression intensified a thousand fold, and he cursed the day he had ever entered a confessional box.
Mr. Barnet began briefing by reminding staff that the two exchange students would be beginning their first full day of lessons. “Mrs. Goodwin and her husband very kindly showed them some of the sights of London over the weekend and as we speak, the girls in the office are giving them tea and stickies, can’t beat tea and stickies to set you up for the day! John, you’re teaching them first, so could you pick them up at the end of tutor time and show them where to go? I’ll pop in to the lesson for a bit and see how they’re settling in.”
The prospect of having the head in his classroom and looking on while he was teaching immediately set alarm bells ringing in O’Driscoll’s mind. He had been told by a colleague who claimed to have heard it from “someone in the know” that, with redundancies from within the ranks of the temporary staff almost certain to be a necessity, the leadership of the school would be watching the staff concerned like hawks during the remainder of the term. A series of outstanding lessons or a notable extra-curricular accomplishment might be enough to tip the balance favourably in a close race, while on the other hand, a blunder might turn out to be the nail in the coffin of the unfortunate perpetrator’s Saint Catherine’s career. So the fact that within the next few minutes the Head would be in his classroom observing one of his lessons caused O’Driscoll’s heart to drop into his boots as he frantically tried to recall what he had planned for the double period.
He collected the lads and introduced them to their new classmates before beginning the Citizenship lesson. By a miracle of scheduling, Prudence would be spending the whole day going through an induction process with one of the Assistant Heads, so at least he wouldn’t have to worry about her. Mr. Barnett had already taken a position at the back of the class and O’Driscoll was horrified to see he was holding in his hand an object whose presence in the classroom had come to strike fear into the hearts of all but the most self-assured practitioners - a clipboard. Trying to keep his voice strong and quaver free and affecting an air of nonchalance that he had a feeling wasn’t fooling the Head for a minute, O’Driscoll introduced the lesson by recapping what the class had covered so far. The week before, he had introduced the class to Karl Marx and, as often happens, the idea of collectivization and the eradication of private property, when explained in simple terms, appealed greatly to the minds of the young.
“So that means,” said a boy called Mathew thoughtfully, “that if I wanted to borrow my brother’s bike, he wouldn’t be able to stop me because it wouldn’t be his anymore, it would be shared property.” It looked as if 6J were ready to embark on the road to a socialist utopia, until O’Driscoll gently reminded Mathew that his brother would likewise be able to freely access his collection of James Bond videos and as the implications of this became clear, there was a sudden braking of the ideological vehicle.
Until now, the exchange students had not contributed, so, aware of the twin threats posed by Mr. Barnett and his clipboard as they sat at the back of the room, O’Driscoll asked Brett what the views of American children were on communism. It was the first time the “c” word had been used and it produced a remarkable effect on Brett. “Is that what you’ve been talking about the whole time, communism?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered O’Driscoll, kicking himself for not having made the link more explicit during his introduction. He risked a glance in the direction of his leader and saw to his horror that the Head was scribbling furiously. “Most of the governments that followed Marxist principles were communist,” he said, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice, “we did cover that last week, didn’t we, class?” but his appeal elicited no response and the class continued to gaze at their teacher with the blank, incurious expressions that a field of cows might wear as a tractor passed by in the lane.
Brett paused for a moment, presumably to marshal his thoughts. “My pop told me Europe was full of communists,” he began. “He says it’s bad enough at home with that douche bag Clinton in charge, but he said you guys had it even worse.”
“Thank you, Brett” said O’Driscoll hastily and, feeling that he might be on safer ground with the French lad, asked Henri if he would like to make a contribution from his own country’s perspective.
“My father, ‘e follow philosophy of Leon Trotsky,” came the reply. “’E believe in principles of syndicalism, worker council make decision for everyone and this produce society that is most fair and most egalitarian.”
Taken aback somewhat by this answer, O’Driscoll debated whether to develop the point and show how effortlessly he could extend his teaching to cater for gifted and talented pupils, but he only had a vague idea what syndicalism actually was, so he decided to play safe by asking for any final thoughts on the main topic. At this point, an earnest boy called Francis put his hand up and said, “I think communism was a good idea, it just didn’t quite work out.” O’Driscoll had rarely heard the great social and political experiment summarized with such economy and recalling the huge tracts of analysis he himself had to plough through on the subject, he couldn’t help thinking that if the message:
“Dear Karl,
It was a good idea, it just didn’t quite work out.
Best wishes,
Francis Hernandez, aged 91/2”
was chiseled onto a certain gravestone in Highgate, the lives of countless future undergraduates might be rendered a mite less tiresome.
He was about to embark on what he hoped would be an amusing but informative summing up of Marxism in the twentieth century when, with a smile, the Head bade him farewell and took his leave. Risking a glimpse at the clipboard as his leader passed, O’Driscoll was able to make out that a series of entries had been made on the page. “Sausages, Lincolnshire, thick,” said the first one and underneath it were two more that read, “Bacon, middle, smoked,” and “Bathroom cleaner, lemon, scented.” Mr. Barnett passed by before O’Driscoll could make out what the other inscriptions were and a moment later, the door had shut behind the departing Head and O’Driscoll breathed a sigh of relief as he found himself alone with the class once more.
It was a battle wearied John O’Driscoll who finally fought his way through to the end of that particular Monday. He had yet to face Father Kennedy and he was unable to decide whether to find the priest and try to explain his actions of the previous day or just leave it and hope that the incident would fade away. And then there was Karen - although she had not been in the vicinity when the incident had happened, surely word would have gotten back to her. Should he see her and try and explain or leave it and trust to luck? Putting both dec
isions off until later, he made his way to Monday’s after school meeting, which Mr. Barnet had promised staff he would keep as short as possible.
The Head led off with some routine matters before reminding the group that Brett’s father, together with a small delegation from the American school’s governing body, would be visiting Saint Catherine’s the following Thursday and staying over for the weekend. This would give them the opportunity to watch the staff revue which was to take place in the church hall the following Sunday afternoon. The revue was a Saint Catherine’s tradition in which staff dressed up in costume to sing, dance, perform comedy routines and otherwise make fools of themselves and it was very popular with the pupils.
It was also the one occasion during the year when Father Kennedy came down from his ecclesiastical pedestal and showed his human side by dressing up in a clown’s costume and performing in front of the children. The arrival on stage of a hideously made-up Father Kennedy had, on more than one occasion, prompted a spontaneous stampede from the ranks of the infant pews and every year, there was talk of a staff delegation approaching their spiritual leader and suggesting a modification of his appearance for future events. But Father Kennedy in a cassock exerted the same terrible mesmerism on the staff as Father Kennedy in a clown costume did on the pupils, so the idea never proceeded beyond that initial discussion.
“The event should give our American cousins a chance to observe the school in its wider pastoral role,” finished Mr. Barnet. “And, as I said last week, if this pilot scheme is a success, there is an excellent prospect of the whole show being expanded in future years, with opportunities for our staff to cross the big pond and visit the school over there.”
With a final reminder to his colleagues to “pull all the stops out when the brass hats arrive,” Mr. Barnet called an end to the meeting and his colleagues drifted gratefully away. O’Driscoll and Duffy met on the way out to make arrangements for later that evening it was Faith’s birthday and a gathering was planned in an Indian restaurant in South Ealing. As they left the building, the well-known façade of The North Star could be glimpsed tantalizingly in the distance and a keen observer might have noticed both of them casting surreptitious glances in its direction. A short period of silence was broken by Duffy’s opening gambit of “Warm weather for the time of year.”
“It certainly is!” answered O’Driscoll. “Did you manage to get a cup of tea before the meeting?”
“You must be joking, I’m parched!”
There was another longer pause while Duffy fingered his collar and swallowed extravagantly. “If we just had the one,” he ventured finally, “we could still drive, and there’d be loads of time to get showered and changed before the meal.”
“What time are we meeting them?”
“Eight o’clock.”
“Eight o’clock! That’s hours away, come on we’ve got loads of time, just one quick pint and no harm done.”
And so it was that at the unusual hour of 4.15 on a Monday afternoon, Duffy and O’Driscoll came to be occupying their usual corner of The North Star with pints of Stella in front of them. The sense of having somehow subverted the normal order of things made the illicit lager taste even sweeter, and all too soon the two were looking regretfully at their empty glasses.
“Is it one pint or two you can have without being over the limit,” asked Duffy, adding, “didn’t they change it recently?”
“No, I don’t think so, it’s still eighty gills.”
“It’s not gills, you idiot, that’s a measurement of spirits. If you had eighty gills in your system, you’d be dead from alcohol poisoning...” he paused for a moment, “... or I suppose you might be addressing a religious meeting in Ealing Town Hall.”
“Ha, bloody ha.”
“No, it’s milligrams, eighty milligrams of something in your something.”
There was a pause before O’Driscoll said, “Eighty is quite a high figure if you think of it, so I’m sure we’d be all right to have one more.”
The third pint took even less discussion, for midway through the second, O’Driscoll remembered they were drinking Stella, which was a more powerful lager than the standard strength one they had been using to make their calculations. Seeking clarification from the landlord, they were both told they were definitely over the limit and if they wanted to go out on the piss on a Monday night, why didn’t they just get on with it and leave him in peace. Retiring to the corner, they worked out a complicated arrangement in which a single cab would make multiple journeys between Southall and Hayes before decanting two squeaky clean teachers in Ealing well ahead of the eight o’clock deadline.
It was the sense of having problem solved so effectively that now allowed a fatal relaxation to occur, for when Duffy glanced at the hands of his watch he realized, with a thrill of horror, that they were pointing to a quarter to eight. Turning to O’Driscoll, he asked with some asperity whether it was because he (O’Driscoll) was such a fucking idiot that it was always left to him (Duffy) to organize everything? O’Driscoll replied with equal warmth that it had been he (O’Driscoll) who had worked out the taxi schedule while he (Duffy) had been busy making eyes at the barmaid with the nose stud, and that, anyway it was his Duffy’s girlfriend’s birthday do, so it wasn’t his (O’Driscoll’s) job to act as a nursemaid. This exchange resulted in both parties working all angst from their systems most satisfactorily, and it only remained to perform emergency ablutions in the pub toilet, put half a packet of O’Driscoll’s extra strong mints sideways into their mouths and jump a taxi for the ten minute journey to the restaurant.
As he sat down near Rocky and Sweeney, O’Driscoll could hear Duffy explaining to Faith that because he hadn’t wanted to embarrass her by giving her a birthday present in front of everyone, he had left it at home so he could present it to her in the much more intimate setting of the candlelit dinner he had booked for them on the following night. A moment later, Micky entered hand-in-hand with Maureen, and while Maureen commenced the round of air-kissing among the girls that would last at least five minutes, Micky spotted his friends and moved towards them. As he approached the table, however, a waft of scented air preceded him and O’Driscoll and Rocky exchanged glances before Rocky cleared his throat with elaborate care and said, “I don’t quite know how to say this, Mick, and please don’t be offended, but are you by any chance wearing perfume?”
“It’s not perfume, you cheeky bastard, it’s aftershave!”
“Are you sure it’s not perfume, it smells a lot like perfume to me?”
“It’s not perfume. I keep telling you, it’s aftershave!”
“What do they call it, this aftershave that smells like perfume?”
There was a short silence before Micky ventured, “Paco Rabanne?” He paused again and then repeated, this time with more confidence, “Paco Rabanne. Yes that’s it, Maureen bought it for me.”
Examining Quinn more closely, O’Driscoll noticed several other changes. Gone were the battered Wrangler jeans and tattered Ben Sherman shirt he usually wore, and in their place he was attired in a green linen shirt and trousers of a material not immediately identifiable.
“You’re looking very smart, Michael.” said Rocky. “I haven’t seen you in that outfit before.”
“Maureen gave it to me as an early birthday present.”
“Very nice, but not your usual style, Mick,” offered O’Driscoll.
“No,” conceded Quinn. “Maureen said I looked as if I could do with a makeover, so she went out and got the whole lot from Paul Smith.”
“What, she borrowed them?”
“Paul Smith’s not a person, you twat, it’s a shop, there’s one in Covent Garden.”
“Thank you for putting me straight on that,” said Rocky. “And by the way, could I ask, if I’m not being too presumptuous, how long you have known Paul Smith was not a person but a shop
in Covent Garden?”
“Since Maureen told me yesterday,” answered Quinn with a grin. “I know it’s not my usual get up,” he continued, lowering his voice, “but it keeps her happy and costs me nothing, so what the hell.”
“What material those trousers are made from?” asked Rocky, peering at the garments in question.
“Moleskin,” answered Quinn.
“Moleskin!” exploded O’Driscoll, who had spent the last few days immersed in a sea of small furry animals. “Fucking moleskin! Quinny, it’s bad enough turning up dressed like a character from The Wind in the Willows, but if you start twitching your nose and talking about messing about in boats, I won’t be responsible for my actions! And I’m certainly not letting you crash at my place wearing trousers like that, there might be talk.”
“Actually, I don’t think I’ll be crashing at your place for a while,” said Quinn. “I’m going to be staying at Maureen’s for a bit.”
“Yeah, and we know which bit!”
“No, seriously,” said Quinn, “I’m... er... moving in to Maureen’s place... that is... I’m moving in with Maureen.” Aware that his words had caused his friends to put their glasses down and exchange looks of amazement, he hurried on, “Just for a bit, like... to see how things go.”
