A Month of Sundays

by John Owens

  She lowered her voice even further. “Reg actually likes me rubbing on the oils and ointments, he says it’s quite... arousing, if you know what I mean.” She gave a small grimace. “Once he was enjoying it so much, he started to get... you know! I didn’t know where to look, reminded me a bit of that film Alien, you know, the first time we see... “There was a sound somewhere between a gasp and a moan from the other side of the room and Mrs. Goodwin smiled. “Yes, I can see you know the bit I mean!”

  Leaving Mrs. Goodwin to talk to a rapidly dwindling audience, O’Driscoll made his way to the Year Six classroom. As he reached the door, the first thing he heard was Brett’s voice forth in its usual direct and forceful manner. “Goddam Brits, can’t even swear properly.”

  “What are you talking about?” said a bored-sounding voice.

  “Take a nice, simple word like “fuck”. You limeys say it every which way and you still can’t get it right.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When we were in London last weekend, there was this big fat guy in a kinda shiny tracksuit selling tickets for some soccer match. Anyway, he said it so it sounded exactly like ‘fack.’” Brett assumed a wide-legged pose and, waving imaginary tickets in the air, shouted, “Twenty-five quid for two! Yer ‘avin’ a faarcking laarf, yer faarcking caarnt!” He paused for breath and O’Driscoll couldn’t help thinking that his grasp of London lowlife vernacular was rather impressive.

  “That’s the way we speak in London, yer faarcking caarnt!” said another voice and there was a chorus of laughter.

  “OK, what about guy who delivers the Goodwin’s milk, then? I heard him tell Mr. Goodwin about some office where he delivers milk. ‘Boonch of fooking soothern poofters’,” said Brett in an accent that George Formby might have employed on the front at Blackpool.

  Then, there was an intervention from a surprising quarter. “I agree this is strange,” came the sound of Henri’s voice, “but there is not alone these two ways to say this word, there is a third also. Yesterday, Father Kennedy, he drop his book on the ground and I hear him say, ‘Ah, feck!’”

  At last, thought O’Driscoll as he heard the class trying out various versions amidst much laughter, the two exchange students had found something to agree about, even if it was only out of a shared sense of mystification at the myriad ways in which the British pronounced their most famous linguistic export.

  “Hey, teacher man,” called out Brett as O’Driscoll entered the room. “Can you help us out, we want to know whether it’s “fack,” “fook,” or “feck?”

  “It’s actually f...” began O’Driscoll before he remembered himself, hastily cleared his throat and silenced the tittering class with what he hoped was one of his most withering looks.

  He managed to avoid the necessity of dipping further into the world of Anglo-Saxon invective and Tuesday afternoon wended its way to an unremarkable conclusion. He was then faced with the dilemma of whether to head for The North Star, where the lads had arranged to meet for a drink, or go home and continue his new life of abstinence and self-denial. But had he not already broken his self-imposed curfew the night before by issuing forth on an errand of mercy to help a colleague in need? And then there was the leaving do on Wednesday, which would lead into Thursday, and everyone knew Thursday was the start of the weekend and didn’t count as a weekday, not really. On reflection, he decided to keep things administratively tidy by simply putting off the start of his new life until the following week and, resolving to check that the prune juice would still be in date, he did some marking and headed off to The North Star ahead of the designated meeting time of six-thirty.

  He bumped into Micky on the Uxbridge Road and as they fell into step, Quinn asked for enlightenment on a question that he said had been bothering him. Was it true all male staff at St Catherine’s owned douche bags or was it only those called to holy orders? Choosing not to dignify these words with a reply, O’Driscoll instead laid about his friend with a rolled up copy of the Evening Standard and the two arrived at the pub considerably cheered by the exchange. As they entered, they saw Duffy deep in conversation with the new supply teacher, Clive, and having got themselves pints, they arrived at the table to find that Clive was speaking. He flicked them a glance before turning his head to Duffy and continuing his conversation, and although the glance had been brief, it told him that as they were neither alpha males nor female, they were unworthy of further consideration.

  “I took that little blond piece out over the weekend - Tracey, I think its name is,” he was saying.

  “Tracey Reeves?” said Duffy. “You’re a fast mover.” (Tracey was one of the teaching assistants who worked with the infants and was considered something of a beauty).

  “Anyway, I took it over Richmond way, fed it, gave it a bit of a dance, and then back to my place.” He flicked his hand through his hair and shook his head as he went on. “Well, it showed her gratitude in the traditional way. I hardly had the strength to stagger out of bed the next morning. And I tell you what, I don’t know where it was educated, but it knew a few things that would impress any teacher.” He lowered his voice slightly. “Shall I just say that during the course of the night, every orifice saw some action.” He took a swig from his drink and flicked a hand through his hair again. “All three.”

  O’Driscoll and Quinn looked at each other and Micky said, “Well, he can count then.”

  “Course he can, that’s why they gave him Maths to teach,” answered O’Driscoll. “Nothing stupid about the management at Saint Catherine’s!”

  Clive gave no indication of having heard any of this but continued to talk to Duffy, who gazed inscrutably back at him.

  “What about earholes, don’t they count?” said Quinn to O’Driscoll. “As orifices, I mean.”

  “Good point,” answered his friend, “and then there’s nostrils, as well. I mean if ears count, you’d have to include nostrils as well.”

  “And they count as two each, don’t they?” said Micky, receiving an affirmative nod from his friend. “Altogether that comes to... er... well, it’s a lot more than three, anyway.”

  “Which makes Mr. Duffy’s friend here a bit of a lightweight,” finished O’Driscoll, and they turned their attention back to the conversation going on next to them.

  “Keep me informed of any gossip that might be useful,” Clive was saying. “You know the type of thing I mean.” He gave Duffy a slow wink, drained his glass and, completely ignoring the other two, stood up and strolled casually towards the door, his head moving almost imperceptibly from side-to-side as he walked.

  “Seems a nice bloke, your friend,” observed Micky as they watched the retreating figure moving towards the exit with those tiny lateral movements of the head that proclaim, “I am a cool person.”

  Duffy smiled slightly and it was evident that he shared their misgivings about the new teacher. “A bit too much information, to be honest,” he said referring to Clive’s disclosures, and in truth, it did compare unfavorably with his own conduct, for Duffy never felt the need to boast about his conquests, even though he could probably have kept the room amused for several hours had he wished.

  “Anyway,” he went on, changing the subject, “how’s it going with the lovely Maureen, Mick?” A shadow passed over Quinn’s face and as he stirred restlessly in his chair, hints of Pacco Rabanne scented the air around him.

  “I’m starving, that’s how it’s going,” he answered and there was a plaintive note to his voice. “I’ve come straight over here from dinner. She did ask me to go on with her to some aerobics class afterwards but I managed to get out of it, thank God, or I’d have collapsed with exhaustion after what she gave me.”

  “What did you have?” asked O’Driscoll.

  Quinn gathered himself together and made an obvious effort to control his emotions. “Tofu.” He spat the word out. “Fucking Tofu. That�
�s what I had.”

  There was a short pause before Rocky, who had arrived in the middle of the conversation asked, “What?”

  “Tofu!”

  “What’s tofu?”

  There was another, longer pause as if Micky was considering his next words carefully. He started to hitch his trousers, gave up halfway, and eventually replied, “I don’t know what it is exactly, to be honest.”

  “What does it look like?”

  “Lots of little grey cubes, but they sort of collapse when you try to pick them up.”

  “What does it taste like?” asked Rocky.

  Micky picked his nose thoughtfully as he gave the question his full attention and there followed another lengthy period of contemplation. “It’s hard to say what it tastes like, exactly,” he replied.

  “You’re not giving us a lot here, Michael,” said Duffy. “Have you got anything else at all to say on the subject of tofu?”

  “Not really, except to say that I never thought anything would make me nostalgic for couscous, but fucking tofu managed it.”

  “Apart from the food, is everything else OK?” asked Duffy.

  “It’s all very well for you to say, ‘Apart from the food,’” replied his friend. “Apart from the food’s easy to say for someone who’s getting a proper meal every once in a while.” He rubbed his great paunch and there was a quaver in his voice as he went on. “There’s an aching void where my stomach should be. An aching void! Do you know how long it’s been,” he said in a voice that would have melted the heart of a graven image, “since I had a pie?”

  “So apart from the food, everything else is OK?” repeated Duffy, wearing the same inscrutable expression.

  “Up to a point,” replied his friend. “She’s got me reading this,” he said, shaking his head and pulling out a paperback from his pocket. O’Driscoll picked it up and read the title: The House of the Spirits, by Isabel Allende.

  “What’s it about?” asked Sweeney, who, pint in hand, had joined them.

  “Dunno really,” answered Micky, “can’t get my head around it. I mean it starts off in some South American country and there’s all these people shagging one and other. I haven’t got any problem with that,” he added hastily, clearly anxious to show that he was as broad-minded as the next man, “but next thing you know they start flying around the place.”

  Rocky, who as a boy had been a keen collector of the Top Trumps cards, looked up with interest. “Flying what?” he asked.

  “Not flying anything, you idiot, just flying around.”

  “Just flying around on their own?” Rocky considered this crime against the laws of physical science and shook his head. “Well, that’s just bloody stupid.”

  “You don’t have to tell me it’s bloody stupid!” replied his friend. “And the other thing that really pisses me off is the way it keeps jumping around in time. At least I think it keeps jumping around in time? It’s hard to say, to be honest. Doesn’t it annoy you when books do that?”

  “Have you discussed it with Maureen?”

  “Have I discussed what with Maureen?”

  “The book, you twat!”

  “Well,” answered Quinn, “it’s more of a case of her discussing it with me. I tried to say I didn’t understand it and leave it at that, but she wanted to know what bits I didn’t understand and she started explaining them to me. Have you ever had someone explaining to you in great detail something you didn’t want to know in the first place?” He paused and sighed. “It’s bloody annoying, I can tell you.”

  “If she explained it, you must know what it’s about,” said Duffy.

  Quinn snorted. “You obviously haven’t heard Maureen explaining stuff. She said it was all to do with something called... er... ‘magical realism.’ He paused, and after a moment’s thought, went on, “or it might have been ‘realistic magic.’ Made my head spin, it did, the whole thing, but it’s apparently a way of writing that allows you to put any old bollocks into a story, and no one can say it’s bollocks because of this ‘magical realism’ thing.”

  “Just to get back to these people flying about,” interjected Rocky, who was of a literal bent. “Was that to do with the magical thing?”

  Micky screwed his face up with the effort of remembering. “I did ask her about that and she said that the flying was... allegorical.”

  “Ally who?” asked Rocky.

  “He used to play for Dundee United,” said Duffy, who was tiring of the discussion. “Look, it’s dead simple - women’s brains are wired differently from ours and that’s why they can read books where people fly about without getting pissed off. It could have been worse, it could have been one of those stories where they spend all their time getting emotional and crying and talking about how they feel. Just tell her you’ve finished it, Mick, and that you liked it.”

  “I did! I tried to pretend I’d finished it but she started making up questions to try and catch me out.” Quinn’s great shoulders sagged. “She did catch me out, as it happens, several times.” He cast a dolorous look at his friends. “She said she was disappointed in me!”

  A keen observer might have detected suppressed amusement in the looks that were exchanged around the table. “So where does that leave you?” asked O’Driscoll with studied gravity.

  “I’ve got to finish it, that’s where it bloody leaves me!” answered his friend. “The other day I was pretending to read it and I had a Tom Clancy inside the pages and she caught me.” He winced at the memory. “I’ve got to finish it. Just for a quiet life. I’ve got to finish a book that I don’t understand with loads of characters whose names I can’t remember flying about the place like fucking bats, and then I’ve got to answer questions on it. I wouldn’t mind,” he went on gloomily, “if there was any sense to it.” He sighed, shook his head and muttered, “No terrorists, no guerillas, no SWAT teams, no nothing. Five hundred and sixty-two pages and the word Kalashnikov doesn’t appear once!”

  By now, it was approaching the time when a decision needed to be made about whether to call it quits when the pubs shut at eleven, or move on somewhere else. Fortunately, Rocky knew of the launch of a new IT product that was taking place at a hotel in Acton and though it turned out to be a disappointingly tame event, there was enough free wine to provide some consolation for the lack of sparkle among the delegates. And so it was that, having made his weary way home via the Chinese takeaway and a portion of sweet and sour pork balls that contained enough cholesterol to clog up the Blackwall tunnel, John O’Driscoll finally drifted into sleep and into another day.

  Wednesday

  On arriving at school the next morning, two thoughts were uppermost in O’Driscoll’s mind. The first concerned Prudence and her nonappearance the previous day. The effort of trying to maintain a positive attitude when working with her was turning him into a nervous wreck and the fact that she was, in spite of her foibles, a decent person with decent instincts made him feel all the more guilty for his intolerance. He promised himself he would make a special effort to be nicer to her. After all, she was dedicated and hardworking and actually seemed to like the kids, something that couldn’t be said say for many of her colleagues. So summoning up what Christian spirit he had left after a Catholic upbringing (not much), he stiffened his sinews and prepared to spend a day doing good work with the needy.

  The other thought concerned the rearranged leaving do taking place later that day. Unlike many functions to which he reluctantly dragged himself, this one promised to be a good night, because the teacher who was leaving was gregarious and well-liked and, of course, the event had the additional incentive that Karen would be there. He hadn’t seen her since Saturday and his stomach lurched as he wondered which Karen would reveal herself to him later that night - the one who had flashed her eyes at him and whispered in his ear on the dance floor or the one who looked on in horror as h
e frolicked lasciviously on the same spot an hour later.

  Mr. Barnet commenced briefing by wishing everyone a breezy good morning and reminding them that on Friday, the school would be closed to the children while staff took part in a training day on the subject of multicultural awareness. He also reminded staff of the special service Father Kennedy had organized for the following Sunday to say goodbye to the delegation from America.

  The first person O’Driscoll saw after the meeting had finished was Prudence, and she immediately fell into step beside him, her great owlish eyes blinking furiously as she began to speak. She was sorry she hadn’t seen him for a few days, she said but an unexpected family matter had called her away and it was such a shame just when she felt her teaching had really started to open up those little minds and she had missed the children, they were so wonderful in their innocence and of course she had missed him because he had been so helpful but he would understand she missed the children a bit more and did he think that the children might have missed her just a little bit and had any of them said anything about her?

  It was true that 5R had found the classroom a strangely tame place without Prudence and O’Driscoll contrived to give that impression in his reply but it was more difficult to put a positive spin on her final question, for O’Driscoll had heard Joe Cahill and his gang referring to her in terms which suggested that his worries over the name Cnut the Great had been well-founded. He confined himself to replying it was clear she had made a significant impression on the 5R pupils, and he was mercifully spared the need to comment further when Prudence was called away for a meeting with Mr. Barnet.

  O’Driscoll’s day passed off in a desultory fashion, with Prudence shadowing him in the morning and then disappearing on a mission to prepare literacy resources for another Key Stage. By seven o’clock, he was showered, changed and having a quick pint in The North Star with Duffy and Rocky ahead of the leaving do in Hanwell.

  “Did Micky say he was coming here first?” asked O’Driscoll.