by Roddy Doyle
—Is that the first or the second, girls?
—The second.
—Oh Lord God, time flies when you're enjoying yourself.
She was the best of them. She was wired to the moon but she was harmless. At least she tried to remember our names. She usually got them wrong. She called me Michael once. There were no boys in the class and, I'm not boasting, I never looked like a boy. A mad oul' bitch. She's dead now, Carmel told me. She fell off a mountain in Wales on her holidays. The best thing I remember about that class is Dympna McQuaid, during the Group Cert exam. She had to make a salad, and she did it, finished it perfectly; Travers was sitting on her stool in a corner and she saw that Dympna had managed to get the hard-boiled egg out of its shell and had cut the lettuce without getting blood all over the table — you should have seen the head on Dympna — and she smiled at Dympna and gave her a little soundless burst of applause — and Dympna went over to the oven, turned on the grill and put the salad in under it before the inspector could get over there and stop her. I'd never smelt burning lettuce before.
Mister Dillon for history and geography. He'd a big drip of snot hanging off the end of his nose all through the winter. You could see the classroom lights in it if he was near enough to you. And he liked getting near enough to us. He'd make us move over and sit beside us and squash in and pretend it was playing; wasn't it great fun, him and some of the boys the only ones laughing, the dirty cunt. Now and again he got us to open our books and we'd read a bit of history. He was filling in our Christmas reports; we were colouring in a picture of someone famous from the French Revolution. I remember the page; 157.
—Pink for the face, remember, boys and girls. There were no darkies among the leaders of the Revolution.
He held his fountain pen over the first report sheet.
—Now.
He wanted us to look.
—A good comment for a kiss. Any offers?
My guts still curl up when I think about it.
Someone pointed at Derek O'Leary.
—He'll give you one. Sir.
—I will in me — I will not!
—That's not what you said last night.
—Enough!
Mister Dillon was in charge again. He's still there. I saw him getting into his car about two years ago. I couldn't see the drip on his nose but he was still wearing the same jacket.
Mister Waters for English. He'd flick through the book.
—What's the point? What's the point? You don't care about poetry, do you; any of you?
—No, Sir.
The prick; I was good at English until he came along with his Brylcream head. He never let us forget that we were dense, that we were a waste of his time. Another ladies' man; he put his hand on my shoulder once and he kept it there and kept it there while he bent over and changed Their to There.
—Tut tut.
He must have felt my heart thudding; he must have.
—Any more Theirs where there should be Theres; mmm?
He pressed his thumb into me. He dragged it over my bra-strap.
—Or Theres where there should be Theirs.
There was nothing exciting about it, a grown-up man feeling me, feeling me while he was correcting my mistakes. The thumb said that he could hurt me, mat was all. And I knew the difference between There and Their; I knew it long before I went anywhere near that fuckin' school.
The ones mat weren't perverts were either thick or bored or women. That was the only good thing about the women teachers; they didn't mess around with you. They hit us sometimes but it was ordinary hitting. We had Miss Dempsey for English in third year. After two years of no poetry, now we did nothing else. She got annoyed when we didn't like it; she'd wallop us with her book. She couldn't control us; she hadn't a clue.
—Fuck off hittin' me!
Gus Kinsella yelled that after she'd hit him on the loaf with her duster. She had her own duster that she brought everywhere with her. We said it was her Christmas present from her boyfriend. The boys had a different version; it was for wiping her arse and keeping her gee dry — she only used it as a duster because she needed the chalk. She should have walked out of the room and gone down to the headmaster when Gus Kinsella said that. She should just have walked out. She would have terrified us, especially Gus Kinsella; he was far worse than Derek O'Leary. She didn't, though. She was too scared. She was trapped. She couldn't report on us because she'd have been reporting on herself. It was the same for all of them. She was a hopeless poor clown. She was better man Brylcream-head, though.
That school made me rough. I wasn't like that before I started there.
—There's a smell of shite off yeh.
I never said anything like that before; I don't think I ever did. Now I had to act rough and think dirty. I had to fight. I had to be hard. Maybe it all happens anyway when you're growing up, no matter where you are; I don't really know. My John Paul was a little angel until about three days after his thirteenth birthday; Nicola didn't change in any way that was sudden or obvious, so I don't know. But it all started happening to me the minute I walked into that kip. Waters and his wandering thumb and Dillon and his wandering snot made me feel filthy; there was something about me that drew them to me, that made them touch me. It was my tits that I was too young for; I'd no right to them. It was my hair. It was my legs and my arms and my neck. There were things about me that were wrong and dirty. I thought that then; I felt it. I didn't say it to anybody; I wouldn't have known how to and I wouldn't have wanted to. I was a dirty slut in some way that I didn't understand and couldn't control; I made men and boys do things. I used to smell myself to see if it was that, some sort of a scent that I could wash off and they'd leave me alone and it could all go back to normal. There was no smell and it never did go back to normal.
—Fuck off.
—Fuck off.
—Fuck off, yourself.
—Fuck off.
Day in, day out.
—Get your fuckin' hands off me.
—Do your own fuckin' homework.
—Give that back, yeh cunt yeh.
I wasn't the only one. It happened to all of us. We went in children and we turned into animals. I don't blame Derek O'Leary. He was just a fast learner. By the end of the first week the class was full of Derek O'Learys, boy ones and girl ones.
—Fuck off.
—Fuck off.
—Fuck off.
All it took was someone leaning over and taking someone else's pencil, or someone sitting in too near to someone else. Or someone's head getting in the way of the blackboard. It took nothing.
—Fuck off.
—Fuck off.
—Fuck off.
I got pawed and I scraped back. I got scraped and I bit. I went home one dinner-time and I spent ages in the bathroom washing blood from under my fingernails. I remember being afraid that my mammy would come up. I was afraid that I'd have to explain it to her, explain it all, right back to the beginning. I don't think she ever noticed that I'd become different. At first, I tried to hide. I dragged my jumper down at the front, at the neck, so it would sag and make me disappear. Then I just gave up.
—What're you fuckin' lookin' at?
—Fuck off.
It wasn't all bad. It can't have been. There were the breaks at eleven and dinner-time. There was Fiona. There was something about her; you felt bigger just being with her. I changed my mind about her; I really liked her. We sat beside each other when we could.
—Get back to your proper place, Fiona Phillips, now.
—No.
—I beg your pardon.
—I want to sit here.
—I'm going to the headmaster.
—Yeah, you are; I dare yeh.
Fiona was a great combination, quick and lazy. She just had a way about her; she was sexy and she didn't care. A few years later I saw men drooling at her — their mouths hung open — and she didn't give a damn. She stood up to Dillon.
—Move over now, Miss Philli
ps; come on, push push.
—There's no room, said Fiona.
—Make room, come on.
—No.
Dillon was beaten. He couldn't do anything to Fiona. He could give her a bad Christmas report but she didn't care. Her parents couldn't read and she could get her older brother to lie when he was reading it for them. He couldn't hit her. She'd have hit him back and then the real trouble would have started. It was great. There wasn't a squeak in the room.
—You're getting fat, Miss Phillips.
That was the best he could do.
—Not as fat as you, said Fiona.
I had good friends, a whole gang of us. School finished at four o'clock. There were the breaks. There were laughs. There were free classes when the teachers were out pretending to be sick. We never had the full day's worth of teachers. We just stayed in the room and screamed and wrecked the place and each other and no one came near us. I'd go into a corner with Fiona and we'd chat for hours. We loved The High Chaparral. I liked Blue Boy and she liked Monolito. We used to argue about them. She was mad about Mono. We nearly hit each other. (I've seen High Chaparral a couple of times on Sky in the afternoon and Fiona was right; Mono is much better looking than Blue Boy. Mono would nail you to the bed but poor oul' Blue Boy wouldn't know where to start. I didn't think that way then, when I was thirteen. I wouldn't object to teaching Blue Boy a thing or two now. It would fill some of those long afternoons and I'd be a better teacher than any of those useless cunts from the tech.)
It didn't even have a name. The primary school was called Saint Mary's. The tech was just the tech. The convent where the snobs went was called Holy Rosary. The brainy ones in primary were told to do the entrance exam for Holy Rosary. No one ever told me.
I tried — just now — to remember all the names of the other people in my class but I couldn't do it. I couldn't come near it. I hate when that happens. I can remember mat it was raining the morning I started but I can't remember the names of the people who sat behind me. No such problem with the name of me little prick that sat beside me.
—What'll we call him if it's a boy?
—Not Derek.
—What?
I'm nearly certain that it started raining when I was waiting in the yard.
There was one poor fella in the class who'd had some sort of a terrible accident; his face was destroyed. It was red raw and white, he had no eyebrows; his whole face was warped. The skin was tight and horribly smooth. No hair grew until about an inch over his ear on one side; the skin there was the whitest thing I've ever seen. He'd pulled a chip pan down on himself when he was small; that was the story. He never spoke unless he was made to. Then there was a gap — always there was — before he answered, as if it was taking all his strength to get the words out. I remember him exactly — I could draw him — but not his name. I hated it that he was in our class. He was the proof that we were nearly the worst, one step above retarded. At the same time I wanted to help him. I used to smile at him, but not in a way that would make him think I fancied him; I practised smiling at home. I can't remember his fuckin' name.
I changed. I noticed it then; I'm not just looking back. I changed. I stopped trying to hide myself. I pushed myself forward.
—What're you fuckin' lookin' at?
—Nothin' much.
—Fuck off.
I hated using bad language and then I stopped thinking about it. Derek O'Leary tried to feel me and I felt him back. I didn't squeeze; I just grabbed. He squirmed out of the seat onto the floor. He couldn't believe it; he was devastated.
—There's some of your own fuckin' medicine.
—Get off the floor, Derek O'Leary!
He couldn't say anything.
I grabbed him regularly from then on, what would now be called pre-emptive strikes. (I watched all the Gulf War stuff with Charlo. He loved that war.) I kept Derek O'Leary on his toes. He never enjoyed it. He left a nice big space between me and him. I had power, the only time in my life. I could make boys squirm. I tested it.
—Pick that up.
Two of them tried to get there first. I didn't thank them. I practised my smiles. I looked over my shoulder into the mirror. I stared at my tongue; I licked my teeth. I held my hair over my head and let it fall and turned.
Are you the girl with the shining hair?
I wanked a boy in the back of the room. During Religion, in third year. Martin Kavanagh, one of the few fine things in the school and the only one in our class. Big and as thick as day-old shite. He was a big Slade fan. I didn't masturbate him: I wanked him. There's a difference, I mink. During Religion. They all knew we were doing it; that was the point. No one looked, except Fiona; they were all scared of Martin. I'm left handed. I wrote down the list of the Holy Days of Obligation with my left hand and wanked him with my right. We changed places so I could do it. He can't have enjoyed it. The desks were very low; we were much too big for them by third year. My hand kept knocking the bottom of the desk. It was the first time I'd done it. I didn't look. His thing was hot and all of it seemed to be in my fist. I just wanted to get it done with before the bell went. Up down, up down; my fist went over him and walloped the desk. I grabbed him again. Up down — I could feel his trousers, the zip and the material. It must have been agony for him after a while. I looked at his face. He was gawking at the blackboard, biting his lip. He wouldn't look at me. His knees whacked the desk, then his legs shot out straight, under the desk in front of us.
—Neeaaa!
—Who made that noise?
I felt him coming. It terrified me. I didn't know what was happening. I thought it would scald me, it seemed so hot. I hadn't expected it. What colour was it? He pushed my hand away. He got his trousers back shut. The hotness had gone off his come. It was cold now, so fast. I wouldn't look. I bent down and wiped the inside and outside of my hand on my sock, and hoped. I knew it wasn't blood; I knew that much. I don't know where the rest of it went, on the floor or the desk or the back of the fella in front of him. I never looked.
The bell went. Everybody knew.
I did it to him; he didn't do it to me. I did it.
My First Wank.
I was proud. I was a woman.
—What was it like?
—Lovely.
I'd survived.
I was someone.
I went with him for two weeks. I had to. You couldn't just wank a fella for the sake of it; you had to love him. I didn't do it again. He didn't ask me.
I'm a sucker for romance. If only it had been on a beach somewhere, or even a park. If only Martin had looked into my eyes. If he'd only had a brain. There was a map of the world on the wall behind us. Someone had drawn tits and a gee on South America. I wiped my hand on my sock. Really, you shouldn't have to wipe your hand at all. Here comes Robert Redford and his picnic rug again.
One thing for certain: I wouldn't have done it if I'd gone to the Holy Rosary. And I don't think I'd have done it if I'd been in 1.1. But my name was called out just when it started to rain and I ended up wanking a good-looking thick in the back of the classroom. That was how you made a name for yourself in 1.6.
10
Me then.
The girl who wanked Martin Kavanagh was five foot three inches tall. Her sister had measured her. She had brown hair, long and straight. Her ambition was to be able to sit on it. She had good skin; there was never any acne in her family. She had woman's legs; the little girl was gone out of them. She had a scar just over her left knee where her brother had stabbed her. She had a thirty-four-inch bust. Bust was a normal word in those days. She had brown eyes and people always commented on her smile. She had shaved her legs three times so far. She knew she was stupid but she didn't mind that much. She didn't want to be a teacher any more. She wanted to be an air hostess or an actress. But any job would do her. Her mother said she was nice enough looking to be a model but she had a crooked tooth so she knew she couldn't be one. She wanted to be a singer too, in a band; the only girl in it. She'd sit
on a stool for the slow songs. She knew all the words of American Pie from start to finish. And Vincent. She sat on the windowsill in her bedroom when she sang Vincent. She hated her school but she was happy. She was glad she'd wanked Martin Kavanagh. She was ashamed of herself and proud. She was someone. She was leaving school in a few months, after her Group Cert. She was going to stroll through it. She had her whole life ahead of her.
Me now.
The woman who masturbated Charlo Spencer is five feet four inches tall but she's been stooping a bit lately, her sister tells her. She still has brown hair, with a bit of help from something out of a bottle. She looks good if she remembers to stand up straight and you don't look at her too closely. People look but never too closely. Her arse is sagging a bit but she's the only one alive who knows. The skin of her face is veined, thin lines joining like tiny pink rivers on a map. They're easy to hide. She'll be thirty-nine in two months' time. Give her a mirror, some make-up and a half-hour and she'll make herself look thirty. See her when she's getting out of bed and she'll look fifty. She's an office cleaner; she gets two-fifty an hour. She does houses as well in the mornings. She's on an agency list but she doesn't have a phone. She has four children. She is a widow. She is an alcoholic. She has holes in her heart that never stop killing her. She sometimes thinks that she has cancer; she thinks that she deserves to have it. She isn't too fond of herself but she isn't so certain that she's stupid any more. She manages; she's a survivor. She has loose skin on her arms but her neck is still alright.
11
There was a pay phone in the takeaway. The Chinese girl behind the counter gave me her book. I looked under Coolock. I didn't know if that was the right station but it was where they'd usually brought Charlo when they'd wanted to have one of their chats with him. There was nothing on that page, only the Credit Union and the petrol station. I tried Garda; nothing there either. I knew that there was no point in going to S for Station. There was 999 but I didn't want to do that; what would I say?
