—With the teenage kid, I said.—Reddish hair – see?
I was driving but we’d been stuck on Westland Row, outside the Dart station, for ages.
—With the coat?
—Yes.
—She’s lovely, said Rachel.
She said that about virtually all women her own age. She meant it, always, but she knew it wasn’t true. She wanted it to be true.
—What’s her name?
—Vickie, I said.
It wasn’t the first time I’d pointed out a fictitious old girlfriend. Women who’d aged well, some who hadn’t. Rachel loved it. I’ve no idea where the name, Vickie, came from but I remember I’d had it ready, somehow, for when I’d need it.
The traffic ahead of me jumped a few feet and I followed it. I knew I was safe. Rachel wouldn’t roll down her window and call to Vickie and her daughter. Recognise him? Warmly and a bit triumphantly. She loved me and believed me – and believed in me – for years.
—When was that? Rachel asked, as the traffic moved again and kept moving.
—Just before I met you, I told her.
—The girl isn’t yours then, she said.
She smiled – I could see her while I looked ahead and got us onto Merrion Square. She was grinning at me – for me. We laughed.
5
He didn’t knock. He just opened the door and stepped in. He didn’t shut the door or say hello to Brother Connolly, Patch, our maths teacher.
—Stand up, he said.
We knew who he was; we’d heard all about him. Tom Jones. He got that name because chest hair crawled out the top of his shirt and someone had once heard him singing in the teachers’ toilet.
We all stood up. Beside the desks. The way we were supposed to.
Tom Jones stood in front of Toner.
—Doh – reh – mee – fah –
Tom Jones was singing. We couldn’t laugh, and that made it even better. He charged up the scale.
—Soh – lah – tee – dohh!
Then he pointed at Toner.
—Sing.
Toner got to mee, then stopped. I couldn’t see his face but it looked like he was crying.
—Sit down, said Tom Jones.
Frankie Best was next.
—You.
Only three lads in the class had broken voices and Frankie wasn’t one of them. He’d played Prince Charming in the Christmas show in primary school.
He sang.
Tom Jones nearly smiled.
—Outside, he said.—And wait there.
Patch was sitting in his chair, under the Virgin. Frankie passed him on his way to the door.
—That was lovely, said Patch.
—Thanks, Brother, said Frankie.
Tom Jones stood in front of every boy in the room and made them sing the scales. Ten of us were sent out of the class. I was one of the last.
—Out.
When you left our class, you walked straight into the yard. It was raining. There was a little porch but only a few could fit into it. I tried to get a corner but I was shoved off the step.
—What’s he going to do to us?
—Don’t know.
—I’m not joining a bleedin’ choir.
But we wouldn’t have a choice.
Tom Jones came out.
—This way.
We followed him into the other house, the senior side of the school. We had to go through a sixth-year class but no one kicked us this time. We went after Tom Jones, up a stairs we’d never been on before, and then another, a really narrow one, and we walked into a room with a sloping ceiling. We were right in under the roof of the school. It was amazing, a mix of light and dark. There were no desks, no blackboard, just two chairs. And about forty lads from all the other years. We were still a bit scared but we felt it – I knew it: we’d been brought into a club, where we could stand beside and talk to the older lads, where we were almost their equals.
Tom Jones made us sing the national anthem that first day. He got us to stand in three lines and he walked between the rows. He’d grab the shoulder of a jumper and pull the boy into a different line, in front of or behind him. He hit a sixth-year when he didn’t move fast enough. He thumped the side of his jaw and pushed him back, to the back line. They called the sixth-year Mungo because he had sideburns down to his mouth, like the singer from Mungo Jerry. He was bigger than Tom Jones but he did nothing. It was the most frightening thing I’d seen. And we had to keep singing the national anthem.
Tom Jones stood beside me.
—Louder.
I tried. But I kept forgetting the words. I’d learnt them years before, when I’d been about six. The words were Irish; I’d never really known them properly and I’d never known what all of them meant. Tom Jones’s chin was down at my shoulder. I could feel his breath on the side of my face. He grabbed my jumper and pulled me across, to the edge of the front row.
He stood in front of us now. He held his right hand high, then he sliced the air as he brought it down, across his chest. We could hear his grunt, and we all stopped singing.
—That was dreadful, he said.
Some lads at the back laughed. It seemed to be okay.
—Tomorrow, said Tom Jones.—Nine o’clock. Here.
He pointed at Moonshine.
—When?
—Nine o’clock, sir.
He pointed at another boy.
—Where?
—Here, sir.
—Remember exactly where you are standing, said Tom Jones.—I will not be reminding you.
He pointed at me.
—You.
I had no throat. It had gone. I’d never be able to speak.
Then he moved his finger to Frankie.
—You.
He pointed at about eight of us, five in the front row and three behind us.
—You are sopranos, he said.—Get out.
We had maths with Patch the next morning at nine but we went up to the room under the roof. We’d hardly spoken about what had happened, or what was going to happen. I wasn’t sure if being in the choir was a good or a bad thing. I wondered if being sopranos would get us murdered by the older lads. We were ten minutes early. We didn’t do anything. We didn’t even put our schoolbags in a corner. We just waited.
—Were you in the choir before? Frankie asked a third-year.
—What choir?
—Is this the first one?
—Looks like it.
We heard the bell. We heard doors close, and the end of the shouting below. We were above the normal life of the school. We said nothing.
No one was late.
Tom Jones came in and shut the door.
—Dia dhaoibh.
—Dia is Mhuire dhuit, a mhúinteor.
—I don’t need to bother with a roll call, he said.
He pointed at Moonshine.
It wasn’t me, it wasn’t me.
—Have you heard of Seán Ó’Riada?
—No, sir.
—You are a fool. What are you?
—I think I might have heard of him –
—You are a fool!
Tom Jones hadn’t moved. I could feel Moonshine’s terror, the heat of it. I could feel him shivering beside me. I was shivering too.
Seán Ó’Riada had composed a mass, or music for a mass, in Irish. And we were going to learn it. First or last class every day, we’d go up to the room under the roof and learn to sing Ó’Riada’s mass.
The next day, after the second rehearsal, we found out that Patch was gone. Someone’s big brother had seen him fainting the day before, on the path between the school and the Brothers’ house. Patch was ancient. You could see his bones right under his skin. When the sun was bright and he was standing near the window, it was hard
to make out his face.
We hadn’t seen the new teacher yet, but we knew: he was in the school, somewhere. This was nothing like a free class. The door was open, but no one was going to close it. The Head Brother would be coming in with the new teacher. No one was going to be caught out of his seat.
The Head Brother was impressive. He could walk into the room, scan us, and know exactly what was going on. If we’d done our homework, or how things were at home. He never shouted; he never had to.
He walked in now. He stared.
The new guy was with him, right behind him.
—Gentlemen, said the Head Brother.
He looked at everyone.
—Brother Connolly will not be with us. For the foreseeable future. Do you know what that means?
He pointed.
—Do you know what that means?
—Yes, Brother.
—And if I told you to tell us what it means – now. Would you be able to?
—Yes, Brother.
—Would you?
—Yes, Brother.
—I’m inclined to believe you, said the Head Brother.
He had us slaughtered, on the slab; we were terrified and grateful.
—This is Mister McDevitt, he said.—And he will be your maths teacher – for.
He pointed.
—The foreseeable future, Brother.
—Exactly, he said.—The foreseeable future. I’ll leave you to it, Mister McDevitt. They’re a good bunch of lads beneath it all.
He walked the few steps to the door.
—Victor Forde, he said, without stopping.—Follow me.
I’d done nothing. My homework, all of it, was in my bag. I was in the new choir, my clothes were clean, I’d got my hair cut the week before.
He was waiting outside. He’d stepped out of the porch, and turned. I stood now on the step. We were almost the same height; I wasn’t looking up at him.
—Shut the door a minute, he said quietly.
I did, and faced him again.
—How is your father? he asked.
—Fine, Brother, I said.
—Good, he said.—Good man. He’s in our prayers, tell him. And your mother. Back you go, inside.
—Thanks, Brother.
We called the new guy Super Cool, because he thought he was cool and he wasn’t.
—Must try harder, said Doc.
He didn’t bother whispering. Super Cool had just tossed his bit of chalk onto the tray under the blackboard, and missed. The chalk hit the floor and Super Cool tried to look like he’d meant it. He shrugged and sat on the teachers’ table. None of the teachers ever sat on the table. When he got up a bit later there was chalk on his arse. We could see inside his briefcase. Sandwiches in tinfoil and a flask; no books, no newspaper.
—Thinks he’s Paul McCartney but he wraps his sambos in tinfoil.
It was true, we decided. Super Cool was trying to look like Paul McCartney.
—Here, sir! Will we take that down or let it be?
—Who said that?
—The jailer man and Sailor Sam, sir.
It was the first time we’d given a teacher his nickname. One of Moonshine’s brothers heard the name from Moonshine, and Super Cool became Super Cool all over the school. When it was quiet in our room, we’d hear lads somewhere else singing ‘Band on the Run’ or the end of ‘Hey Jude’, and we’d know who was trying to teach them.
* * *
Tom Jones never got any less frightening. I never got used to him. He never smiled but there were days when you knew it was alright to laugh when he said something or when one of the older lads couldn’t get to the right note. He wouldn’t come at us with his fists. But sometimes we got it wrong. It would be okay to laugh one minute, then someone would be bent over, holding his arm where Tom Jones had thumped him. I’d watch tears drop on the wooden floor and I’d love Tom Jones because they weren’t my tears.
One day, a second-year’s voice broke halfway through one of the hymns, Ag Críost an Síol. He stopped being a soprano and became an alien. He kept singing; he probably hoped the one-note frog voice would go away, that his boy voice would come back. Before Tom Jones got to him.
Tom Jones lifted his arm, and sliced the air. We stopped singing, bang on.
—Was that you, O’Driscoll?
—Yes, sir, sorry, sir, Derek O’Driscoll croaked; he whispered, terrified of the sound.
Moonshine nudged me. There was going to be killing.
But there wasn’t.
—Congratulations, said Tom Jones.
He let O’Driscoll stay in the choir, even though he couldn’t sing.
We didn’t know why we were learning to sing Ó’Riada’s mass. Tom Jones never told us and we couldn’t ask him. No date was mentioned, no Sunday in the future when we’d be singing it in the parish church. We didn’t care. The free classes were great, and being in a kind of club. Tom Jones only hit me once. He walloped me across the head with the rolled-up sheet music. It didn’t hurt but I thought I was in for more; he stood right behind me for ages – for ever. I couldn’t sing. I couldn’t move. But I was still glad I was there because I was missing French.
One Friday, he told us we were to come in the next day, all day, Saturday, for practice. No one said anything. No one groaned or put up his hand. There’d be no football, or anything else. I went to the library on Saturday mornings. I’d bring my father’s books back and pick three new ones for him. I wouldn’t be doing it this week.
We were all there on Saturday morning. We had to wait outside the school gate until one of the Brothers saw all of us and came out of the Brothers’ house and unlocked the gate. Then we had to wait again at the main door until Tom Jones arrived in his car. He was wearing O’Connor’s jeans and a cravat.
—Bleedin’ eejit, Moonshine whispered.
We were in the room under the roof for about half an hour when there was a knock on the door. We looked at Tom Jones’s face and hands; we were to keep singing. The door opened. I could see Brothers outside. They looked like they were wrestling. There were three of them, and one of them was Patch. He was being helped by the other two, Brother Fay and the art teacher, Brother McConkey. McConkey – Conkers – had his dog, Setanta, with him. Setanta was always covered in paint, where lads had cleaned their brushes on him.
Patch was even frailer than the last time he’d taught us. I thought the Brothers were carrying him. He was wearing his soutane, and I couldn’t see his feet; they might have been inches off the floor.
Tom Jones lifted and dropped his arm. We stopped singing and watched.
The Brothers sat Patch down on one of the chairs. I could see his feet now. He was wearing slippers. I could see pyjama bottoms too.
His smile was terrible.
—Hello, boys.
—Hello, Brother.
—Dia dhaoibh.
—Dia is Muire dhuit, a Bhráthair.
Then Tom Jones made us go back to the beginning and we sang all we’d learnt. Tom Jones didn’t stop us. He just stood at the front and conducted. He didn’t look angry and he didn’t sweat. It struck me then; he was on his best behaviour.
Setanta barked once but we didn’t laugh. Conkers kicked him and put him outside the door. Conkers was as old as Patch and he sometimes honked. You could tell; he didn’t know he did it.
We kept singing and got to the end.
—Thank you, boys, said Patch.—That was lovely.
It took him ages to say the words, like each one of them had to be pulled out of his mouth. His eyes were wet. They looked even worse because the skin around them was red and flakey. He tried to stand up. The other Brothers pulled and carried him to the door. Tom Jones didn’t move. One of the Brothers got the door open and Patch turned, as much as he could, so we saw the side of his face.
&nbs
p; —I’m looking forward to it, boys, he said.
He fell over Setanta but the two Brothers caught him and we thought we heard laughter after the door was shut again, and a yelp.
We knew now: we were rehearsing for Patch’s funeral. We couldn’t wait to get out, so we could talk.
—Bloody hell.
—He nearly died when we were singing, did you see?
—Can’t blame him, your fuckin’ voice.
I told my mother about it. She sat down.
—That’s so sad, she said.
I was surprised. I’d expected her to be a bit more concerned, even disgusted. They were making us sing for a zombie. There were old horror films on BBC2 every Monday night and I was allowed to stay up and watch them, by myself. Most of them were boring but I loved talking about them the morning after, with the other lads who’d seen them or pretended they had. I’d remember every bit, to catch out the lads who were spoofing. I’d describe scenes that weren’t in the films, and trap them. I was being a prick, but it gave me power and I had no other way of getting it. In the middle of the werewolves and vampires and the various Frankensteins, there was one film, Night of the Living Dead. It was different. It scared me. It wasn’t made of cardboard and the ones getting out of the graves, the zombies – the living dead – seemed real. They were real. They were ordinary people. They weren’t exactly ordinary but they were only slightly warped. What they reminded me of – the men among them, dragging themselves, never giving up – was the Brothers. That only became funny when I said it the following morning, but it never really stopped being worrying and possible.
—But he’s not dead yet, I told my mother.
She nodded, but she was looking out the kitchen window.
—Are we going to see Dad today? I asked.
She shook her head.
—Tomorrow, she said.
I was relieved and that made me feel terrible, and still relieved.
Patch died the week after that, and we were ready; we knew the whole mass. I woke up with Ag Críost an Síol in my head, always in the same place, halfway through, every morning. For years.
We had the day off school, just the lads in the choir. We were to make our own way to the church. It wasn’t the parish church, the new church, John the Baptist. Tom Jones told us how to get to the Brothers’ own church, where to get off the bus, what corner to turn after we walked down from Fairview.