Bullfighting (5 page)

He'd do something about the drinking. He'd give it up. He would – he could. He'd watched a football match the night before, the Champions League, on RTE, the whole thing. But he didn't know who'd played. He remembered nothing. Not a thing. He'd have to read the report in the paper before lunch; the paper was in his bag. Then he'd be able to talk about it, if he talked to anyone. But he'd probably stay in the room. Plan his classes.

He'd stop. The drinking. He wasn't fooling himself. He knew it was serious.

He'd kissed her. That first year she'd been in the school. After a union meeting.

He smiled. The absurdity. The idea of kissing her now. He looked at the window in the door. There was no one there. He looked at the timetable. Sixth Year English was next. A double class, Ordinary level. There were no Honours classes on his timetable. It was five years since he'd had an Honours class. Nothing had been said.

These kids were fine. He'd had them last year. But there was no life in them. He'd have sworn it was true. It just wasn't like it used to be.

He wrote in his diary: NOVEL. He'd do the novel with them, a good start to the year. What novel was it? Had they done it already, last year? He looked at his shelf. He knew all the books, the shapes, the colours of the spines; he didn't have to read the titles. Which one was it?

He'd do something else with them. He'd think of something. He was good at that. Seize the day. The spontaneity. Not with this gang, though. Those days were over. He'd have to have something ready.

He stood up. His knee cracked. Something dry in the joint. He went to the bookshelf.

That was something he definitely remembered – the first time he'd heard his knee crack. It was the last time he'd been with a woman, and sober enough to remember it.

—What was that?

She'd thought it was an animal or something, under the bed. Gnawing a bone. She'd made him turn on the light. A disaster, the two of them. Squinting – reality. He got off the bed and heard the crack again.

—My knee, he said.

—What?

—The noise, he said.—Listen.

He moved again. She heard the crack. She started crying. A disaster.

He still liked the teaching. He hadn't changed that much. He liked the new kids who were beginning to turn up every year, the sons and daughters of the immigrants. Black kids with Dublin accents. And the East Europeans. Lovely kids. And it reminded him – now; he could feel it – of why he'd loved teaching. Empowerment. He'd loved that word. He'd believed it. Giving power to working-class kids. He could get worked up about poverty, and why he was there in the school. A word like ‘underclass' could still get him going, the convenience and cynicism of it. Hiding all that social injustice and inequality in a word like that. The working class became the underclass, and their problems became inevitable. His thinking hadn't changed. When he thought.

He looked at his watch. He had twenty minutes left. There was a tiny crack in the glass, and a line of mist at the crack, under the glass. He'd no idea when that had happened.

There'd been one woman. She'd said it once: she loved the way he thought.

He had an address in his wallet. AA. The address and the times. Alcoholics Anonymous. It was in his jacket, in the inside pocket, ready for whenever he wanted it. Someone had given it to him. A cousin of his. At his uncle's funeral, at the few drinks after the burial. He didn't get it at first; he didn't know what she was doing. He thought she was slipping him her phone number and he was running through the ethics and legality of it, phoning his own cousin, arranging to meet for a date – because she wasn't a bad-looking woman and, really, he hardly knew her. He hadn't seen her since they were kids. But it hadn't been her number at all. It was an address for Alcoholics Anonymous, and the meeting times. He'd thought about going, to see if she'd be there. But he hadn't gone. He hadn't wanted to; he hadn't felt the need. Still, he'd held onto the address. He knew it was there.

He looked at his watch. He had thirteen minutes, plenty of time. He'd give them the opening sentence of a story, and get them to continue. That always worked. He'd give them a good one.

He'd come close once, with a woman. Mary. They'd been together for two years. He'd just graduated, started teaching. She was still in her final year. She'd be finished in August, and he knew what would happen then. She'd get a teaching job like his. Their salaries would meet and they'd buy a house and get married. Because her mother would deliver The Great Silence until they did. They laughed about it, The Great Silence, her name for the mother's war against any urges or opinions that might deflect her children from their proper course: the career, the four-bedroom house, the husband or wife, the happiness that was Southside, Catholic respectability. They laughed but they'd known: the old bitch would win. They'd never admit it, the choices would be theirs – but they'd do it. They'd get the mortgage; it was mad to carry on renting. They'd get married; for tax reasons. In a church; for the laugh. They'd known –
he'd
known. And he'd done the right thing. He sat beside her and told her it was over. He remembered the elation as he left her in the pub and went back to their flat, to pack. Throwing everything into two bags. Going. There'd been a few phone calls, then that was it. He was alone. He could live.

One night, a few years ago, he'd been watching a current affairs programme on RTE, after the News. He was only half watching, and reading. He looked up at the screen. He recognised her before he remembered her name. Mary. She was in some city in Africa and she was talking to people – children and women – who'd been deported from Ireland, interviewing them. In small, dark rooms, or rooms that seemed to be missing walls, that were sliding onto the street.

He watched. She stood on a street that looked like the scene of recent violence and spoke to the camera. There were two men with rifles just behind her. She looked well. She looked great. The report ended.

He had seven minutes.
Seize the day, boys and girls
. Teaching was a branch of show business. He'd always said it. Grab the kids and bring them with you. Empowerment. He stood at the board. He waited for the idea, the opening sentence that they'd read on their way into the room, the sentence that would have them grabbing their pens and folders from their bags. He hadn't eaten in days; he wasn't hungry. But he thought that food, anything, might help with the headache.

But there was his idea. He wrote it on the board. ‘He hadn't eaten in days.' He looked at it.

Six minutes.

He sat down. He was pleased. He was sorted, organised, up to lunchtime. Only nine more months to go. He made himself smile. He was back on track. He opened his diary again, put it beside his timetable. He'd plan ahead. He'd memorise the students' names. He'd smile at them when they came into the room. He'd chat to them. He'd bring them with him. Empowerment. It was still there; he could feel it, across his chest. He wouldn't drink today; he'd go straight home. He'd get food on the way. He'd get some new clothes at the weekend. He'd go to a film or a play.

That big-eyed kid, the one who'd told him that he'd known her mother. He wished that kid was his. It was ridiculous – the thought just rolled through him. Brother Flynn – the man's smile, looking down at him. He wanted to look at someone that way, to smile down at his own child. To be able to do it. Whatever it took, whatever he gave up or didn't give up.

It was ridiculous.

He stood up. He opened the door. He was ready for the bell. He looked at the board. ‘He hadn't eaten in days.' They'd love that. Kidnapping, starvation; the boys would love it. But he had another idea. He went back to the board and picked up the chalk. He wrote under the first sentence: ‘She hadn't eaten in days.' That was even better. They could have the choice. He could feel it in him. It was the old feeling, back. The hands would be up, asking him how to spell ‘anorexia'. He could already feel the buzz, the energy. He'd stay standing, walk among them. He'd smile. He'd laugh.

He looked at his watch.

One minute.

He was fine.

M
y very educated mother just showed us nine planets. My very educated mother just showed us nine planets. My, Mercury. Very, Venus. Educated, Earth. Mother, Mars. Just, Jupiter. Showed, Saturn. Us, Uranus. Nine, Neptune. Planets, Pluto. All of them, in the right order. It was brilliant. The only problem was the two Ms, Mercury and Mars. Mixing them up. Except for that, it was plain sailing. Simple. That was what I liked about it. All that complicated business straightened and tidied into one sentence. Even if the sentence itself was stupid. My very educated mother. Just showed us nine planets. Mind you, that bit is good. Because there
are
nine of them. So it fits and helps you remember.

And it's about the only thing I remember learning in school. I must have learnt more, I'm not saying that. A lot more, actually. I can read, for fuck sake. I'm a two books a week man; I eat the fuckin' things. So, yeah. But I don't remember learning how to read. And I do remember my very educated mother. Like it was now. The first week of secondary school. And the teacher, God love her. Miss something. O'Keefe, I think it was. Something like that. Her name was on the timetable, ‘O'Whatever it was. Miss.' We were hoping a nice bit of stuff would come walking in the door. But in marches your woman. Older than our ma's, as ugly as our da's. With a box of chalk. Holding it up in the air, like a cup or something, a trophy. And she waits till there's absolute silence.

—What is this? she says, and she points at some poor cunt at the front. Me.

—A box of chalk, I say, and wait to be told I'm wrong. But—Yes, she says.—It
is
a box of chalk. And what type of chalk is it?

I look at the box.

—Coloured, I say, and I'm right again. Twice in a row, for the first time in my life. And the last.

—Yes, she says.—It is coloured chalk. And it is mine. She goes over to the desk. The teacher's desk, like, the one at the front. She opens the drawer and in goes the chalk.

—I am Miss – whatever it is, she says.—And I am your geography teacher. We will meet three times a week. And three times a week I will open this drawer and I will find my chalk exactly as I left it. I have information to impart but I cannot do this to my satisfaction if I do not have my coloured chalk.

And then she says – you've guessed it.—Do I make myself clear?

—Yes, Miss, say the saps at the front,
mise
¹
here included.

—A stick of coloured chalk is the geography teacher's essential tool, she says.—The box contains ten sticks and it will contain ten sticks when we meet again on Wednesday.

‘Wed-nesday', she called it. Some hope, the poor eejit. The other teachers took it, every fuckin' stick. It was all gone by lunchtime.

Anyway, she took a stick of ordinary white off the tray at the bottom of the blackboard, and then she wrote my very educated mother, down the board instead of across, and the names of the planets that the words stood for beside them. And I've remembered it ever since, and nothing else. Precious little. The only other thing I remember clearly is the Latin teacher. I did Latin, believe it or not. And I remember none of it. But I
do
remember him. He went around the room every morning, putting his hand down our jumpers to make sure we were wearing vests. A Christian Brother he was, and I can remember
his
name. But I'll keep it to myself. Yeah, I remember him, alright. Every morning, right through the winter. Feeling my chest. Leaving his hand there forever. Freezing. Rough palms – old cuts gone hard, years of swinging a hurley. That was my only experience of abuse. His hand. He's still alive as well. So I'm told. I should report him, I suppose. Only, (a) I don't think I could handle the humiliation, and (b) I'd hate anyone to know that I used to wear a vest. And it's harmless enough when you hear about some of the other things that went on. And he did it to all of us; he wasn't just picking on me.

But no, I can't remember a word of Latin. And I'm not blaming the Brother, mind. Not at all. I've no French either, barely a word. Maths, history – tiny bits, only. 1916. 1798. Black '47. Irish? Ah, goodnight.
Oíche mhaith
.
²
I can hardly help the kids with their homework and the eldest left me behind years ago. No, the only thing I remember, consciously remember, is that thing, my very educated mother. But she was a clown, the teacher. We ate the poor woman after we got the hang of her.

—Is there life on Uranus, Miss?

—No, indeed.

She was fierce enough that first day, with her box of chalk. Scary. Worthy of a bit of respect. But then, I suppose it was when she said about the chalk being her essential tool, we realised then she was just a mad ol' bitch and we made her life a misery.

But. It has to be said. She taught me the only thing I remember. And it's not just that I remember it now and again, when I hear one of the words, say, ‘mother' or ‘very', or there's something on the telly about astronomy. I remember it every day. It's not a memory, no more than the names of my children are. One of your kids comes running up to you with its head split open, you don't have to think of its name. The names are always there. And it's the same with my very educated mother.

It's like this. Every day, I walk down to the Dart station – like I'll do this morning. I'm on a job in town. Have been for the last six months, and there's another year in it, I'd say. With a bit of luck. So I leave the tools in a strongbox on the job and I don't bother with the van. I walk down to the station, and there's a bit of a hill just before it and when I get to the top there's the Pigeon House chimneys in front of me. God's socks, the eldest used to call them. In the days when she used to talk to us. And every time,
every
time I hit the top of the hill it goes through my head, the same thing: my very educated mother. Don't ask me why, but it's like clockwork. I don't expect it or anticipate it. It just pops into my head. And it stays lodged in there until I get to the station. Every morning. Rain, wind or hail.