Carry Me Down (12 page)

It’s Friday and I walk to school quickly and get there early so that I can watch Mr Roche prepare his classes at the teacher’s table. I watch him all morning. I like him very much and I especially like his voice.

But then, during second lesson, I realise that I have been holding on too long and I must go to the toilet. I can’t have another accident. I stand and put my hand up and ask to be excused.

Mr Roche comes straight over to me, takes my hand, and leads me into the corridor. I’m embarrassed to be led like this in front of my class, but he looks at me as we walk, and he smiles at me, as though leaving the classroom like this is normal, as though I am his friend.

In the corridor, he asks me to sit under the coat rack and I sit with my head under somebody’s duffel coat, holding on to my urine.

‘Keep it in,’ he says. ‘Just a minute longer.’

I manage to hold on. Then he takes me to the bathroom.

He waits for me and I wait for him to leave. But he stays by the door, looking all the while as I stand with my hand on my zipper.

‘I won’t bite,’ he says. ‘Go ahead.’

I turn away from him and open my fly. I urinate. So little comes out I worry that I’ll soon need to go again.

When I have finished I turn to look at him.

‘Good lad,’ he says.

I walk over to him and he pats me on the back.

‘You’re a good lad,’ he says. ‘You have a very nice way about you.’

I smile and he smiles back, and I feel all right, even when we return to class, and everybody is talking and laughing. But they’re not laughing at me. Kate is standing up next to the teacher’s desk, impersonating Mr Roche by speaking in a posh voice.

Mr Roche tells her to return to her desk and, as she walks away from him, he slaps her across the back of the head. ‘You cannot sell your phlegm and then ask for it back again,’ he says.

Nobody understands, but everybody laughs, because Kate is stunned and, for the first time since she came to our school she is silent. For the rest of the day Kate doesn’t move unless Mr Roche tells her to and even Brendan does not talk to her.

After school, when everybody has left the classroom, I go to Mr Roche’s desk. He looks up at me and smiles. He has straight, white teeth and deep laugh-lines around his mouth.

‘Mr Roche?’ I say. ‘I was wondering if you could help find me some books about lie detection from America?’

I am hoping that he’ll ask me why I’m interested in the subject, but instead he grabs my hand.

‘You’ve reminded me of something that’s been bothering me.’

‘What?’ I ask.

He stands up and walks to the window. ‘It makes my blood boil that this school has no library. Every school should have a library.’

‘Yes, sir,’ I say. ‘Yes, Mr Roche.’

‘No storybooks,’ he says, ‘means no reading stories.’

‘Yes, sir,’ I say.

‘No reading stories means no imagination. We all start life with
an imagination, of course, but without stories to feed it the imagination, like a starved dog, dies.’

He stares out at the playing field. ‘And when a person doesn’t read and when a person has no imagination they are sure to end up with no inventiveness of mind and spend a life with nothing but hackneyed, worn-out things to say. A life of slogans, jargon and clichés.’

I nod.

‘A weak man repeats what he hears and makes himself dumb.’

‘I agree, sir.’

He walks away and then walks straight back to me to say, ‘And science and invention stem from the imagination.’

I’ve been searching for something to say, and now I’ve found it. ‘Einstein thought that, too,’ I say. I read this in the book my father left on the coffee table last week.

He looks up at me, excited. ‘You’re right, John Egan. You’re no fool. Full points for you.’

‘Thank you, Mr Roche.’

He comes to me and puts his hand on my arm. ‘And no imagination means the only life you can live is the one you’ve been given. And God knows, looking around here, I’d say some of you haven’t been given much of a life.’

I wonder if I should say something, but he walks to the blackboard without speaking.

I stare at his black hair and the way it slides smoothly over the shoulders of his jacket. He must be made at least partly of silk.

‘I’m sending you home at half two tomorrow,’ he says. ‘And on Monday morning there’ll be a surprise waiting.’

Does he mean a surprise for me, or for all?

‘Go home now,’ he says. ‘Your mammy is probably waiting.’

* * *

My father paces up and down in front of the fire while waiting for his tea. The way he walks is not at all like Mr Roche’s walk. He takes small jerky steps, while Mr Roche’s stride is longer, calmer. My father’s head is jumpy on his neck and shoulders.

‘Why are you walking up and down?’ I ask.

‘I’ve got restless legs,’ he says. ‘When I sit for too long they get ants in them.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know why. Maybe they’re the ants that fell out of my pants. They come at night too when I’m trying to get to sleep.’

He must be in a good mood to talk this way, playful like Mammy, the way he sometimes talks when he’s with her.

‘Do they keep you awake?’

‘Yes, and I have to kick my legs to shake them off.’

‘Is that why you sleep on the floor?’ I ask.

He stops pacing and stands in front of the television. I expect him to be angry, but he smiles.

‘I’ve slept on the floor once or twice but just so the ants don’t bother your mam.’

‘Is that why?’

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph and all the feckin’ apostles! Not the third degree again. Yes, son. I sleep on the floor to stop from bothering your poor mam so she can get a good night’s rest for work the next day. No other reason! Are you satisfied?’

I was worried that he would be silent, that he might stop telling me things because of my gift. But here he is talking and telling another lie. It took him longer than usual, but here it is. I am certain again. He is lying.

His voice is higher and tighter and his hands and arms are lifeless. My ears are hot, but that’s the only physical symptom I have. Lie detection is becoming easier.

‘Maybe you should kill one of the ants,’ I say ‘and then the rest would go to its funeral.’

He sits down next to me and looks at the television.
Doctor Who
has finished and the news is starting.

‘Good idea,’ he says. ‘You’re full of good ideas.’

‘I didn’t make that up,’ I say. ‘I heard it in a joke once.’

I tell my father the joke even though he’s watching the television. ‘A horrible witch captures an Irishman, an Englishman and a Scotsman and she makes them sleep in a bed of flesh-eating creatures. The Irishman has to sleep on a bed of fanged army ants. In the morning, the witch goes to the room where all three men have slept, expecting to find them dead, but the Irishman has survived. “Why have you survived?” asks the witch. “Because,” says the Irishman, “I killed one of the flesh-eating army ants and the rest of them went to his funeral.”’

My father smiles, but he doesn’t laugh.

I don’t care any more. I don’t care what he does or doesn’t do. I don’t need him to like me. I don’t need him at all.

I spend the weekend in my room, reading the
Guinness Book
, writing in The Gol of Seil and doing homework so that on Monday I can impress Mr Roche again. I’m getting used to not playing with Brendan.

Just as Mr Roche promised, there is a surprise on Monday morning. Our desks have been pushed closer together so that there is barely room between them and, at the back of the classroom, two red velvet curtains are strung up on white poles. The curtains are tied open with black rope. They are like the red velvet curtains that open and close in front of the screen at the cinema. And, about a foot and a half behind the curtains, there is a small wooden desk, with a box of books on it and, behind the desk, a chair.

‘All right,’ says Mr Roche. ‘Take your seats and keep your eyes forward. When you are all quiet and still, I’ll tell you about the curtains and the desk at the back of the classroom.’

We get into our seats and wait.

Mr Roche goes to the back of the room. ‘Now, turn around,’ he says.

He sits behind the desk, behind the curtains, and takes a dozen books out of the box. The books are Reader’s Digests, every one of them. He takes a nametag from his pocket and pins it to his jacket pocket:
Chief Librarian
.

He smiles. ‘Welcome to my imaginary library.’

Then he stands and removes the ties from the curtains so that they close in front of him. From behind the curtain he tells us what to do. He shouts like a man on stage. We all look around at each other.

‘You must line up quietly and single file, and when you are at the front of the line, ring the bell attached to the curtain on the right-hand side. Then open the curtains and step into the imaginary library.’

‘There’s nowhere to step into,’ says Jimmy, the brother of Osmond.

‘You’ll have to pretend,’ says Mr Roche. ‘And once the curtains close behind you and you are alone and standing before the table, I will ask you what book you’d like to borrow.’

The idea is that, although the books are Reader’s Digests, we must pretend that the library is a real library and we should request the books we’d most like to read. Mr Roche will keep a record of all the books we request over the next few weeks and eventually persuade the school to install a proper, bigger library.

‘At half two every day you will line up here. And when you ask for a book, I’ll give you a project based on that book. And because the book is imaginary, so too will the contents of your project be.’

At twenty past two, I have a premonition; Mr Roche will call my name, and this is exactly what he does.

‘John Egan,’ he says, ‘you’re a keen reader. Why don’t you get us started? Why don’t you be the first boy to visit the imaginary library?’

I stand up. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. Go to the curtains and wait. Everybody else form a queue behind John Egan.’

Mr Roche goes to the desk behind the curtain. I ring the bell, open the curtains, then let them close behind me. It’s red and snug behind the curtains and it’s nice to be hidden. ‘I’ll have a book about Vikings,’ I say.

He reaches into the box and pulls out an old Reader’s Digest.
‘Ah,’ he says, ‘we have a volume of the encyclopaedia dedicated to that very subject. Take it home, and let us hear your report in the morning.’

On my way home I can think of nothing else. I make a sandwich and go to my room and think about Mr Roche and his great idea. I rehearse what I will tell him about my gift and fantasise about what he will say. After tea I sit on my bed – not stopping even to watch television – and write an imaginary account of the life of Vikings. I cheat only once by looking in one of my father’s history books.

I walk quickly to school and wait all day for my chance to talk about Vikings.

At half one, Mr Roche asks me to stand in front of the classroom. And I begin my version of the lifestyle of the Vikings. I stand with my hands by my side and I squeeze my toes in my shoes to stop myself from moving and then I begin.

‘The Vikings liked to sing as they rowed their big Viking boats and there were prizes given each week to the Viking who thought of the funniest song. When Vikings went to a new port they always stole a female child (she had to have long hair down to her waist) and they took her back to the boat and made her lie down in a hammock while they cut off her plaits. Then they threw her into the water and watched her sink. After that, the Vikings ate some cake and drank some whiskey and then they went into the nearest village and took all the gold and emeralds and rubies and diamonds. And sometimes they took cats and kept them on board for company.’

I’m not nervous. I’ve never before been calm talking in front of my class. I usually feel nervous. Sometimes I even feel nervous
when somebody else is nervous, like the time I was at a school concert and the girl who was turning the pianist’s sheet music was shaking so much the pages fell from the stand.

When I’m finished, Mr Roche walks towards me and puts his hand on my shoulder. There is silence as he says, ‘That was splendid, John. First class.’

I sit down, and he gives the class a long history lesson about Vikings. We learn some of the names of the swords of the Vikings, including ‘baby-killer’, ‘brain-biter’ and ‘man-splitter’. I write these things down and keep the piece of paper in my pocket.

I will call my Swiss army knife ‘father-biter’ from now on.

From the moment I walk in the door at home I know that the mood has changed; it is as though my good fortune at school has spread. The house is warm and there’s a smell of roast chicken and my mother, father and grandmother are together in the kitchen, talking. My mother is cooking onions and rashers in a frying pan; the radio is on and the range is full of wood. My father sneaks up behind her on tiptoes, and pretends to take a rasher from the pan.

‘Mmm,’ he says as he wipes his hand on his trousers.

‘Don’t do that!’ says my mother, but she is laughing, not cross.

My father’s fringe is long and messy over his eye and he looks happy. His lips are red and so too are his cheeks. He takes a rasher from the frying pan and hands it to me. ‘Here, son. This one’s for you.’ I go forward and take the hot rasher and I lower it into my mouth.

‘Nothing finer than stolen meat, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘Yeah, I would,’ I say and laugh with him.

My mother lunges at him and they race around the table. ‘Catch him, Mam!’ I say.

My grandmother finishes frying the rashers and laughs as she
watches my father crawl under the table. My mother crawls under the table too, even though she’s wearing her good pink dress and high-heeled shoes.

I want to join in, so I go to the table and crouch down. ‘Chase me,’ I say. ‘Give me a go.’

‘Another time,’ says my father. ‘I think we’ve had enough running around for one day.’

They crawl out from under the table and my father pushes my mother’s backside and keeps pushing her until she is on the other side of the kitchen, nearly at the door.

‘Oh, you rascal,’ she says and they run around the table again.

I want to join them. ‘Why are you dressed up?’ I ask my mother when she finally sits down at the table, panting and flushed.

‘We’re going to a dance tonight, and your granny is going to be our chauffeur.’

Granny smiles.

‘Am I staying here?’

‘Yes, but no need to worry. We won’t be very late. And you can eat all the custard.’

I leave them and go to the living room. They come to say goodbye and I hardly look at them. I watch television until after ten, then I sit on my bed with Crito on my lap and wait for them to come home. It is late, past eleven o’clock. When a car drives by the cottage, Crito jumps up and goes to my bedroom window, then comes back when nobody walks up the gravel driveway.

I hold her tight so she won’t jump off again, and I squeeze and stroke her stomach and talk to her.

‘Whatever you do, don’t have any more kittens,’ I say.

She tries to jump off when another car goes by, and so I hold her tight.

‘Don’t,’ I say. ‘Stay here.’

She struggles and I take hold of the middle of her tail and, as she struggles to get away, I feel the strange rubbery bone under her skin and fur, and I pull it too hard. She pulls but I don’t want to let go.

She hisses at me. I feel bad. I let go but I don’t go after her. Instead, I stare up at the ceiling and daydream about going to Niagara Falls. I meet two tall men from the
Guinness Book
at the airport in New York and they offer to carry my suitcase. They tell me we’re going to stay on the fourteenth floor of a big hotel near the Empire State Building and in the morning we’ll go to Niagara in a first-class carriage on a train that has a restaurant, a balcony and its own band. In Niagara, near the Horseshoe Falls, there’ll be a television camera crew waiting to film my first meeting with Robert Ripley. I fall asleep before the daydream ends but even this little bit does the job of stopping me from wondering when they’ll be home.