The Brothers' Lot (15 page)

In his drunken state (much played down in the Brothers’ rendition), O’Rahilly wandered straight into the melee to be dealt a haymaker of a blow to the head.

The stick fight abated and the locals, not recognizing the unconscious O’Rahilly, left him for dead and headed off to the local public house to continue their disputations in a more sociable manner.

O’Rahilly lay there poleaxed while Brother Cox led the choir of first years whose balls had not yet dropped through a castrato chorus supposed to invoke imminent divine revelation. After the shrieking faded, nothing happened. When what might have been a pregnant pause clearly became an unbearable delay, Brother Cox hissed “Get up out of that, Kelly!” loud enough that it carried through the enforced silence of the hall.

Kelly melodramatically rose to his feet and stumbled around holding his head. From the wings came the squeaking of small wheels as Brother Tobin, implausibly dressed as God in a white sheet, was wheeled out on one of Mrs. McCurtin’s tea trolleys.

“Saorseach, you must mend your ways! You have strayed from the path of righteousness!”

Saorseach fell on his knees before his precariously balanced God.

“What must I do, oh Lord? Show me the way.”

“You must abjure your drunkenness and vice and dedicate yourself to steering the young boys of Ireland onto the path of goodness, devotion, Gaelic football, fluent mellifluous Gaelic, purity, chastity, and more Gaelic football.”

In a puff of saltpeter far too small to fully cloak Brother Tobin’s bulk, the tea trolley was wheeled back offstage and Saorseach was left to stand in wonder at the divine apparition that had just changed his life.

“He looks like someone just stuck a dead fish up his hole,” whispered Lynch.

Scully elbowed him sharply in the ribs, almost knocking his Saorseach O’Rahilly statue out of his hands.

“Ye bad bastard! I nearly dropped me holy Action Man!” hissed Lynch, somehow without moving his lips. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Pollock watching them suspiciously. Lynch knew full well that any sort of misbehaving carried extra severe punishment on Venerable Saorseach O’Rahilly Day.

The pageant dragged along, showing Saorseach O’Rahilly taking over the old mill in Dunbally and turning it into a school, chasing urchins off the streets and into the clutches of his staff; the formation of the Brotherhood; O’Rahilly’s dementia and death from something that very much resembled syphilis but was referred to as a “fever”; the later miracle of the hurling triumph of Carlow over Cork which was ascribed to the intervention of O’Rahilly; and finally, the bloody-nosed Halpin as Pope granting permission for the limited veneration of Saorseach O’Rahilly on the basis of that miracle.

“We will now make our way, in an orderly fashion, to Saint Werburgh’s Church for the celebratory mass.”

Diarmaid DePaor was already on his feet and at the door, badly in need of the comforting isolation of the Department of Education. He would certainly not be attending any celebratory mass.

16

G
iz a go of yer doll!” “Does yer sister know ye took that?” “Did ye forget to put on the dress?” “All ye need now is a little pram!” jeered the denizens of Markiewicz Mansions, the decrepit flats that had to be traversed to get to Saint Werburgh’s Church.

Seething with shame and fury at the Brothers for this humiliation, the boys walked four abreast holding their little statuettes of Venerable Saorseach O’Rahilly above their heads.

Once inside the church of Saint Werburgh they were herded into pews and the form master of each class was posted on an outer aisle while the Brothers patrolled the center aisle, leathers at the ready.

“What about me fuckin’ lunch?” muttered Lynch to Scully as they sat down.

“This is it.”

Father Flynn took the altar and cleared his throat into the hollow echoing silence. “In order to prepare ourselves to celebrate this mass in honor of the intentions of Venerable Saorseach O’Rahilly, let us all look into our hearts in preparation for a full and cleansing confession. We will also be offering up our prayers for the prompt recovery of Brother Kennedy.” He bowed his head and peered deep into his soul. He vowed to try to be less judgmental of Brother Loughlin in future.

Suddenly, with military precision, a troop of hard-faced priests who had been drafted in from neighboring parishes filed out of the sacristy and down the two side aisles, each one slipping into his confessional and slamming the door behind him.

Expertly the form masters ushered the boys into the confessionals from each pew and back to their places via the center aisle, making a lovely little production line of confession, contrition, forgiveness, and penance.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It is two weeks since my last confession. I disobeyed my mother. I used bad words. I took the name of the Lord in vain. I told lies.”

The priests absolved boy after boy of sins learned by rote at the time of first communion and unchanged since. The theological implications of someone like McDonagh claiming to have disobeyed a mother he did not have and then being absolved of this nonsin would have so addled the minds of any of the clergy present that it was best to not even think about it.

The standard three Hail Marys were doled out as penance for these standard sins. Once in a while there was a real one, though this was not the day for heartfelt confessions. None of the priests had the time for this and certainly not Father Fury, erstwhile chaplain to the school.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It is three months since my last confession.”

“That is a long time, my son.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Good boy. Go on,” said Fury, glad to have the token nod in the direction of thoroughness out of the way.

“I missed mass. I lied to me mother. I took the name of the Lord in vain and I let the parish priest put his mickey in my mouth.”

The whole chapel turned around as Father Fury’s door exploded open. He burst out and dragged the shocked Maher by the hair, up the aisle, and through the side door. Father Fury was further angered by the braces on Maher’s legs that slowed him down.

Finbar watched the boy struggle up the aisle behind Father Fury and felt his stomach turn over. He could not take his eyes off the braces.

Maher was a quiet boy and a little simple. He had just opened a whole Pandora’s box of trouble for himself. Father Fury was not the right one to be making these revelations to. He had received a call just that morning from the Bishop of Cloynes and Bardgey admonishing him for his somewhat indiscreet and excessive “fraternizing” with the choristers of Saint Bodhrán’s orphanage.

“Settle down now and get on with your confessions,” bawled Brother Loughlin as he followed Father Fury outside.

When Loughlin came back fifteen minutes later and gestured to Brother Tobin to head outside, Lynch turned to Scully and whispered: “Get the body bag, Tobin!”

Scully turned and saw that Lynch was smiling wanly. He knew what Lynch meant. Maher would not be back that day, and it was unlikely they would ever see him again. Getting smacked around like that by a priest usually ended up with the boy disappearing off to the industrial school at Drumgloom or some other institution of retribution and betterment.

From outside the church the desultory praying sounded like a large group of people sighing out their woes for the world to hear.

The locals from Markiewicz Mansions, long tired of being chased away from snooping around the church doors by Brother Boland, were delighted to see this new development. The Black Maria had arrived. This was deadly. They hadn’t seen one in about a week. It was always entertaining when the law came to take someone away.

The Black Maria pulled up outside the sacristy and two guards hopped out. The sacristy door opened and Father Fury emerged with Maher’s collar grasped in his thick ruddy fist. Maher’s nose was bleeding and his face was stained with tears.

“Little animal has lost his mind. Raving he is. Tried to bite me on the neck. Obviously no parental control at all. He should be locked up. I’d say Drumgloom is the place for him.”

“Right you are, Father. Isn’t it fierce all the same, Father,” chirped one of the guards as he grabbed Maher and bundled him into the back of the vehicle.

“You won’t be getting any more trouble from this one, Father. He’ll be locked up before the day is out, and not a minute too soon by the sounds of him,” said the driver over the sounds of Maher banging and screaming in back. The guard handed Father Fury the committal papers to sign.

“Louth man is it you are?” asked Father Fury.

“Oh be gob, yes, Father, Louth be name and loud be nature, wha’?” replied the guard ingratiatingly.

“Good one! I’ll just get these witnessed and I’ll be back to you in a minute,” laughed Fury hollowly, and disappeared back inside the sacristy.

As the two altar boys carried up the bread and wine to be consecrated into the flesh-and-blood sacrifice of Christ on the cross, Father Fury sidled in beside Brother Loughlin and handed him the committal papers to countersign.

“Are ye finished dusting them nooks yet? They’ll be back soon.”

Ray McRae turned around on the ladder and beamed down into the gloom of the oratory at Dermot McDermott. “Nearly there. Just have to do the ones over this window.”

“Well hurry up. I don’t want them back on top of us and the nooks not done.”

“No problem,” beamed McRae, and went back to work.

McDermott turned to go and had his hand on the door handle when McRae’s wheedling voice brought him up short.

“Do you know what I’m going to ask you though, but?”

“What up with ye now?”

“Was that crack in the ceiling always there? It’s only that I didn’t notice it before earlier.”

“Fucked if I know. Just do them nooks and get it over with,” McDermott snapped, then left.

From the landing he watched the tired gray line of boys that snaked across the yard, their arms straining to keep the statues of O’Rahilly above their heads. The line wound into the monastery and up to the oratory door.

Mr. Pollock strode up the stairs three at a time flailing with his leather to keep the boys in single file. At the oratory door he stood and waited for the bustle to die down. Beaming with centennial pride, the Brothers filed past him into the oratory and took their places in the pews.

“Keep those statues over your heads!” barked Mr. Pollock, and then motioned the first boy on the line to move into the oratory.

The puzzled and exhausted first year stumbled into the room and was stopped by the pudgy hand of Brother Cox.

Brother Cox took the statue from the boy, kissed its feet, and passed it to Brother Boland, who did the same and then passed it to Brother Loughlin, who did the same and then passed it to Father Flynn, who blessed it and passed it to Dermot McDermott, who passed it immediately on to Ray McRae on the ladder, who put it in a nook.

“Now go back to your class and wait there until you are told to go home. The roll will be called so no monkey business,” called Mr. Pollock when each boy came out, dashing any hopes that Venerable Saorseach O’Rahilly Day had finally come to an end.

“I’m going to smash mine and get expelled. At least that way I can go home now,” whispered Scully.

“Deadly idea,” agreed Lynch.

Neither of them moved, and when the line in front of them inched up the stairs they reluctantly inched after it.

17

F
inbar felt under the doormat and found nothing. He lifted it completely and confirmed the total absence of key. Maybe his mother hadn’t gone into town, though she had sounded very certain that morning.

He lifted the knocker on the letter box and let it drop. He heard feet coming down the stairs and the door was pulled open.

“What the fuck? When did you come back?” he gasped.

“There ye are, ye little shite! Lovely uniform!” jeered Declan.

Finbar gaped at his brother’s beaming face.

Declan turned and walked down the hall, leaving Finbar standing on the doorstep, stunned. “Mam?” he called.

“She’s not here. She went into town,” answered Declan from the kitchen.

Finbar closed the hall door behind him, dropped his bag and blazer in the hall, and went into the scullery where his brother was just taking two slices of bread from under the grill. He looked at the empty breadboard on the table.

“Is that all the bread?” asked Finbar pointedly.

“Looks like it.”

“I’m starving! They didn’t let us have lunch today.”

Declan proceeded to use up the last of the butter on his toast and sat munching at the table while Finbar stared angrily at him.

“Aren’t ye going to ask me where I was?” asked Declan with his mouth full.

“Up yer hole for all I care,” snapped Finbar, and rummaged in the cupboard for the biscuit tin. There were two rubbery stale custard creams. He stuffed them into his mouth, more to make sure that Declan didn’t get them than any real desire to eat stale custard creams.

“There’s no milk,” remarked Declan carelessly.

“You finished that too?” yelled Finbar in exasperated disbelief. The stale biscuits were waking the hunger that he had managed to almost ignore through Venerable Saorseach O’Rahilly Day.

“I was hungry, so shut up!”

“You’re in for it when they get home.” Finbar could think of nothing else to say or do and soon found himself outside the front door looking up and down the street for somewhere to go. With sudden decision he strode off toward the park beside the railway.

The moon was poking through the clouds high above the rooftops when Finbar returned home.

“Where the hell were you until now?” shouted Mr. Sullivan as he yanked the hall door open.

“Out,” replied Finbar.

“Out where?”

“Walking.”

“Walking? Walking? Have you any idea what time it is? Is it mad you are? You don’t even know where you are, for God sake! You could have been down a lane with a knife in your back for all we knew!”

From the table Declan grinned at his brother. Finbar couldn’t help noticing that they’d had liver and bacon, Declan’s favorite, for tea.