The Brothers' Lot (9 page)

The barman, Tom Stack, was pretending not to notice Cox. He wanted to see how long it would take the man to lose his composure. Finally realizing that Cox was bloody-mindedly determined to sit there and sweat it out in the hope of looking casual, Stack relented and sauntered over to the table.

“What’ll you have, pal?” he asked without a hint of ever having clapped eyes on Cox before.

“I’ll have a large bottle of porter.”

“Right you are,” said Stack, and turned back toward the bar.

“Oh, and a ball of malt on the side. Actually, make it a large glass,” added Cox as nonchalantly as possible, the eager thirst in his voice obvious to all ears but his.

“A large ball of malt it is,” smiled Stack. He’d bet Riley ten bob it’d be a large ball of malt on the side. This was going to be a good night.

Cox stared at the small tabletop. He concentrated on the sticky rings and how they didn’t reflect light the way the rest of the table did.

Sip, sip! Nice and slow. Sip, sip!
he thought to himself. Only a few more minutes now. It seemed like years since he had been at his sister Bridie’s in Dundalk. She never dared to say anything about his evening walks. It had been tough to get Brother Loughlin to agree to two weeks but he had finally conceded under Bridie’s relentless promising to keep a good eye on him. Two whole lovely weeks. He glanced up and saw Stack pouring the large glass of whiskey. He rapidly clenched and unclenched his fists under the table. Any minute now he would be relishing the sour-sweetness of a mouthful of porter and a sip of Ballinasloe Red Label. He dug his fingernails into his palms; Stack seemed to be taking his time. Cox took out his purse and counted out the money. Nothing wrong with knowing exactly what a large bottle and a large glass came to. He stacked the change in a neat pile on the table and sat back just as Stack arrived with his drinks.

Sip! Sip! Sip!
Cox chanted to himself. He poured the porter carefully down the side of the glass.

Stack took the money and returned to the bar. Now he had to time the man. He had two bob on with Matt Lynch that the ball of malt wouldn’t last more than four minutes from the time it touched the table.

Brother Mulligan’s size-fourteen carpet slippers flopped loudly through the silence of the monastery. He stood at the bottom of the stairs and paused for breath. He was annoyed at himself for missing the milk but was glad he had given himself the extra fifteen minutes of the hair shirt and the ashes in his mouth. He just hoped he’d put enough bromide in his milk. Widower Frawley usually did it and Brother Mulligan hoped he hadn’t underdone it lest he be plagued by lustful thoughts through the night. He took a sip; it tasted like Widower Frawley’s preparation through the residual taste of the ashes in his mouth so it should be sufficient to quell the animal within for twenty-four hours.

Carefully he mounted the stairs. Halfway up the first flight he heard the rattle of keys against the heavy oak door that led to the yard.

“Ah! Brother Mulligan!” called Brother Loughlin jovially as he shut the door behind him. “Forgot your milk again? Well, I have some good news! I just got off the phone with Noel Comiskey on the County Council and he’s going to sort out this planning application business once and for all.” Brother Loughlin had not intended telling anyone until the morning but his good spirits had gotten the better of him. “Well, good night now. See you bright and early,” he concluded as he bundled up the stairs past Brother Mulligan.

Brother Mulligan muttered to himself and went back to concentrating on not spilling his milk while making his laborious way back upstairs. The overdose of bromide guaranteed that at least one Brother would be temptation-free for the night.

11

G
o away out of that with you!” moaned thick-tongued Brother Cox at the bell for morning mass. He was not yet ready for another day. He still needed time to shake the dried-out inside of his head. He sat up slowly in his cot. Ah good, there was a time-saver anyway: he was still wearing his suit. He wondered to himself how he’d had the presence of mind to sleep in his suit, and then it came slinking back to him. He had gone out. He had gone to The Limping Gunman. He had shamed the Brotherhood, his family, his pledge of abstinence, himself. He was worthless. He was sinful. He was nothing more than a dirty wastrel drunkard.

He flopped out of bed and down on his knees, buried his face in the abrasive wool blanket, and murmured a tearful, throaty Act of Contrition. Then he got up and sat on the edge of the bed rubbing his hands together slowly and tightly. He slipped the belt out of his trousers and swung it viciously, buckle first, over his shoulder and into his back. He felt the biting sting on his skin through his jacket. He drew the belt back and swung again and again.

“I will not give in to the drink! I will not give in to the drink!”

When he had exhausted himself, he rocked gently like some whiskey-faced Humpty Dumpty in a black suit.

* * *

Father Flynn could just about make himself heard above the frantic rattling of Brother Boland’s rosary beads. The man seemed to be praying for something very special indeed. Father Flynn was half-afraid that the little marble beads would turn to dust if Brother Boland pressed them together any harder.

The door at the back of the oratory creaked open and the tousle-haired Brother Cox slid in to the empty back pew. His face was dotted with tiny bloodied specks of toilet paper where he had cut himself shaving. He knelt forward and rested his head on his joined hands. Trancelike, he rolled his head slowly from side to side in time with Father Flynn’s voice.

From the front pew Brother Loughlin pointedly cleared his throat and turned around. Brother Cox raised his head a little and his bloodshot eyes met Brother Loughlin’s seething gaze. Brother Cox let his head drop back down and resumed his swaying.

“Finbar, love, it’s ten to eight!” called Mrs. Sullivan from the stairs. Finbar reached under the bed and drew out his Boy Scout watch. Twenty-five past seven. Did she really think he was going to fall for that? He pulled the covers back over his head and dozed off again.

The pigeons cooed in the eaves outside the window. Drifting on the evocative sound, Finbar imagined himself in Na-Na Brogan’s house in Kinsale where his mother was born. It was that endless summer of being four or five where every day seemed eternal and sun-filled. He had not been back to the house since Na-Na died last year.

“Finbar! It’s nearly eight o’clock. You’re going to be late!”

“I’m up!” he shouted, and closed his eyes again.
I’ll get up in a minute
, he thought heavily, and slipped back to sleep.

“Jesus, Mary, and Holy Saint Joseph!” Mrs. Sullivan cried.

Finbar jumped up in bed. “What? What? What? I’m up!”

His mother said nothing. He turned around and followed her gaze. Declan’s bed was tossed and vacant. Finbar looked to his mother.

“Get dressed!” she snapped tonelessly, and opened the wardrobe door. The hangers rattled and jangled as she frantically searched inside the empty closet.

“God help us! What has he gone and done now?”

“What?” asked Finbar softly.

“What do you think? Declan’s gone.”

“Gone? Where?”

“How in God’s name should I know?” Mrs. Sullivan fled downstairs.

Finbar heard his mother’s voice in the hall, then his father’s rang out: “For Christ sake! I can’t stay home. There were twenty others looking for that job. I have to go! I’ll come home as early as I can. This is all we need!”

The air in the yard was damp and stank of wet schoolboys and the bitter burnt hops blown down the river from Nesbitt’s brewery. Dermot McDermott shifted impatiently from foot to foot. Beside him stood Brother Loughlin anxiously staring up at the big electric clock over the school door.

“Watch, now,” the Brother said solemnly.

McDermott pursed his lips and breathed out sharply through his nose.

The second hand glided toward 12 in imperceptible little jerks. As soon as it hit 12 the minute hand clicked into place and quivered for a moment. It was nine o’clock on the dot.

“There! See?” said Brother Loughlin triumphantly.

“Right, so the bell is broke,” conceded McDermott.

“Well? Don’t just stand there. Get your ladder and fix it!” Brother Loughlin strode away and began berating the boys. “Get into your classes!”

“But Brother, the bell didn’t go!”

“I’ll bell-didn’t-go you! Now get into your classes!”

Suddenly, from the far side of the yard came a piercing clanging and Brother Boland’s voice shrieking at the boys to hurry up.

Brother Loughlin only saw a blur of newly shined brass at the end of Boland’s right hand, such was the fervor with which he was ringing the handbell.

“Bring out yer dead! Bring out yer dead!” called an anonymous voice from among the crowd in the shed.

Brother Loughlin watched approvingly as Brother Boland scurried toward the shed, the brassy blur of the bell in his right hand now complemented by the black blur of the leather in his left. From the shed the boys scattered toward their classes, so Brother Loughlin turned his attention back to the main door. There McDermott stood with his ladder leaning up against the wall, waiting for the stream of gray-clad boys to disappear up the stairs and out of his way.

“Put out that cigarette and get to work! This is not some seedy bookie’s shop!” barked Brother Loughlin.

McDermott took one last drag on his cigarette and opened his ladder under the clock with deliberate, exasperating slowness.

“Well?” Brother Loughlin asked the back of McDermott’s ankles once he had ascended the ladder.

“I haven’t even opened the stupid thing yet. Hold yer horses.”

“Come on! Come on, can’t you?”

“Don’t rush me. I shouldn’t even be doing this. This is a job for a—”

There was a loud pop, a fizzle, and McDermott was flung backward in a cloud of cordite-scented smoke, knocking Brother Loughlin to the ground under him.

“Get off me!” Brother Loughlin was none too pleased to have broken McDermott’s fall.

“I’m not touching that thing again. It’s live so it is. You get yourself a proper electrician. There’s something very wrong with that clock. It’s not my job!” McDermott folded up his ladder and rushed off with uncharacteristic speed.

Brother Loughlin stood up and watched him go. “You’ll be ringing the handbell for classes,” he then said to the unmistakable sweaty smell of Brother Boland that had sidled up behind him.

“Very well,” said Boland, and hurried off delightedly.

Brother Loughlin rubbed his hip where he had fallen and ruefully regarded the big clock now hanging by a few wires like some forlorn sea creature. “Bloody electricians! License to print money, that’s all it is! Have the country ruined, so they do!”

Finbar bolted off the bus at the lights and sprinted down the West Circular Road, his schoolbag banging and rattling on his back. After his father’s cross-examination to be sure he knew nothing about Declan’s running away, he was really late. He glanced at his watch: a quarter past nine. Feck! Feck! Feck!

He dashed across the empty yard and up the stairs. His heart pounding, he slowed his pace to try to catch his breath. He could feel his wool vest sticking to his shoulders and the backs of his knees were sweating into the worsted wool trousers.

He paused at the top of the stairs and took one deep breath, then moved in front of the door to see Mr. Pollock writing furiously on the blackboard. After a moment’s hesitation he knocked on the glass pane.

“Tar isteach!” called the teacher without looking across.

Finbar opened the door and walked into the classroom.

Mr. Pollock continued to fill the blackboard and paid no attention to him. Finbar shifted his weight from foot to foot and stared at the teacher’s desk. The leather was already out, sitting curled up on the roll book. Obviously there had been some disciplining done already.

Mr. Pollock finished writing with a wide flourish, tossed the remainder of the chalk into the bin in the corner, and whipped around on his heel to face Finbar. “An tUasal Ó Súilleabháin. Cén t-am é?”

Finbar glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was twenty past nine. “Fiche noiméad tar éis a naoi,” he replied.

“Agus?”

The boy swallowed hard and launched into a reasonably fluent Gaelic explanation of the morning’s events.

Mr. Pollock nodded and waved him to his desk. Finbar sat down relieved. The teacher seemed satisfied both with the explanation and the quality of the Gaelic. Finbar was not sure now which was worse, being leathered or being forced to carry on a conversation in Irish in front of the whole class.

He took out his books and glanced up at the board. “What’s this?” he whispered to Smalley Mullen beside him.

Mullen made no sign that he had been addressed and continued to repeatedly write his name on the lid of the inkwell and then wipe it off with the ball of his thumb.

“Now, Master Egan, sor. Would you like to read what is on the blackboard for us?” clipped Mr. Pollock as he surveyed his penmanship on the board.

There was no answer from Egan’s empty seat.

“Tá sé slaughtered,” offered McDonagh.

Pollock knew well that Egan wasn’t in. He’d already called the roll. “I beg your pardon? Gabh mo leithscéal?”

“Tá sé as láthair, he’s absent,” said McDonagh calmly.

Mr. Pollock eyed him suspiciously. “Hmmm. Then you can read for us …” he circled his index finger in the air like some malevolent wizard, “Master Bradshaw.”

12

B
y the time Mr. Pollock had made each boy read some of the extract from the Constitution in Irish and laboriously corrected accent and pronunciation, Brother Kennedy was already at the door waiting impatiently. Had it been any other lay teacher, he would have barged into the class, but Mr. Pollock was a little too close with Loughlin to bully.

For homework Mr. Pollock picked questions at random from the end of a lesson they had not even started yet and then overcourteously ushered Brother Kennedy in.

Without even glancing at Mr. Pollock, Brother Kennedy dropped his Latin books on the desk, went to the window, and blessed himself. The boys wearily stood up and waved their hands around in front of their faces.