The Brothers' Lot - Kevin Holohan [10]
Finbar shook his head and ground his teeth. He moved the porridge around in the bowl and took a couple of mouthfuls. It tasted like dust. He took a bite of toast and slurped down some tea. More dust.
“Do you want another cup of tea, Jude?”
“No, I’m fine. Will you stop fussing? I don’t have time. It’s me first day, I can’t be late,” replied Mr. Sullivan as he grabbed his overcoat from the back of the kitchen door.
“Well, good luck.”
Mr. Sullivan nodded and walked slowly out of the kitchen. “Be good at school, Finbar,” he said softly as he left.
Finbar ran upstairs and collected his schoolbag from the bedroom. He slammed the door hard on his way out. That’ll help Declan’s lie-in, ha!
A jagged blade of pure horror drove itself into his chest when he saw his mother standing at the bottom of the stairs in her coat and headscarf and holding her good handbag. Suffering Jesus! She was coming with him!
Singly or in small groups of two or three, gray-clad boys slouched down the West Circular Road toward The Brothers of Godly Coercion School for Young Boys of Meager Means on Greater Little Werburgh Street, North. Muted drums and horses wearing black crepe drawing gun carriages would not have seemed out of place, such was the pall of gloom and despair that hung heavy over the road. The first fully fledged Monday of a new school year.
In the IRA shop (so named for the riot of Irish Republican Army paraphernalia that covered the walls) Scully counted out his change. He pocketed two of the loose Woodbines and put one behind his ear.
“You going in today?” asked Malachy from behind the counter.
Scully looked carefully at the man. It was rare that Malachy ever said anything so it was a safe bet this was not a casual question. Last March when Scully had skipped school, he had spent the day with Malachy packing Easter lily badges to be shipped to Chicago. He received ten Woodbines and a sick note for his troubles. Scully had wondered about the wisdom of getting tangled up with Malachy. Still, it was good to be in with someone in the Ra, even a very minor someone. Also, Malachy had a wonderful repertoire of parent-shaped handwriting.
“Yeah. It’s only the first week. See how it goes,” replied Scully.
“Suit yourself,” said Malachy mysteriously.
“Good luck,” called Scully as he dashed out the door.
“Take it handy. Tiocfaidh ár lá!” muttered Malachy, and went back to restocking the Banana Cola Taste Blasters, one of the more glamorous of his fundraising activities in the struggle to reunify Ireland and end British occupation of the North.
“Ah, go ask me arse!” Scully shouted at a honking motorist as he dodged through the traffic. He could see Greater Little Werburgh Street ahead. Judging by the pace of the gray bodies turning into it, it was still only about ten to nine. Plenty of time for a smoke.
“Now stop dawdling, Finbar, we’ll be late!” chided a shrill country voice behind Scully. He felt himself involuntarily cower at the words, so expertly laden were they with that artful mixture of love, exasperation, self-sacrifice, and guilt-inducing sadness. He vaguely remembered how his own mother had used this tone on him before she went astray in the head and stopped talking to anyone in the house.
“We won’t be late! Will you stop rushing? I can go the rest of the way on me own!” protested a boy’s voice. To Scully’s ears this voice was redolent of turf smoke, bogs, tractors, parish priests with hawthorn sticks and no front teeth, céilí dancing, mucky Wellington boots, and all other things backward and primitive that he associated with life beyond the confines of Dublin city.
“Excuse us,” the shrill mothering voice instructed him. Scully moved closer to the wall and let them pass.
“That boy is going to be late,” Mrs. Sullivan observed to Finbar as they bustled past him. “You wouldn’t want to be late on your first day now, love, would you?”
Scully could see the boy in front of him shrink at his mother’s words. He lit his smoke and saw Mrs. Sullivan