The Brothers' Lot - Kevin Holohan [11]
“Yeauw, Scully, ye manky shite!”
Scully, Mrs. Sullivan, and Finbar all looked up to see the maniacally grinning Lynch hanging off the back of a truck as it hurtled toward the docks—scutting, as it was known in the parlance, a much-frowned-on mode of transport punishable by automatic expulsion.
“Oh, look at that boy, Finbar! Isn’t that disgraceful behavior? He must be one of the boys from the Technical School,” pronounced Mrs. Sullivan.
Finbar made no reply. Scully didn’t bother to shout back; Lynch had already turned his attention to some girls from Windsor Street Convent in a passing bus.
“Vulgar boy! Should be ashamed of himself! I’m surprised even the Technical School will have him!” huffed Mrs. Sullivan, instinctively reaching for her son’s hand.
Finbar awkwardly twisted away but she caught him by the collar of his blazer.
“Don’t you ever let me catch you carrying on like that, do you hear me?” she scolded as they moved further ahead of Scully and turned onto Werburgh Street.
A moment later when Scully rounded the corner, he watched them: instead of heading down to the end of the street and turning into the school, they went in the main entrance to the monastery. She’ll probably offer him up as an apprentice Brother, thought Scully.
“Fuck sake! Missed the light! Nearly ended up on the docks! Give us a drag, ye bollix!” shouted Lynch as he ran up behind Scully. His round, impish face and tiny eyes were afire with mischief.
Scully handed him the almost done butt and the bell ground out hollowly from the yard inside.
“You goin’ in?” asked Lynch.
Scully nodded matter-of-factly. Lynch took one last drag, shrugged, spat, and the two of them walked slowly through the heavy lead-colored gates.
5
Mr. Scully, sor, you can stay standing. I think we will have a change of environment for you, eh? Keep you close to hand, out of the way of pernicious influences, where you can come to no harm, ha?”
Mr. Pollock’s face belied any levity that might have been deduced from the words coming out of his mouth. He had obviously seen Scully’s encounter with Brother Loughlin at the mass.
“Mr. Farrelly, take your bags, chattels, and belongings and change places with Mr. Scully.”
“But sir, I can’t—”
“No ifs, buts, or wherefores, Mr. Farrelly. Move yourself!” Pollock cut in.
Farrelly, who had chosen to be near the front because of his weak eyes, reluctantly took his things and moved to the back where Scully had been sitting. The desk beside Smalley Mullen remained empty.
“McDonagh?”
“Here. I mean, anseo.”
“Mullen?”
“Anseo.”
“O’Connor?”
“Anseo.”
“Rutledge?”
“Here. Eh, anseo.”
“Scully?”
“Anseo.”
“Sullivan?”
“Still no sign of the elusive Mr. Sullivan.”
Mr. Pollock finished the roll and then went to the large cupboard. He opened it wide to reveal stacks and stacks of tattered books. A gentle tapping on the glass of the door caught his attention. He tilted back his head in acknowledgment and strode to the door. He opened it and, turning to raise his eyebrows in preemptive warning to the class, stepped outside into the corridor.
After a few moments Finbar Sullivan walked in, followed closely by Mr. Pollock.
“Bye now, love, be good!” came Mrs. Sullivan’s voice from the corridor. Finbar’s guts turned to dust in embarrassment. He glanced cautiously at the icily scrutinizing sea of faces in front of him.
“It appears we have found the mysterious Fionnbarr Ó Súilleabháin,” announced Mr. Pollock and moved to his desk. He sat himself on his high stool and tucked his black gown around him like some balding ginger-haired bat. He reopened the roll book and started to make some notes in it. Finbar stood at the top of the class feeling very exposed. There was not one welcoming chink of light as his eyes darted from one face to the next.
A new boy presented