The Brothers' Lot - Kevin Holohan [12]
From outside in the corridor his mother’s voice echoed around mercilessly: “He’s a very good boy, Brother, very bright and always has good reports. A lovely hurler, a fine footballer, and very well-behaved and mannerly. Brother Morrissey in Cork was very sorry to lose him. He was a well-liked boy. Indeed he was. I’m very sorry that Finbar missed the first day of school. I hear there was mass. It’s a pity Finbar missed that. He was an altar boy, you know.”
“Indeed. I’m sure he will fit in very well here, Mrs. Sullivan. I’m afraid I must leave you now and attend to pressing school matters. Good day to you now,” concluded Brother Loughlin emphatically. Finbar breathed a sigh of relief and went back to trying to suppress his beetroot blushing.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw two of the boys in the front near the windows point to the door and laugh. Silently, almost telepathically, the signal passed through the class and more boys began to look toward the door. With a horrid dread in the depths of his spirit, Finbar turned to see his mother grinning and waving enthusiastically at him like she was at a parade. He made an odd movement combining a reluctant return of her wave and a gesture of barely suppressed fury shooing her away.
“Mr. Sullivan, you will take a pew at the back there beside Mr. Mullen,” said Mr. Pollock without looking up from the roll book.
With huge relief Finbar hurried to the desk and sat down. Mullen did not even look at him. Finbar was now far enough down the class to be spared the sight of his mother at the door. There was little doubt that she was still there, and when Mr. Pollock finally looked up from the roll book he was compelled to wave farewell before she would leave.
“Fionnbarr Ó Súilleabháin?” he called.
“Anseo, a mháistir!” answered Finbar.
Mr. Pollock made a tick in the roll book with an extravagant flourish. The respectful and fluent-sounding “a mháistir,” equivalent to a gratuitous “here, master,” when a bare “here” was all that was required, brought an approving glance from Mr. Pollock. Perhaps there might be a pearl among these swine, he thought. Unsolicited and unaided use of the vocative case showed promise.
In direct and pointed contrast to Pollock’s approval, Finbar could feel the air around him bristle with hostility and suspicion from the boys in the class. He put his head down and stared hard at the top of his desk. He felt his ears burn and a prickling feeling in his eyes assured him that he was indeed feeling miserable.
“Now, back to the matter of books,” said Mr. Pollock from his perch on the high stool behind his desk. Before he could begin to distribute the books there was another knock at the door. Mr. Pollock beckoned the caller in.
A first year of diminutive size with outlandishly large ears entered bearing a note. He wore a uniform that he was obviously expected to grow into sometime in the next decade. A perceptible ripple of derision ran around the class. Finbar, glad for a moment to have someone else be the focus of malign attention, joined in the feeling of superiority to this hapless first year.
“Well, what is it?” clipped Mr. Pollock.
“Ehm, ehm, ehm, a note, sir,” stammered the poor unfortunate.
“From whom?” pursued Mr. Pollock.
“From the Head Brudder, sir.”
“And who is the Head Brother?”
“Ehm, ehm, ehm, I don’t know, sir.”
“And what is your name, Mr. Ehm, Ehm, Ehm, I Don’t Know, Sir?”
“Anthony, sir.”
“Well, Antney, sir, Brother Loughlin is the Head Brother.”
“Ehm, ehm, ehm, Brudder Loughlin, sir,” repeated Anthony carefully.
Mr. Pollock took the note from the boy’s trembling hand and nodded grimly while he read it.
“Go raibh maith agat. Tell Brother Loughlin they will be there in a moment,” said