The Brothers' Lot - Kevin Holohan [28]
“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