The Brothers' Lot - Kevin Holohan [30]
“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
By 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.
“Ave Maria, gratia plena,” intoned Brother Kennedy. He paused and turned to the boys to indicate that they should repeat. They shambled out something that sounded like “Have a Maria grassy airplaner.”
“Dominus tecum.”
“Dominoes take ’em.”
“Benedicta tu in mulieribus.”
“Benedict Twohey in the early bus.”
“Et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Jesus.”
“Ate Benny dicked us, fucked us, dangerous Twohey jaysus.”
“Sancta Maria, mater Dei.”
“Sank to Maria, matter day.”
“Ora pro nobis peccatoribus.”
“Oh, rat, provo bus peck a Tory bus.”
“Nunc et in hora mortis nostrae.”
“New kettle Nora, more tits no stray.”
“Amen.”
“Amen.”
“In nomine Partii et filii et spiritus sancti.”
“In ammonia Patrick ate filly ate spirits from Santy.”
Brother Kennedy blessed himself and returned to the desk, oblivious to the blasphemy he had just occasioned. From among his books he took a small blue piece of paper. He viciously rubbed Mr. Pollock’s work off the blackboard.
“Copy this down,” he said, and began to write at the top left of the board. From experience, the boys guessed that they were in for a long bout of copying. “I doubt any of you baboons will recognize this but it is the translation text that was on your Inter Cert exam, which I am sure you all made a complete dog’s dinner of.” Brother Kennedy stopped when he had half filled the board. “I think that will be enough for the moment,” he said derisively.
Cum dies hibernorum complures transissent frumentumque eo comportari iussisset, subito per exploratores certior factus est ex ea parte vici, quam Gallis concesserat, omnes noctu discessisse montesque qui impenderent a maxima multitudine Sedunorum et Veragrorum teneri. Id aliquot de causis acciderat, ut subito Galli belli renovandi legionisque opprimendae consilium caperent: primum, quod legionem neque eam plenissimam detractis cohortibus duabus et compluribus singillatim, qui commeatus petendi causa missi erant, absentibus propter paucitatem despiciebant; tum etiam, quod propter iniquitatem loci, cum ipsi ex montibus in vallem decurrerent et tela coicerent, ne primum quidem impetum suum posse sustineri existimabant stood incomprehensibly on the blackboard in front of the boys.
“Well?” inquired Brother Kennedy.
“Sir, sir, sir, sir, sir, sir, sir, sir, sir, sir, sir!” pleaded McDonagh, waving his hand frantically in the air.
“Yes, Mr. McDonagh?”
“It’s Latin, Brother,” beamed McDonagh.
It was hard to know exactly what motivated McDonagh sometimes. He knew Brother Kennedy was a psychotic bastard. If born in another place and time, McDonagh might have become a national hero, scaling unscalable mountains with a few bits of sash rope, a sturdy pair of sandals, and a good tweed jacket; or crossing the Atlantic single-handedly on an oversized