The Brothers' Lot - Kevin Holohan [33]
Brother Tobin helped Brother Boland up and the four of them shuffled at their combined top speed out of the refectory and down the parquet corridor, just managing to avoid Mrs. McCurtin who was on her hands and knees trying to remove a particularly stubborn stain.
When they reached the double doors that led to the yard, all four tried to go through at the same time and it was this mess of tangled limbs that Brother Loughlin came upon as he returned from his office to have words with Mrs. McCurtin about the rust on the statue of Venerable Saorseach O’Rahilly in his office.
“What in the name of God is going on here?” he bellowed.
“Men in the yard with a truck,” explained Cox.
“This is how is starts,” intoned Brother Boland in the ominous voice of some cavern-bound seer.
“Builders!” hissed Brother Mulligan.
“Builders?” guffawed Brother Loughlin. “Don’t you think I would know if there were builders coming to the school?”
“It’s them. The warehouse people,” Brother Boland whispered fearfully.
“Well let’s go see these ‘builders’ then, shall we?” announced Brother Loughlin condescendingly, and assumed a lead position as the rest of them extricated themselves from the doorway.
“Oh-oh. Here comes trouble,” muttered Matt when he saw the group of Brothers approach, their cassocks flapping in the wind.
Lar and Con, his assistants, stood on either side of him and they waited for the Brothers to reach them.
“I bet the fat baldy one is the leader. You can always tell the leaders. They’re fat but they don’t move like fat people. I’ve noticed that,” observed Lar.
“Now, there’s a thing. Mussolini was a bit tubby all right but then Stalin was a skinny little fucker. Mind you, I never saw either of them walk so I couldn’t really say,” said Con.
Matt shook his head in despair. Every day he had this crap to put up with. Every day Con and Lar would muse on the vagaries of how baldness skips a generation or discuss the complexities of the messenger network used by the Incas. All sorts of stuff. He had no idea where they got it. Lunchtimes were the worst.
Brother Loughlin stopped about five feet from the trio of Matt, Con, and Lar. The other Brothers stood behind him and peered suspiciously.
“Is there something we can help you with?” asked Brother Loughlin haughtily.
“There was a load of old radiators and pipes we were supposed to pick up,” answered Matt.
“Well, I’m afraid you are in the wrong place. There are no radiators here. Who sent you?”
“The depot. They said there was sixty radiators and eight hundred foot of pipe to be took away.”
“Well, the depot made a mistake. Now, if you would please take yourselves and your vehicle off the premises before …” menaced Brother Loughlin, emboldened to a more high-handed approach by Matt’s faulty grammar.
“Ah, but you see now, Brother, I’d love to oblige you but I have a docket. I can’t leave until I get the scrap on the list and get the pickup signed for. Once a docket goes out of the depot the contents has to be picked up and signed for. Y’understand?” Matt held up the yellow form as incontrovertible proof that there were indeed radiators and pipes to be taken away. A docket could not lie.
Con and Lar nodded in solemn agreement with this sentiment. They were not fly-by-nights who went around grabbing stray bits of scrap. They were serious professionals who had a depot that issued dockets that had to be signed and put into files.
“May I see that?” Brother Loughlin held out his hand.
Matt handed over the docket. “You see, Brother, there it is in black and white.”
Brother Loughlin looked carefully at the paper. Brannigan Brothers, Purveyors of Fine Scrap Metals, it declared across the top in bold print. Granted, the rest of it was all in a scrawl, but it was clear enough: sixty radiators and eight hundred feet of pipe to be removed for scrap from the Brothers School at Greater Little Werburgh Street, North.
“Wait one moment!” snapped Brother Loughlin suddenly. “This is the wrong date! This is dated next June!”
Matt snatched the docket back and glared at it.