The Brothers' Lot - Kevin Holohan [37]
“A 5-50?” echoed Con, somewhat incredulously.
“Yeah. Is it deaf or just thick ye are?”
“Fair enough. I just thought—”
“Don’t! Just get it!”
Brother Loughlin paced a little circle of impatience around the fallen ash from his cigarette until Con returned from the van bearing a brand-new clock. The Brother eyed the clock suspiciously: “And what is that going to set us back, might I ask?”
“The 5-50? Seventy pounds, but you’d pay at least a hundred for it in a shop,” Matt replied.
“Get on with it,” Brother Loughlin sighed. He watched carefully as Matt wired up the clock, set it for two minutes before nine, and hung it back in its place.
The four of them stood and watched the second hand sweep through its course and begin again.
“Time’s a very quare thing all the same,” mused Lar.
“Like as the waves hasten toward the pebbled shore, so do our moments hasten to their end,” intoned Con.
“Ah, the bard. Ye can’t beat the bard.”
“Indeed and you can’t, Lar. Though there are some of Wyatt’s lyrics I’m quite partial to. They have a Petrarchan quality to them. Very sophisticated for their time.”
“I can’t say as I’ve ever had much time for Wyatt.”
“Will you two just shut up!” barked Matt.
The second hand inched toward ten.
“Eight, seven, six, five, four …” counted Lar and Con softly together. The clock struck nine o’clock and the bell pealed out.
“There ye are now!” smiled Matt. But his fleeting triumph was cut short by the unexpected slowing, stuttering, and stopping of the bell.
Brother Loughlin glowered at Matt and then at the clock. It was still running but he could see that the second hand was slowing down. Moments later it jerked slightly and then came to rest.
“What the … ?” Matt climbed back up and inspected the clock. “This is completely destroyed. Brand-new clock. Nothing wrong with the wires and there’s nothing wrong with the bell. And now the whole thing is seized up. I don’t know what’s wrong with this at all. I’ll have to take it back to the workshop and have one of the clock lads look it over. That’s all I can do. Don’t hook ANYTHING up to those wires.”
“Horologists, they’re called,” noted Lar.
Matt hastily wrote the docket, shoved it into Brother Loughlin’s unwilling hand, grabbed his tools, and walked back toward the truck.
“What about this?” called Brother Loughlin, holding up the first stricken clock.
“Ah no, afraid we don’t do disposal,” answered Con. “Good day to you now, Brother.”
“Stay out of harm’s way now, Brother.”
Lar and Con stood side by side, smiled, and tipped their caps to Brother Loughlin before turning to follow Matt.
“Brother Boland! Brother Boland! Have McDermott get rid of that old clock immediately! You will still be ringing the handbell for classes!” Brother Loughlin shouted, then strode off to his office.
Brian Egan stood in front of Mr. Pollock, hopelessly trying to compose a Gaelic explanation of his lateness for two interminable, excruciating minutes before the teacher relented and told him to sit down.
Everyone looked but no one could make eye contact with Egan. He simply stared vacantly ahead.
Scully watched carefully. Something about Egan was making him uncomfortable: something menacingly missing about the boy stood over him, judge and jury, reminding him that he had set Egan up.
“Yeauw, Ego, how’s it going?” whispered Scully at the first opportunity.
Egan did not move. No acknowledgment. This was not the same Egan who only a few days ago would have jumped with excitement at being spoken to by any of Scully’s gang. Something had shifted here but Scully could not be sure what.
“Mr. McDonagh, Mr. Bradshaw, go to Brother Loughlin’s office. As for the rest of you, listen carefully and you might learn something for a change. In the old days, the monks of Ireland would sit alone in stone huts and compose hundreds of staves of flawless mellifluous verse in their heads that they would then recite from memory. In honor of this great tradition you will now open your books at page one hundred and thirteen and learn by heart the first