The Brothers' Lot - Kevin Holohan [38]
Bradshaw and McDonagh shuffled out and the rest paged through their poetry books.
Mr. Pollock sat at the high desk and cleaned his fountain pen while the boys made half-hearted attempts to learn the verses. It did not help in the least that they had never before clapped eyes on said verses and they might as well have been trying to memorize a gangrene remedy in Old Norse. By the time Mr. Pollock had successfully overhauled his fountain pen, Brother Boland’s bell rang and there was no time to examine the memorizing.
“Write out the first four verses five times for your homework and I will examine you on them tomorrow.”
Brother Loughlin pushed up the window and leaned his elbows on the outside sill. He cradled his hands against the wind, lit a cigarette, and looked down on the yard below with satisfaction. He listened behind him to the echoey dripping of leaky cisterns and the odd hissing of the trough-like urinal. From up here on the third floor he had a perfect view of the yard below. He farted loudly into the copious folds of his cassock and chuckled contentedly to himself.
Before he had even begun to leather them, he’d reduced them to the edge of tears. He knew these hard chaws. All you had to do with most of them was start in on how little their parents loved them and how they would be better off if there was another decent war where they could be of some use and die in the trenches. That would usually get the waterworks going. It was about pinpointing their vulnerable spots, and they all had them, even the hardest of the little bastards.
He watched the yard below patiently. As soon as he saw them appear round the corner straining under the weight of Mr. Laverty’s little bubble car, he reached down and took the copper megaphone from the floor. He leaned as far out the window as his girth allowed.
“All boys! All boys! This is Brother Loughlin! You will all take note of what is occurring in the yard below. All boys will form orderly viewing lines at the windows. Let this be an example to all of you who might consider blackguarding, and remember: my arm is long, my vengeance is total, and I will act when the time is meet!”
His voice echoed around the yard and heads began to appear at the windows. He smiled to himself and lit another cigarette off his first and drank in the spectacle below.
Slater, McDonagh, and Bradshaw struggled into the middle of the yard with Laverty’s tiny three-wheeler and set it down. Wearing only their underpants, they shivered against the cold wind and walked gingerly on the concrete. McDonagh was the first one to notice all the faces at the windows. He cowered and shrank against the side of the car. The others followed his glance and saw the serried faces, some laughing, some blank, some sneering. Bradshaw attempted to pass it off as if he didn’t care and Slater looked down at his gray-white underpants and pressed his knees together.
“Get the buckets, Mr. Bradshaw! And no dawdling!” bellowed Brother Loughlin.
Bradshaw ran toward the monastery and emerged carrying two metal buckets of water. Reluctantly the boys took the cloths from the buckets and painfully began to wash Laverty’s car.
“Pay special attention to the windows and the door handle!” shouted Brother Loughlin.
Bradshaw felt the cold of the water bite into the leathered throbbing in his hands. Slater splashed some of the freezing water on his feet and tried hard not to flinch. McDonagh wrung as much of the water as he could out of his cloth and wiped the back of the car.
“More water, Mr. McDonagh, or I’ll make you do it again!”
After fifteen minutes the car was clean and the boys soaked, cold, and humiliated.
“You may now recite at the top of your voices a heartfelt Act of Contrition, return the car to its place, and then go back to your classes!” cried Brother Loughlin triumphantly. “Let this be an example to the rest of you! Back to your studies!”
“I confess to Almighty God and to you, my brothers and sisters …” shouted McDonagh, Slater, and Bradshaw as they struggled out of