The Brothers' Lot - Kevin Holohan [43]
McDermott had to take the small terra-cotta statues of Venerable Saorseach O’Rahilly down from their niches in the walls of the oratory and transport them to the hall. The fact that there were five hundred of the little bastards was not a problem in itself. What was a problem, however, was Brother Boland’s immovable insistence that they be brought down to the floor of the oratory one at a time.
Brother Loughlin had specifically picked Boland for the Venerable Saorseach preparations to quell his stupid sabotage paranoia. Brother Boland had indeed become so engrossed in every little detail that he stopped noticing the so-called shudderings inside the school. Even the seemingly unfixable school clock had ceased to worry him.
Leg sore, hot, and dying for a smoke, McDermott stepped off the ladder and placed the last eight-inch-tall statue with the little army that had formed on the floor.
“Right then, that’s the last of them,” he said firmly, and began to load them into the velvet compartments of the custom-built crates. Each identical statue showed Venerable Saorseach O’Rahilly as a young man peering skyward while being moved by the spirit of the Holy Ghost. To McDermott they looked like figurines of a very drunk young man staring at the moon. “I’m going to move this lot over to the hall,” he stated in a tone that left little room for contradiction.
“Be very careful!” implored Brother Boland.
“Just not good enough! It’s inexcusable, that’s what it is! A disgrace! A total disgrace!” Brother Loughlin snarled, and stomped back up to the corner of the West Circular Road for the tenth time. He looked up the main road. Still no sign of them. “A bloody disgrace, that’s what it is!”
He pulled a cigarette from the top pocket of his cassock and leaned into the wall of the school to light up out of the biting wind. He took a drag and glanced up to see Father Flynn bustling up the West Circular Road toward him. Late as usual, thought Brother Loughlin.
“God save you, Brother Loughlin, but you’re a hardier man than I. A bit cold for taking the air, I’d say,” called Father Flynn amicably.
“Good morning, Father,” replied Brother Loughlin, not without taking a conspicuous glance at his watch.
“Sorry I’m a little late. We had a visit from the city manager this morning.”
“You have building trouble in the chapel?”
“Oh no, no, no, just a social visit. Dropped in for breakfast. We went to school together at Southwell.”
Brother Loughlin flinched at the mention of the Jesuit school. It always rankled him to think that the Jesuits were in the business of producing the bosses who would lord it over the drones he was in charge of turning out. It was not the inequality of the boys’ fates that disturbed him. It was more about knowing that he would never have any link with that golden club of power and privilege. He bitterly consoled himself with the thought that Flynn had not made it into the Jesuits and was a mere diocesan priest.
“I see,” he said flatly.
“So what has you out here in the cold?” asked Father Flynn.
“Waiting for the damn laundry van! They were supposed to be here at eight! The Brothers are waiting to get changed for the pageant and those eejits have our new underwear for the year and our gala cassocks off God knows where. Today of all days!”
“That’d be the Jezebel Laundry then?”
There was an undertone in Father Flynn’s voice that Brother Loughlin did not entirely like.“Yes. The Brotherhood feels it is important to support such laudable institutions,” he answered pompously. “Of course, we might get better service from a more businesslike laundry, but then who would take care of those poor fallen women?”
Father Flynn nodded noncommittally. He had heard the stories about the Jezebel Laundries and was not sure they were the noble institution they were made out to be. Stories of beatings and terrible punishments. Stories of family feuds that ended up in girls being put away in the laundries for no good reason. It was rumored that the Bishop of Orris and Bargey