The Brothers' Lot - Kevin Holohan [46]
While his boss calmed himself with a smoke in the laneway, Ray McRae removed the statuettes of Venerable Saorseach O’Rahilly from their packing cases and placed one on each chair in the hall. He worked quickly and carefully and whistled happily to himself.
Soon he heard the fire exit open and close again. Without looking up he called out to McDermott: “They’re like little works of art, you know what I mean? All the same, but each one a little bit different. Like this one. Looks a little sadder than the others. Even a little depressed. I knew a sculptor one time. Very depressed fellah. Did his sculptures, had a couple of pints in the local of an evening, but never really talked to anyone, you know what I mean? Next thing you know, he ups and cuts his throat with a safety razor. Funny, isn’t it, that they call them safety razors and them such dangerous things?”
McRae fell silent and McDermott let out a sigh of relief. He was a man of few words himself and talkative people made him uncomfortable. He walked to the back of the hall and lifted another crate of statuettes. Swiftly he moved along the row of chairs and placed a statuette gently on each one.
“Ciúnas! Silence!”
When the desired silence fell on the hall, Brother Loughlin stepped to the front of the stage, looking, if anything, fatter than usual in his gala cassock; the red trim on the collar, cuffs, and hem lending him the appearance of a gigantic hot coal ready to burst into flames at any moment.
“Brother Boland will now demonstrate the correct and only way to handle the figures of Venerable Saorseach O’Rahilly. You will keep these with you at every moment from now until the end of the day when they will be returned to the oratory. Any damage or breakage will result in a hiding you will never forget and automatic transfer to an industrial school. These are holy statues. Is that clear?”
The boys nodded dumbly and Brother Boland stepped forward with his statuette. The base of it rested on the flat palm of his left hand and he held it reverently but firmly with his right hand clasped around the figure’s chest.
“When we are in procession,” Brother Loughlin resumed, “you will hold the figure above your head with both hands. The figure will at no moment be allowed to rest on the ground. You may hold the statue in one hand only, and I repeat only, when required to do so by a Brother or teacher who finds it necessary to use the strap on you. Right. Now walk slowly to your seats and CAREFULLY pick up the figure. They are all the same so it does not matter which one you get.”
There was not exactly a stampede to get the best of the Venerable Saorseachs but there was a certain amount of competition for the chairs near the back of the hall. This was the impetuous rush of amateurs. Anyone so eager to be at the back was going to be picked off and moved up front where they could better be watched. Scully, Lynch, and McDonagh expertly restrained themselves and found themselves seats three rows from the back.
Lynch picked up his statue in the approved manner and set to whispering things of a very threatening and mostly anatomically impossible nature to it.
Brother Cox, who was going to narrate the pageant, took his place at the lectern, stage right. Over his gala cassock he wore a costume that was somewhere between Henry VIII and an Edwardian pimp. What it was supposed to evoke, other than mockery, was hard to tell.
“Before we begin, I would like to welcome Mr. Diarmaid DePaor of the Department of Education, who is our special guest here this morning,” Cox began.
Mr. DePaor stood up and awkwardly acknowledged the forced applause, squeezed from the boys by glowers and hissed warnings.
When DePaor sat down again Brother Cox took a deep portentous breath and continued: “Venerable Saorseach O’Rahilly was born in Dunbally in 1811, the first of two sons to Cathal and Brigid O’Rahilly …”
For the next hour and a half the boys would have to sit through the story they had already heard that day, this time being badly and reluctantly acted