The Brothers' Lot - Kevin Holohan [6]
“You told me to get out, sir.”
“No, sor. I told you that I didn’t understand. Ní thuigim. I don’t understand. Understand?”
This was one of Mr. Pollock’s favorite ways of slighting the boys. “Sor” in Gaelic meant louse and it was the custom during colonization for the tenants to take what little pleasure they could get by addressing their rack-renting landlords with the word.
McDonagh saw a great opportunity for further confusing the issue by asking if “Ní thuigim” meant “I understand” or “I don’t understand,” but something glinted dangerously in Mr. Pollock’s eyes and he thought the better of it. Just as he was about to answer, Mr. Pollock suddenly turned sideways and his leather was out and he was smacking McDonagh hard across the right hand.
“Ní thuigim. I don’t understand. Ní thuigim. Repeat!” he shouted at McDonagh, each syllable punctuated with the sharp sound of the leather on the boy’s palm.
“Ní thuigim, I don’t understand,” said McDonagh tonelessly.
“Suigh síos,” barked Mr. Pollock, and then watched McDonagh as if defying him to deliberately misunderstand that one. McDonagh walked sullenly back to his desk and sat down as instructed.
The heavy post-leathering silence settled down on the boys like dense soot. The lines were drawn. No messing around. It was true what they’d heard. Pollock was a complete bastard. He was as bad as any of the Brothers. This was the shape of the year to come.
Grimly they copied down the timetable Mr. Pollock wrote on the blackboard, dismayed to see that Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays were going to start with double Irish with him and last thing Friday was Religion with him.
Mr. Pollock walked around the class checking that they were copying correctly. “You would want to take more care of your handwriting, Mr. McDonagh,” he said pointedly as he passed the boy’s desk. McDonagh said nothing and went on writing with his swollen, throbbing hand.
“Now, we will walk silently down the stairs and proceed to the hall for the mass,” announced Mr. Pollock when he had completed his circuit of the class.
3
Father Flynn cleared his throat nervously. This was his first school mass as chaplain to the Brothers of Godly Coercion. As the newest priest at Saint Werburgh’s parish, this extra duty had fallen to him. He had trimmed his beard three times the previous night. The uneven growth he now presented to the world was what he determined to be his most youth-friendly, approachable, and understanding face.
He smiled broadly at the hallful of boys in front of him and let rip: “We are all God’s family. And He has asked us to go on a journey with Him. As we begin this new school year, we are like pioneers in the cowboy films that I am sure you boys like so much. You know the ones with the covered wagons going across the desert in search of their promised land. Well, Jesus is like our scout. He rides ahead of us and checks the way and then comes back to warn us of any dangers that might lie ahead.”
“Deadly! Jesus and the Holy Ghost trying to sell crucifixes and holy medals to the Apaches,” whispered Scully.
Lynch started to chuckle. That was always dangerous and Scully knew it. Lynch had one of those soft, shaking, crazed chuckles that was really contagious. With anyone else Scully could pass off his remarks and keep a totally straight face himself, but if Lynch started to giggle …
“Many times when Jesus returns from His scouting missions we are too busy or proud to listen to Him. Many things can get in the way. Sometimes we are distracted by our children crying or we are worried about finding food or water, or sometimes we are working out how long we will have to save up for those new football boots. Sometimes we don’t listen to Our Lord and insist on walking into danger …”
“And then the Apaches cut yer balls off and wear them round their necks on a string.” Scully couldn’t help it. It just came out.
Lynch started to shake in the plastic chair beside him. Scully was starting to go too. He was chugging with silent hysterics