The Brothers' Lot - Kevin Holohan [69]
“Any other blind boys who need a waking up?” asked Brother Moody.
No one moved. No one made a sound.
Brother Moody smiled in satisfaction. He inhaled deeply. Yes, there it was, that beautiful, unmistakable, invigorating odor: ungovernable little brats stewing in their own fear.
The Brother proceeded to call the roll, fixed each boy with a stare when he answered his name, and made little knowing nods of his head to show that he had been filled in on exactly who to watch out for.
The rest of the class was spent conjugating verbs and declining nouns in chorus, and copying down sentences to translate that night for homework.
“Ye know nothing now but I’ll learn ye Latin if it kills ye,” concluded Brother Moody, and strode out as Brother Boland’s bell echoed up from the yard.
25
In the quiet of the empty hall, disturbed only by the muffled sounds of the boys going home from the yard outside, the untunable school piano became host to a jolt of unease that ran through its dusty frame.
Warped, battered, and now condemned to having occasional hymns and the so-called tunes of alleged musicals pounded out on it between the long periods of neglect, it languished. In its heyday it had been used in the at-homes of Mrs. Dorothy Nesbitt-Blenner (née Beckett), an affluent Rathmines widow, much given to acts of philanthropy and founder-member of the Providential Ladies Choir. In her well-appointed drawing room it had accompanied no less than Count John McCormack himself as he rendered a memorable “Sliabh Na mBan” and a perfectly serviceable “Madre, non dormi?” from Il Trovatore.
A brief tremulous residue of that glory day rippled through the piano’s woodwork. Its hammers shuddered minutely against the rusted strings and a tiny shiver of warm recollection ran along its stained ivory keys just before the wall above it softened and buckled and the climbing ropes and frame, together with one of the large metal window frames, came crashing down on it to forever put it out of its misery. One sad, regretful discord shimmered through the crushed wood and severed strings before silence again settled on the hall.
* * *
“That Moody is a complete fucking bollix!” shouted Scully as they ran for the light.
“I would’ve kicked him in the head!” spat Lynch.
“Yeah. Dead right,” concurred Finbar.
The bus narrowly missed them as they ran across the busy junction at Breen Street. They were not in a hurry. They were just playing chicken with the buses as usual, their liberation from Moody giving them more willful, mad energy than normal. Finbar felt almost giddy; infected by Lynch’s reckless verve.
“Come on! Quick!” yelled Lynch, and ran into the traffic behind a large truck. He grabbed onto one of the door handles on the back and put his feet on the crash bar. Just as the vehicle started to pull off, Scully jumped up beside him. Finbar stood rooted to the spot; he had not bargained for this.
“Come on, Bogman!” urged Lynch.
Finbar broke into a trot and managed to clamber on to the truck before it moved into second gear. His breath came in short catches and the sweat gathered under his arms. This was such a bad idea.
“I know!” shouted Lynch.
“What?” called Scully above the noise of the truck. “L&N!”
The L&N was Aladdin’s Cave. It was El Dorado. It was the mother lode. It was a dingy little shop on the West Circular Road full of sweets and ragged secondhand comics and was so apparently unprofitable that everyone assumed it was just another front for the IRA.
The truck began to pick up speed and Lynch cheered loudly. Scully never thoroughly enjoyed scutting: he thought it was tough but a bit scary and did not completely share Lynch’s total disregard for his own safety that at times seemed to border on a death wish. Finbar held on and tried to keep his eyes open, praying that this would soon be over and vowing never to do it again. The driver of the car behind them blew his horn and shook his fist at them. They could slip at any moment and end up under his front wheels. Lynch turned around