The Brothers' Lot - Kevin Holohan [8]
There was no cheering or whooping to celebrate the half day. All energy was expended in getting outside as quickly as possible. As Mr. Pollock and his class were close to the back, they got themselves organized and reached the school first. The first boys stopped suddenly and stood at the edge of the yard.
“What’s wrong with you boys there? Move on!” snapped Mr. Pollock from the back of the group. He stepped forward and then he too stopped in his tracks.
The gray concrete of the yard was littered with another, different gray. Strewn around were shattered roof slates that lay there like birds that had suddenly turned to stone and plummeted from the sky. There was not a breath of wind. As they watched, another slate slid from the roof and sailed to the ground where it smashed into pieces with a weird metallic crash.
Mr. Pollock looked cautiously up at the roof of the school. He could see nothing.
“Right, you boys, stay close to the wall. Get your things from the class and go straight home. Straight home! No loitering about the yard!”
They ran for the door and up the stairs.
“Deadly! The place is falling to bits!” shouted McDonagh.
“Wonder who done them slates. I’d never’ve thinkin’ of that,” remarked Lynch admiringly.
As they left they saw Mr. Pollock supervising proceedings, letting one class at a time go up and get their things. His voice was a brittle whine as he shouted instructions and lashed out with his leather at the inattentive and the overeager.
Dermot McDermott, School Janitor, Grade IV, sat quietly in his shed behind the school hall waiting for the kettle to boil. As first days went, this had not been a bad one. There had been no mess-ups in classes or desks, and while they were all at mass he had been able to patch the puncture on the back wheel of his bicycle.
McDermott pulled his milk crate over to the door and sat watching the sparrows pick at the moss on the twenty-foot wall that separated the school from the adjoining Lombard Street Jezebel Laundry. It was still not too cold and he could sit beside the open door and enjoy his tea. From the yard he could hear the muted sounds of the boys drifting home. A nice cup of tea and then he could head home by way of Stern’s, the butchers, and get a few nice bits of lamb’s liver for the tea. Mrs. McDermott was very partial to the bit of liver.
From the pocket of his overalls he removed a small notebook and a stubby pencil that he had taken from Hackett’s, the bookmakers at Binn’s Bridge. He stared at the sliver of sky above the wall that divided the school from the laundry and wrote:
In the autumn of desire
Screeds of cloud flow tear
Across the mind’s eye
Billowing, billowing
Filled with the rain
Of promise.
How many autumn breezes
Have promised to keep
Close to—
“Mr. McDermott, I want you to look at the roof!”
Brother Loughlin was standing over him looking down at the notebook with profound distaste. It was all very well for a member of the working class to know how to write, but one who did it for recreation was deeply suspect in Brother Loughlin’s estimation.
“And what might be the matter with the roof, Brother?”
“There are some slates that have fallen off on the school side. The yard is littered with them. You might want to take a look at it now that we have given the boys a half day. Best get it fixed before they all come back on Monday.”
“But I’m not a roofer. I’m a janitor.”
“I am well aware of that, Mr. McDermott, but where do you expect me to find a roofer at this hour on a Friday afternoon?”
“It’s all the same to me.”
“Are you saying you won’t fix the roof?”
“Ah, no. That wouldn’t be exactly what I am saying. What I am saying is that it would probably be better to get a certified, accredited roofer to look at it. I could see if there’s any of the lads I know would take a look at it for you.”
“Mr. McDermott! I don