The Brothers' Lot - Kevin Holohan [86]
Spud smiled ruefully at the naïve notion that the boys were the problem but said nothing.
“So what’ll you have?” asked Stack without missing a beat.
“A large bottle and maybe one of them ham sandwiches.”
“No bother,” said Stack, and placed the morning paper on the counter beside the teacher.
Spud glanced at it but could not seem to get beyond the headlines. His mind was a roiling tempest of anger and disgust. Jesus H. Christ! What had become of them at all? It was enough trying to teach and keep yourself out of the loony bin without this new madness.
He could still not fully believe it. Suffering shite! He had spent the last class handing out tally sticks to the boys and explaining how they worked: any boy who was seen sinning would have a notch carved in his stick, and at the end of the day would receive one belt of the strap for each notch. These were things from bad times when children were forced to learn English and got a notch every time they spoke Irish. But for Irish people to use them on one another was vile and sickening in a deep, disturbing way.
The street door opened and Mr. Laverty stood uncertainly in the doorway before sitting down at a small round table. He had not seen Spud.
“For fuck sake, don’t sit over there like some blushing debutante, come over here and have a drink,” called Spud.
Laverty crossed the bar hesitantly and sat down on the stool next to his fellow teacher.
“Bet you’re glad you did the extra course in Tally Stick Administration at university,” remarked Spud.
“Oh yeah. Very handy.”
They nodded together, both painfully aware of their hollow attempts to dilute the whole thing with sarcasm.
Stack placed the large bottle and sandwich on the bar and took the money Spud had left out.
“You can get my friend here a large bottle out of that too, Tom.”
“Thanks,” mumbled Laverty.
“No problem. Fucked if I can find a good reason not to drink this lunchtime.”
“They’ve really gone over the edge this time.”
“They have. And they’re getting more vicious too.”
“I get this sick feeling in my stomach every day when I walk in to the place. It’s like I’m a schoolboy myself again. It’s fucking awful.”
“I’m just hoping they’ll run out of steam on this one and it’ll go away.”
“But the miracle …”
“Miracle, my arse! Ceiling fell on Boland. They’ve been dying for a miracle for years. There was a water stain on the gym ceiling four years ago. They claimed it looked like Saint Patrick.”
Stack returned with Laverty’s drink. “D’youse want raffle tickets?” he asked.
“What for?”
“To raise money for the pilgrimage to Knock. First prize a twenty-pound voucher for Hennessey’s on Crimea Street.”
“Eh, no. Not today, thanks,” answered Spud coldly.
“Fair enough. Another day maybe.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” said Spud.
Stack retired to the other end of the bar and his Horse & Hound. Spud glanced at his watch. They had three-quarters of an hour before they had to go back to that madhouse. In unison he and Laverty poured the porter carefully into their glasses.
“Tally sticks! Have they no clue at all? They have their glue if they think I’m going to waste me lunchtime patrolling for sinners and notching tally sticks,” declared Spud as he watched his porter settle.
“I’ll drink to that! Sláinte!” replied Laverty.
Together they drained their glasses.
“Same again?” called Stack from the other end of the bar.
Mouths still full of porter, Spud and Laverty nodded enthusiastically.
“You, boy! Spotty boy with the buckteeth. Come here.”
The spotty-faced boy in question moved away from his friends and warily approached Brother Cox.
“What were you laughing at?”
“Nothing, Brother.”
“Do you usually laugh at nothing?”
“No, Brother.”
“Then what were you laughing at?”
“Something he said,” replied the boy, shrugging in the general direction of his friends.
“So you were laughing at something?”
“Yes, Brother.”
“So you lied to me. Thou shalt not bear false witness.” Brother Cox grabbed the tally stick that hung around the boy’s neck and clipped a notch