The Brothers' Lot - Kevin Holohan [94]
“This way, please, Fathers,” said Loughlin, ignoring Tobin as best he could. He led Sheehan and Mulvey across the yard toward his office.
33
What the hell is that?”
Finbar looked down at his chest where his father’s horrified finger was pointing.
“It’s what we have to wear at school. It’s a tally stick.”
“I know damn well it’s a tally stick! Have to? Have to wear at school?”
Finbar shot a glance at Declan, who shook his head almost imperceptibly and fixed his stare down on his teacup.
“Yeah, they make us wear them,” replied Finbar nervously.
“Who makes you wear them?”
“I don’t know. They sent a note around. Something to do with the miracle and the sins going on and the miracle and—”
“Miracle? What miracle? What are you talking about?”
Finbar looked at his father with alarm. He had never seen him like this. It was as if someone had lit a fuse inside him that no one knew existed. Sweat was beading on his forehead and he was frantically restless as if under attack from some unknown adversary. No sooner did he stand at the kitchen table with his hand resting on the back of a chair than he was off over to the fireplace. After a couple of moments there it seemed like the only safe place in the room was in the doorway to the hall.
“There was some kind of miracle. In the oratory. Statue fell and started bleeding. They said it was a miracle. They—”
“So they’re making you wear tally sticks because of some sort of miracle?”
“I don’t know. That’s what they said.” Finbar was very uncertain as to what exactly was going on. He glanced toward the hall. Maybe his mother would appear and soften whatever it was that he appeared to have done wrong.
“Does everybody have to wear them?”
“Yeah. Well, not the Brothers or the teachers but all of us. Yeah.”
“Jesus wept!”
“What’s going on in here? Ye can be heard all the way down the street?” called Mrs. Sullivan coming in from the scullery.
“Finbar, Declan, take your tea up to your room and finish it there,” ordered Mr. Sullivan.
Knowing better than to question this, Finbar and Declan obediently tromped up the stairs and closed the bedroom door loudly. A moment later they silently reopened the door and Finbar tiptoed back down the stairs until he was level with the hall ceiling. He sat with his knees tucked against his chin in a small listening ball. Declan stood at the head of the stairs and craned to hear as well.
“Get back in your room, you two!” shouted Mrs. Sullivan.
The boys tiptoed back into the bedroom.
“And shut that door!”
Finbar resignedly pushed the door closed.
“So? Jude? What was all that commotion about? Do you want to tell me?”
“A tally stick! They’re making him wear a tally stick! They’re making my son wear a fucking tally stick! Did you know about this?”
With his ear pressed against the bedroom floor, Finbar could hear his mother clear her throat uncertainly. This was not good. Normally when his father got himself worked up about the Black and Tans or the North or the Spanish Civil War, she could smack him down with ease. This was different. He could tell that she did not know what to say, and in her own way was as apoplectic as he was.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Why would they be doing such a thing?” asked Mrs. Sullivan in a plaintive tone.
“Damned if I know, but I’m damn well going to find out. No son of mine is going to be subjected to this. It’s not for the likes of that that my father got shot into an open grave. It’s not for that that—”
“Easy, easy, easy, pet. Don’t go getting yourself all worked up over it. You’ll do yourself a mischief.