The Brothers' Lot - Kevin Holohan [97]
* * *
“Stupid fucking PE class!” muttered Lynch.
“The bastards could’ve given us the day off for the fire,” complained Scully.
The boys stood in front of the stage in their white T-shirts and shorts, arms folded and jumping up and down trying to keep warm. The hall was cold and they had to try to distract themselves from the fact that even here indoors their breath steamed in front of them. Finbar stood quietly to one side. His father had still not come home.
The dispirited near silence was abruptly shattered by a loud bang from the back of the hall. They turned to see Brother Moody standing there with two sacks of hurling sticks at his feet.
“Right now! One hurley each! Get them now and line up over there against the wall! Don’t crowd, there’s one for everyone!”
Brother Moody’s warning was a needless caution to the sluggish group that traipsed down to the end of the hall and reluctantly took one heavy ash stick each.
“Right then! There will be no more pointless PE. Take the base of the hurley in your right hand and rest the handle against your right shoulder like this.”
Moody stood to attention and demonstrated how to hold the hurley like a soldier ready to march with his rifle on his shoulder. He moved along the row of boys correcting and adjusting until he had what he desired: a line of young men ready to charge into the future to bring about one Holy United Catholic Ireland. He stomped his feet and shouted in time: “Left! Right! Left! Right! Lift those feet!”
The boys marched in approximate time to Brother Moody’s exhortations.
“What have we suffered? Eight hundred years of oppression! When is the time? The time is now! The time for what? One Holy United Catholic Ireland! What do we do with Planters? Drive them back to Scotland!” Brother Moody stopped in front of Bradshaw. “What have we suffered?” he barked.
“Eh, eight hundred years of depression?” ventured Bradshaw.
“Oppression, you fool, do you know nothing?” He drew his hurley back and went to hit Bradshaw with it. Clumsily Bradshaw drew his hurley down but failed to block the swing. He fell to the floor clutching his knee.
Moody moved on down the line: “What have we suffered?” he barked at Lynch
“Six hundred years of impressions,” mumbled Lynch.
Brother Moody walked on and suddenly turned and swung at Lynch. The boy moved in a flash and not only deflected the swing but also drew back ready to strike. Moody deftly shifted to block Lynch’s swing. He leaned into the boy and stared at him hard. “Try it, you little thug, and you know where you’ll end up,” he hissed.
The boy very slowly lowered his hurley without taking his eyes from Moody’s face.
“Good! That’s what I like to see! A bit of fight,” crowed Brother Moody, and moved on down the line of marching boys. “Mind your legs!” he shouted at McDonagh a split second before he swung his hurley.
McDonagh turned awkwardly and mostly blocked Brother Moody’s swing, but took a sharp blow to the ankle.
“You must be ever vigilant! You must be ready to act! The heroes of Ireland did not lay down their lives so that you could laze around like corner boys. There is still work to be done! There is still Ireland’s work to be done!”
“Brother Loughlin wants to see you,” came a small voice at Moody’s back.
The Brother swung around and almost skulled Anthony with his hurley. The boy ducked and handed Moody the note.
“Right, twenty laps of the yard and ten decades of the rosary! Consecutive, not concurrent. I’ll be back,” promised Moody, and left the hall.
35
Father Sheehan slowly relit his pipe and turned over another page of the sheaf that lay before him on his immaculately polished walnut desk. He read by the pale midafternoon light that did its best to fill the room through the two tall arched windows overlooking the well-tended gardens of Loyola House.
Aside from the soft sucking noise of Sheehan’s pipe, the only other sound in the office was the precise metronomic tennis match of the pendulum clock that stood