The Dead School (17 page)

She went on asking him for a while but he always had some excuse so in the end it didn’t really come as a surprise to either of them when she said she was going to a gig with some of the
staff from school and wouldn’t be home till very late that night. She asked him did he mind. Of course not, he said. And he didn’t. That was what he wanted her to do because he knew all
this was temporary. Of course it was. It had to be. In a couple of months time, it would be all sorted out and things would be back to normal. Before she went, she said one last time, ‘Are
you sure you don’t mind me going out?’ Maybe she was half-hoping he would say ‘No – don’t go!’ or ‘You’re not going without me!’ or something
like that, anything that might ignite the old spark. But he didn’t of course. His head was too full of frogspawn to do something sensible like that. Which was a pity, because it was never
really the same again after that.

‘You go right ahead. You do that,’ he had said. So she did. She went off to the Baggot Inn to meet her mates. They were with a band called the Electric Strangers. One of the girls
knew Paddy Meehan the guitarist, a big guy with a mane of curly hair and an earring. Everybody loved Paddy. He was a real character and, as they said, could he play that ‘axe’. He was
great fun to be with. After the gig, they all went to the Granary, a restaurant beside the Project Theatre in East Essex street. Marion had a whale of a time. It was the best night she had had in
months.

When she came home in the early hours, she was in flying form. Pissed as a newt, she said, tearing off her blouse. She let a yelp out of her, climbing in beside him and covering him all over in
kisses. ‘Make love to me the way you did the night we met Philly Fuckface. Make love to me the way you did that night, my darling Mal, oh my darling Malachy Dudgeon.’ Malachy smiled
when she said that. He felt good remembering that night. And he turned to her and took her in his arms but it was no use. He tried but it didn’t happen. All he could think of was ‘Eight
o’clock. Eight o’clock I’ve got to get up and go into that fucking place.’ She touched the hairs on the back of his neck and said that it didn’t matter. But it did, of
course. Of course it mattered. Outside a broken burglar alarm started up, needling mercilessly into the night.

All the mammies were busy as bees chatting away and talking about all the little kiddies as Malachy came trotting in the school gates with his big briefcase under his arm.
There was Kyle’s mammy, Mrs Collins, and Stephen’s mammy and Pat’s mammy and young Nicholson’s mammy. Lots of mammies. ‘Hello,’ they all said to Malachy as he
went past. ‘Hello,’ replied Malachy with a big smile. They all smiled back and off he went again with his big case and his smile. Then Mrs Webb called, ‘Oh – Mr Dudgeon
– could I have a word, please?’ Malachy said oh yes but of course I wonder what it’s about this time? You like words don’t you, Mrs Webb, you’re very fond of them
aren’t you, you and your words. He didn’t say the last bit of course – I mean he didn’t want her running off to Mr Bell now did he, getting him into more trouble. No. What
he said instead was, ‘What can I do for you, Mrs Webb?’ at which point Mrs Webb took out Stephen’s copybook and said, ‘It’s this sum here.’ Malachy didn’t
know what she meant. Which was why he said, ‘Yes?’

Mrs Webb looked incredulous. ‘You’ve marked it correct.’ ‘Yes,’ said Malachy again. The other mammies smiled and laughed and looked away. One mammy looked at her
shoes. ‘It isn’t correct. It’s wrong.’

As indeed it was. Poor old Malachy – that was another thing that hadn’t been so good lately – the old concentration. Because of the noise in the class you see. Even when it was
quiet at home in the flat he could still hear the shouting and the banging of desks and the clacking of rulers. And of course the ‘psst pssts’. That was what made him make mistakes. It
wasn’t that he was stupid or anything. Oh no, just that he was a bit shaky and jittery and absent-minded, that’s all.

He probably would have been able to talk his way out, if a certain person hadn’t happened along. If Bell hadn’t gone and stuck his big nose in, blustering across the playground with
his keys and his big bald head. Webb had to go and blab to him, didn’t she, she had to go and open her mouth she had to go and open her big fucking mouth.

‘It’s this sum of Stephen’s,’ she said to Bell as she showed him the copybook. ‘It’s wrong you see. But the teacher has marked it correct.’

Malachy got a look that would take paint off a gate. Mammies galore staring at him and Bell glaring like a madman. Now – wasn’t that a nice little interlude with which to begin your
day’s work?

Not to mention having to face the little cur who had caused all the trouble in the first place, Mr Smart Alec Webb. His interfering mother would make a fool of you when you made a tiny mistake,
she’d do that all right, but where was she when Webb was trying his best to destroy the class, where was she then oh no she wasn’t to be seen then, Webb fucking Webb and her stupid son
butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth well by God let him try any of his tricks this morning and we’ll see how far he’d get. We’ll see how far he’ll get this morning, said
Malachy to himself as he unzipped his briefcase and eyeballed at the class as they filed into their seats.

‘Take your hands out of your pockets!’ he barked as he clicked his fingers, ‘Do you hear me?’

‘Me, sir?’ asked Stephen Webb.

Oh for God’s sake. Malachy felt like bursting out laughing. Me, sir. Could you believe it? I mean, could you even begin to believe it?

‘Yes, sir – you, sir!’ snapped Malachy. ‘Stand up when I’m talking to you!’

The way he stood up – real slow, to drive you mad! And then that stupid, sickly sweet voice. And the big innocent face with its angelic kiss curl falling down over his stupid big eyes.

‘Take your hands out of your pockets I told you!’

‘Sir, my hands aren’t in my pockets,’ said Stephen.

‘I see. Not in your pockets.’

Malachy was grinning now. What a little spoilt brat Webb was when you thought about it!

‘No, sir,’ said Webb as he twiddled his fingers.

‘Of course they’re not,’ laughed Malachy. ‘Sure how would they be in your pockets? God bless us, Stephen, sure a good boy like you would never put your hands in your
pockets now would you?’

Stephen smiled and dropped his eyelids like he did when he wanted to say, ‘I’m Mammy’s favourite!’

‘No, sir,’ he said and Pat Hourican chuckled behind his hands. Very well – chuckle, Pat, Malachy said to himself, I’ll deal with you in my own good time.

Then he went back to Stephen. ‘And I suppose you’re going to tell me that you weren’t laughing when I came in?’

‘Laughing, sir?’ replied Webb.

‘Yes – laughing. You know – laughing.’

‘Sir, I wasn’t laughing.’

‘Sir, I wasn’t laughing.’

‘No, sir.’

‘Oh, but you were you see.’

‘No, sir, I wasn’t.’

‘You weren’t laughing?’

‘No, sir.’

‘You’re going to tell me you weren’t laughing?’

‘No, sir. I wasn’t.’

Malachy could see Hourican giggling away behind his hand with his ridiculous shiny black imitation Beatles hair hanging down in front of his face.

‘You really do think you have got an answer for everything, don’t you, Stephen?’ Malachy said.

‘No, sir,’ Stephen said.

‘Oh, but you do, sir.’

‘No, sir.’

Malachy spread his fingers on the desk.

‘Sit down, please,’ he said, staring right into Stephen’s eyes. Then he grinned again. He grinned right at him. It was hard not to laugh aloud. It really was. The little
upstart thought he could best him. He really did. What an idiot! I mean just how stupid can you get! He shook his head and if there weren’t tears in his eyes it wouldn’t be long before
there were. Then he said, ‘Marion!’ What did he say that for? He didn’t know. Who cared? He could say what he liked. It didn’t matter. Phew. Oh boy. What are you looking at,
Webb?

Webb was looking up at him with big stupid eyes. Oh Webb, you stupid fool. You useless little good-for-nothing fool. Do you know what? I’m an idiot for even wasting my time
talking
to you. Kiss curl! Ha ha ha! Don’t make me laugh? Mr Kiss Curl! Ha ha ha! Dear, oh dear, oh dear.

Disaster had struck and there seemed to be no way out. Mr Boylan had forgotten his sandwiches. The night before, his wife had made him a packet and put them into his briefcase.
What kind of sandwiches were they, Mr Keenan wanted to know. Mr Boylan went ‘Hmm’ and thought for a minute or two. Then he said, ‘Ham’. Then he changed his mind and said
they were egg. Then he changed his mind again and said they were beef. Then it was salad. Then it was back to beef again. He settled for beef. Then, on with the story. What happened was that after
breakfast he decided he didn’t want beef, took out the packet of sandwiches and made himself some new ones – this time tomato and cheese. Because there was a football match on that
evening, he made himself some extra. ‘I think I made six altogether,’ he said. ‘Six?’ croaked Mr Keenan. ‘Yes,’ replied Mr Boylan and continued. ‘So anyway
I had them all prepared and wrapped in tinfoil and everything and when I come in this morning – what do I find?’ He upturned his Tupperware box. It was completely empty. Mr
Keenan’s jaw dropped. ‘Nothing!’ he gasped.

Mr Boylan shook his head. What had transpired was that his own car was out of action, and he was expecting a lift, but as soon as he heard the toot of the horn outside, he had found himself in
such a state of confusion between saying goodbye to his wife and grabbing his coat that he had left not only the beef behind but also the tomato and cheese. He shook his head again and stared
wearily into the desolate nothingness of the Tupperware container. ‘What class of a cod am I at all?’ he wondered.

Everyone sighed. It was a dreadful thing to have happened. But they all sympathized with him. Many’s the time the same thing happened to ourselves, they said.

After that, they all shared their lunches with him and he cheered up considerably. ‘All’s well that ends well,’ he said.

Malachy didn’t say anything. He was too busy staring out the window thinking about Webb and Collins. He was eating a sandwich too. Not that it made any difference what he was eating. He
might as well have been eating a slice of cardboard for all he could taste of it.

The kiddies were lined up in the playground, all neat and tidy with their starched white shirts and their red ties and their rosary beads.

Mr Bell paced up and down with the bell covering his hand like a big brass boxing glove. The silence in the playground was immense. Cranky seagulls hobbled about fighting over crusts and crisp
bags. Mr Bell was waiting. Even though everyone was quiet, it still wasn’t good enough for him. He waited one minute then two minutes then three minutes. It was hard to say for certain how
many minutes he waited. Then he cleared his throat and seemed to look into everybody’s eyes at once as he said, ‘Do you realize what I have spent my morning doing? Do you realize I have
spent my whole morning down on my hands and knees scrubbing the boys’ toilets? Do you realize that! How many times have I told you that you are not allowed to do wee wees on those seats! How
many times! Are you animals? Is that what we have in the school – animals? I don’t know the culprits now but by God if I ever find out, life will not be worth living for those boys! It
will not be worth living – do you hear me!’

Suddenly he roared, ‘Pick up that paper!’

A boy out of Mr Boylan’s class picked it up and dropped it into the wire waste basket. Mr Boylan glowed with pride.

Then Mr Bell said they could go inside. He was looking at Malachy’s class like a hawk of course but the joke was on him because they filed in as good as gold. After they had said the
prayer, the boys sat down as quiet as mice. It was time to do some spellings so Malachy said take out your spelling books. He always gave them twenty spellings in the test. He started off with the
easy ones first, getting harder as they went along. The last word on the test was ‘incident’. That would fox them for sure. Then he said turn your books face down and started correcting
them one by one. Some of the boys got very good marks indeed. Tom got fifteen. Eamon got sixteen would you believe and Pearse and Seamus a terrific nineteen each!

Kyle Collins was ‘pssting’ over to Webb but Malachy just ignored him. He had about had it with Collins. If he wanted to waste his time at school, why should he worry? So when he had
Kyle’s marked, he beamed and said sarcastically, ‘Well done, Kyle – five marks!’

After Kyle he marked Joseph Hanratty’s and then Stephen Webb’s. Was there no end to the boy’s impertinence? Looking over at Collins trying to make him laugh when his teacher
was correcting his spellings. It was hard to believe. Trying to make another boy laugh while his teacher was standing right beside him! With that stupid smirk of his. Oh for God’s sake!
laughed Malachy to himself and threw the copybook down on the desk. He clicked his pen and said, ‘My, my, Stephen you have worked hard, haven’t you?’

‘Oh yes, Mr Dudgeon,’ replied Mr Kiss-Curl-Butter-Wouldn’t-Melt-In-My-Mouth Oh No.

‘You have indeed,’ continued Malachy. ‘I mean your work is so neat, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, teacher,’ said Stephen.

Malachy chuckled. You should have seen Stephen’s face when he did that. You didn’t expect your teacher to chuckle when he was talking about spellings, did you? You certainly
didn’t! Stephen was taken so much by surprise that he was at a loss for words – and that was something you didn’t see very often!

Malachy smiled and then chuckled softly again.

‘Your work is definitely neat and no mistake, Stephen,’ he said. Then he lifted up the copybook and showed it to the children.

‘Look how neat it is, everybody! Look!’

They all looked up to see and then Malachy tore off a little piece at the corner of the page. Just a tiny piece. It fluttered down and landed on top of Stephen’s head. Then he tore off
another piece and another piece and they all landed on Stephen’s head like little paper snowflakes. He could have gone on doing that till doomsday but he had far more to do than waste his
time on the likes of Webb so he told them to take out their Maths books. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘who can tell me how many sixes there are in seventy-two?’