The Dead School (3 page)

And so, after three nice tasty bottles of Guinness, it was time to go home. They had hardly turned the corner when they smelt the beautiful aroma of bursting sausages and heard the musical
sizzle of frying rashers. ‘There you have it!’ laughed Packie. ‘You have to admit it – she’s a good one. I’ll bet you a dime to a dollar there’s not
another pair of boys sitting down to a breakfast the like of what you and me are going to have right now! Do you think I’d be right there?’ And Malachy grinned from ear to ear as he
replied, ‘I do, Da! I just can’t wait to get home!’ ‘Nor me either, son!’ said his father and right at that very moment who should they see standing at the door only
the bold Cissie, waving to them as much as to say, ‘It’s all ready!’ As soon as she got them inside it was straight down to business, buzzing around them asking had they enough of
this, had they enough of that and slicing up soda bread and pouring out tea to beat the band. ‘Have youse enough bacon?’ she called from the scullery. ‘Don’t forget now
– there’s plenty more where that came from!’ By the time they were finished, they were as full as ticks and could just about move and no more. Then what does she do? Stands there
with her hands on her hips and starts giving out! ‘You pair of rascals!’ she said. ‘Youse haven’t eaten a stitch!’ But she was only joking and went away off out into
the scullery saying she would make another drop of tea and laughing away to herself.

After breakfast Malachy sat on the sofa for a while as his father read the papers. He was at it again this Sunday morning, chuckling away to himself at all the daft carry-on that was going on in
The Looneys. Of all the cartoon strips and comics and funnies that you could get in the Sunday papers, they were his favourite. ‘Boys Oh boys, our Malachy!’ he said. ‘I just
don’t know what we’re going to do with these Looneys! As God is my judge I’ll have a blooming stroke if I laugh any more!’ They really were the bee’s knees, the little
Looney kids. Always playing tricks on their father – putting buckets of water over the door, leaving banana skins lying around for him to slip on – doing all sorts of things like that
to try and catch him out. But it was OK because in the end they always had a good laugh. That was because they were a happy family and once you are a happy family that’s all you need to care
about. When he was finished reading, Packie would often say that. ‘Just you remember, Malachy – once you are a happy family that’s all you need,’ he’d say, folding the
paper like he was about to deliver some really important fatherly advice, but it was no use, or at least it wasn’t any more, for unless you were blind right now you could see that if you
jabbed him with a feather far from giving anybody advice about anything, he’d probably have gone and burst into tears.

Cork were leading Kerry by a point and Michael O’Hehir was really going out of his mind when Cissie came in from the scullery. It was the first time that Malachy had noticed her limping.
Herself and Packie started talking then. It turned out she was having a lot of trouble with her veins lately. She said that the pain could be unbearable at times. As she described it, Packie held
her hand. ‘You’ve no idea, Packie,’ she said, biting her lip. He nodded sympathetically. ‘I don’t like bothering Dr Wilding on account of it being a Sunday but I
can’t go through another night with them, Packie – I just can’t.’ ‘I want to hear no more of it, daughter. You’re to go up that street now to Dr Wilding’s
and don’t come back here until he’s given you something – do you hear me now? And if you have to sit in that surgery from now till doomsday, you make sure he does that – for
no wife of mine’ll be put through the like of that while there’s doctors in this town.’

She smiled and gave his hand a gentle squeeze as she said, ‘Thanks, Packie, love.’ Then, in a low voice, she added ‘You’re so kind’ and went out into the hall to
get her coat.

After she was gone, Malachy and Packie sat for a long time without saying anything. In the distance you could hear the protestants still singing away as the Sunday morning bells rang out over
the town.

You could still hear Michael O’Hehir but he was far away now. As indeed were Malachy and poor old Packie, thanks to what had just happened. Maybe if she had said it was Dr Kennedy or Dr
Hamill she was going to, they might have been able to believe her. But she had gone and made the same mistake again, as she had for God knows how many Sunday mornings lately. Maybe if she had never
mentioned Dr Wilding’s name, they might never have known. But she had, however. And everyone – even the dogs in the street – knew that his surgery didn’t open on
Sundays.

It was approximately twenty minutes later that Master Malachy Dudgeon, son of Packie who was now spreadeagled beneath the
Sunday Press
and snoring away with his mouth
open and all the little Looneys running harum scarum across his chest, decided that he wanted to become a world famous detective. Quite why he came to this conclusion I have not the foggiest
notion, but one thing I do know is that if he had had any idea of the effect it was going to have on him for the rest of his days, he would have been more than happy to stay right where he was! But
he didn’t, did he? Yes sir, he had to go off out the door, talking away to himself in an American accent and pretending that he was Tony Rome the famous detective he had seen at the pictures.
Off up the town and down along the shore with the sea breeze in his face, then across the cliffs and away out the country on the trail of his mother. Which shouldn’t surprise us because
that’s what detectives do, isn’t it? Of course it is – and why should he be any different? After all, he was the big detective! Sure he was, stomping away there beneath the blue
sky on a beautiful sunny Sunday morning, thinking he was Tony Rome, just about the coolest gumshoe in the business. ‘I’m Tony Rome,’ he said to himself and tipped his imaginary
sailor’s cap to one side. Tony lived by the sea too, in a little houseboat down by the marina. Tony was swell. He was just about the best detective going. One thing you did not want to do and
that was mess with Tony. He hung out in all the cool joints, with women flocking around him telling him what a great guy he was. When he wasn’t blowing away hoodlums and busting up cop cars,
that is. Yeah – you name it, Tony had done it. Was it any wonder Malachy would want to be him? Especially now that he had arrived at the boatshed where he could hear some mysterious noises
that needed investigating. ‘I wonder what this could be, guys,’ he said to himself in his American accent. But he needn’t have worried. He needn’t have worried his head. He
was going to find out all right.

At first he couldn’t see anything through the slats at the back of the shed but then he heard a clatter and when he looked again he saw someone just standing there in the gloom. At first
he thought it was her but when he looked again he saw that it was Jemmy, standing there beside a pile of old nets with his cock sticking out in front of him. A sort of a faint hope leaped in him
that maybe she wasn’t there after all but then she appeared out of nowhere, coming out of the shadows and falling into his arms and running her fingers through his hair. The sound of
Jemmy’s breathing seemed to fill the entire boatshed. ‘I’ve been waiting days for this,’ he said as he ran his hands up and down her back. ‘Oh, Jemmy! Jemmy!’
she cried and then somehow they fell backwards onto the top of the nets and all Malachy could see was the whiteness of the cowman’s body as he cried, ‘Oh, Jesus! Oh, Christ! Christ,
Jesus, but I love you, Cissie Dudgeon! I fucking love you!’ Malachy covered his ears in case he’d hear what she’d say. But it didn’t matter what he did because he heard it
anyway. ‘Oh, Jemmy! Jemmy, darling! Come on! Come on!’

It was around four or thereabouts when Cissie came home. She said there had been a big crowd up at the doctor’s. Of all the days that had ever been spent in the house,
Malachy felt that that was the saddest. Mainly because he could tell by his father’s eyes that whatever fight there had been left in him, there was certainly none now. If she had said
‘Why don’t you go and drown yourself right now this very minute? Wouldn’t it make more sense to go and do it now and be done with it?’ he would probably have gone ahead. As
far as Malachy was concerned, it would have been better if she had, instead of sitting there laughing and handing liquorice allsorts around, blowing shite about the doctor’s.

That was the worst part of love dying and going into the grave. That on its own wasn’t enough for people. They had to go and dig you up so that you would have to go to the funeral all over
again. They had to press liquorice allsorts into your mouth.

Which was why Malachy didn’t get so much as a wink of sleep that night. How could he, with Jemmy Brady and Cissie standing there beside a granite tombstone with love on it, waving a pair
of spades and falling about the place saying to one another ‘Let’s dig the old bollocks up and put him astray in the head altogether. Yoo-hoo! Packie! Are you down there? Are you down
there, Dudgeon? Are you down there, boy? Look what we have for you-oo!’

So, as you can imagine, that little episode didn’t exactly help things in the Dudgeon household, what with Malachy turning arctic on his mother and poor old Cissie at her
wit’s end to know what to do about it. I mean, it did pose a bit of a problem you have to admit. What was she supposed to do – turn around to him and say, ‘Excuse me, Malachy
– you weren’t by any chance spying on me on Sunday morning were you?’ Which, even if she could have done it, would only have made things worse, considering she had no excuse
– none in the wide world. Not that it mattered all that much in the long run anyway, as it happened, for events, as they say, soon overtook them.

To say that people were surprised when The Dummy who lived in Maguire’s loft went out to the lake and threw himself in would be an understatement, because of all the
people in the town who were likely to drown themselves, he was just about the last you would expect. As indeed was Packie, who did the very same thing no more than a week later, for although the
whole town knew about his troubles and all the rest of it, they never really seriously considered that he might go that far. But he did. He went that far all right, as Malachy found out one day
when he was on his way home from school. One of the young McKiernans of Harbour Terrace came running up to him and said, ‘Your father’s dead! He was fishing on the stand out at the
Dummy’s Water. It broke and he fell in!’ When he heard this, Malachy felt like laughing in the young fellow’s face, for the McKiernans were well known for their mad yarns and tall
stories. But, as he discovered when he got home, it was anything but a mad yarn or a tall story. He stood in the hallway for well over a minute as the world turned sideways. It was like being hit
with a hammer.

Inside, the house was packed. The atmosphere was thick with despair and indignation. They were furious about the fishing stand, they said. They said there was going to be murder about it.
Especially Nobby Caslin, who said he had written to the council long ago about it being a hazard. But had anything been done? Not at all. He took out his pipe and lit it with a trembling hand.
Someone said, ‘The bloody thing’s been rotten this past eighteen months or more. There’s not one in this town doesn’t know that. Not one!’ His cheeks reddened when he
said that. Nobby nodded and said, ‘Isn’t that what I’m saying? Isn’t that exactly what I have been saying?’

It was a very sad occasion. Poor old Cissie was in a bad way. There was a mountain of Kleenex at her ankles and the tears were literally spewing out of her. ‘How will I manage without
him?’ she wanted to know. ‘How will I manage without my Packie?’ When he heard that, Malachy felt like laughing. He had heard some good ones from her but this performance took
some beating. The women told her it was going to be OK. God would look after her, they said. Then off they went and got more Kleenex. The cowman didn’t show until quite late, looking like
something that had been dug up out of the bog and decked out in a Sunday coat. He turned his cap around in his hands and said it was a bad blow. The women said they would get some more sandwiches,
which they did. They said, ‘Don’t worry. Time is a great healer.’ The widow dabbed her eyes and appeared to agree that what they were saying made perfect sense. Then, however, she
went and burst into tears again. There was another knock at the door and in came Father Pat. He had been a great footballer in his youth, which explained why he was blathering away about some match
or other after only five minutes in the house. Just as he was running up the field to bury the ball in the back of the net, away went the door again and in came Alec and all his buddies, shaking
their heads and remarking how cruel life was. That provided the cue for yet another philosophical discussion on the brevity of existence and so on, some halfwit friend of the cowman’s
observing wistfully, ‘When you think of all the happy times we had in this house when he was alive,’ a comment which, if it didn’t make Malachy burst out laughing right there and
then on the spot, came perilously close. As far as everyone else was concerned, however, it obviously was just about the most poignant and pertinent statement ever made.

Then came the time for Nobby to address the company. When it came to funerals and sad occasions, there was no one to touch Nobby Caslin for the few words. He bided his time gravely until there
was complete silence in the room, then he cleared his throat and began to speak. ‘It’s always sad when someone dies,’ he said. They all looked at each other when he said that and
agreed that that was right. Oh, yes, there was no doubt about that. You just could not disagree with that, they said. Then he continued, going into a diatribe about the fishing stand and the state
they had let it get into and by the time he was finished, it was all they could do not to march up en masse to the council offices and burn them to the ground right there and then. Which, of
course, was the most hilarious yet, for as Malachy well knew, if there was anything in this world his father hated, it was the hobby of fishing, and if there was a reason he went out to the lake,
it was one reason and one reason alone – to throw himself into the bloody thing. Not that it mattered to Nobby of course, for by now he was on to his pet subject – funerals. There was
nothing this man didn’t know about funerals. Mainly because he had been to more or less every funeral that had taken place in the town over the past twenty years. ‘I might be sticking
my neck out here,’ he said, clearing his throat, ‘but I would not be one bit surprised if he pulls in over five hundred. He was a well-respected man and there’s not one in this
room or anywhere else can say different.’