The Dead School
Trouble for Dudgy
The ridiculous thing is that Malachy fully intended to do what Raphael said. He really did. He knew that things had been getting on top of him a bit in the class and if dickeying himself up and coming the heavy a bit would do the trick well so be it. It was just a pity that Marion couldn’t seem to understand what he was up to at all, practically laughing her head off when she saw him in the new suit. She thought he was joking. She said he had to be. ‘You can’t be serious,’ she said. ‘Joe Buck goes straight – it’s just too much.’ Then she went off into the kitchen laughing away to herself. But then of course, it was easy enough for her to laugh seeing as she had been lucky enough to land herself a job in a great school with a staff who had a ball and kids a monkey could discipline. Which was a lot more than you could say for Class Three I’m afraid, especially Kyle Collins and Stephen Webb and Pat Hourican who went out of their way to get Malachy going. One day he even heard Pat saying, ‘Let’s make trouble for Dudgy.’ Dudgy – that was what they called him. ‘Here comes Dudgy,’ they said. When he was writing on the blackboard, he often heard Pat sniggering. He knew it was him beyond all shadow of doubt. But he was very hard to catch. When you’d turn around and shout ‘Hourican!’ he’d just go on sitting there as sweet as pie, writing away. Then he’d smile and say, ‘Me, sir?’
Hard to believe that you could wake up in the middle of the night with sweat all over you, thinking about something like that. If someone in the college had told him that six months before, he would have laughed at them. He would have laughed his head off. He would have said it could never happen. He would have gone further, in fact. He would have said, ‘You’re out of your tiny mind, my friend’, or worse. But it did happen. Oh yes. And not just once or twice either. Realistically, of course, it would have been far better in the long run if he had been straight with Marion and told her what was happening to him, that the class was getting out of hand and the place was on his mind all the time. But he didn’t. Mainly because he was afraid she might say, ‘You must be kidding. Joe Buck’s worrying about a bunch of kids? You don’t expect me to believe that, do you?’ So just kept his mouth shut about the palpitations and night sweats and went on grinning like it was a great old joke every time she said he was turning into a right old fuddy-duddy schoolmaster.
So what if that’s the way it looked – just so long as he could get things back on an even keel. Sort out the class and keep the parents and Bell off his back so that everything could be the way it was before. When he was cool as a breeze and didn’t give a shit, when the sun shone down as he lay on the grass and Marion laughed at some stupid thing he’d done somewhere, her head tilted back and her eyes twinkling the way they did, his fingers running through her soft strawberry blonde hair as they both laughed until they just weren’t fit to laugh any more.
Evans
Unfortunately however, as time went on, laughing came into the picture less and less I’m afraid, for the son of Mr and Mrs Bell as much as Malachy. I mean if someone in training college in 1931 or ’32 had said to Raphael, ‘You’re going to work your back off for the children of Ireland and it’s all going to be destroyed on you by a woman who had an abortion’, he would have laughed himself sick. If he had even known what an abortion was, that is, which he didn’t. If there were such things as abortions in 1932, then Raphael Bell didn’t know about them. He was too busy saying the rosary with Paschal O’Dowd and running around the place visiting the sick. But he’d find out soon enough what it was. He’d find out soon enough surely, like on the day when Evans came breezing into his office swinging a bag if you don’t mind, and tossing her hair and going ‘Hi-yah!’ to him, like he was some kind of a go-boy she might meet at a dance. The minute he saw her he disliked her. You couldn’t blame him. She made him! What did she think – she owned the school or something?
Once she started talking, you couldn’t stop her. Plans and schemes and ideas came spewing right out of her mouth like mad tickertape. It was unbelievable! By the time she’d finished, Raphael was drained. ‘Well, what do you think?’ she said, and tossed her hair again. Raphael’s mouth dried up as he stared at the woman in front of him. She was wearing huge golden hoop earrings and flared blue jeans. In her lap, a leather handbag. With native Indian markings on it. Raphael felt sick all of a sudden. It was bad enough a Parents’ Committee being set up in the first place, thanks to ridiculous, new-fangled Department of Education regulations, but to send this . . . This as their representative – he quite simply couldn’t believe it. He felt dizzy. ‘Some of the parents at the meeting thought it would be a good idea,’ she said. She was talking about non-competitive sport. She wanted it introduced to his school. She wanted compulsory games banned. That was what she was saying to Raphael. Out of nowhere he heard the cheer as the referee blew his whistle and the boys of St Anthony’s lifted their captain up on high in the All-Ireland Junior Schools’ Championships of 1955. That was what came into his head as she sat across from him, smiling, the smell of her patchouli perfume filling the office. And as she sat there in silence with her big inquisitive eyes looking him up and down as she waited for his answer, he realized that her smell, and what she had just said, upset him so much he felt like punching her in the face.
Frogspawn
What was Malachy doing now for God’s sake, Marion wanted to know. He said he was doing the life cycle of the frog. Kneeling on the floor colouring in little dots in the middle of circles. Frogspawn – lots and lots of it on a big chart for all the kiddies in Class Three. Who can tell me how long a tadpole stays a tadpole? What about you, Michael? Come on now – good boy! And you, Thomas – can you tell me anything about our little friend the tadpole? What about his legs for instance? How many has he? Good boy, Thomas – you can do it when you want to. Up with you now to the top of the class like a good boy!
‘You’ve been at it for the last two hours,’ Marion said. ‘I know,’ said Malachy, ‘but if I haven’t it prepared he’ll be down on me like a ton of bricks.’ ‘Who will,’ she wanted to know. ‘Bell,’ said Malachy. ‘Oh for God’s sake,’ she said – ‘Bell. Come on, Malachy, wise up. You’re overdoing it.’ ‘You don’t know what he’s like,’ he said. ‘Oh I do,’ said Marion, ‘or I should at any rate, considering he’s all you ever go on about these days. Him and that school of his and that bloody class.’
He didn’t like it when she said that, and grunted. She didn’t like his grunt much either and snapped at him. ‘It’s only a job, Malachy,’ she said. ‘I mean it’s not the end of the world if they don’t know where the tadpole eats and shits, you know what I mean?’ Malachy knew what she meant. He wasn’t stupid. And she was right – of course she was. But then she didn’t have Bell coming in and out of her classroom every minute of the bloody day hoping to catch her on the hop. Which was all he did now, ever since he had decided that there had been no sign of real improvement since their office meeting. You never knew when the tap would come on the door and you’d look up and there he’d be again, shining up his specs and glaring at you like you were handicapped or something.
Maybe if Bell had left him alone for a while and let him get on with it, he might actually have been able to turn the situation around, or at the very least, stopped everything from going down the fucking drain. Sadly however, he didn’t, and that was exactly what happened. Half the time, Malachy didn’t realize he was shouting at the kids at all. But he was. He was shouting all right. At times, you could hear him roaring away like a man possessed. ‘Sit down!’ he’d bawl, and ‘Shut up!’ or, ‘For the last time do you hear me!’
Not that the kids objected, mind you. They didn’t object at all. They thought it was great fun. Or ‘crack’ as they called it. In the playground, they said to their pals, ‘All you have to do to drive Dudgy mad is go “psst! psst!”. If you do that he goes all red and starts shouting at you.’
All the kids were jealous of Class Three. They were jealous because they wanted a master like that too. They wanted one who
would go mad every time you did something, not like Mr Bell or Mr Boylan or any of the other teachers who could scare the life out of you with just one look. They were no good. Dudgy was the best. One day Class Three came in and some boy had written ‘Dudgy is stupid’ on the blackboard. You should have heard the laughs of everyone! It was fantastic! Dudgy didn’t know what to do. He got all red and wiped it off – then told everyone to take out their sums. This was the best ever because you could see everyone laughing in behind their desk lids and Kyle Collins making the words ‘Dudgy is stupid’ with his lips and then chuckling away into his hands.
Yes – perhaps if Marion had been forced to spend a couple of weeks with that kind of behaviour, she might have started to see things a bit more clearly. Why barely six months before Malachy was one kind of person and now he was another. Why it wasn’t so easy to go out on the town every bloody night of the week drinking vodka when you were going to wake up with a hangover and then have to go in and face all that bullshit. He tried his best to explain it to her but it was no use. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Malachy, I’m working hard all day – I don’t want to stay cooped up in this bloody place!’ she said.
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.
Mammies
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.
Sandwiches
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.