Redshank

REDSHANK

REDSHANK

Mícheál Ó Siochrú

Copyright © Mícheál Ó Siochrú 2018

First published in Ireland by

The Limerick Writers’ Centre

12 Barrington Street Limerick, Ireland

www.limerickwriterscentre.com

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All rights reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any

means, electronic or mechanical without permission in writing from the publisher,

except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

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Book Design: Lotte Bender

Cover Design: Lotte Bender

Managing Editor: Dominic Taylor

Formatted by: Stephen Riordan.

ISBN 978-1-9998614-5-2

ACIP catalogue number for this publication is available from The British Library

for Maryanne

1

At the door, he grimaced. Another dart. Then, several, as if head and stomach vied with each other to inflict the greater suffering. For an instant, he contemplated retreating, but, instead, plucked up courage and forged ahead. He had never allowed an illness to keep him from work.

Slowly, he settled into the wicker chair as wild gusts rattled against window panes to accentuate his inner turmoil. Then the head began to ease somewhat and the stomach, too, quietened to slower, more manageable rumblings as he realised that presenting for work on this particular occasion had been foolish. However, while remaining seated, the recuperation continued, and he functioned well. But at a crucial moment in the recovery process, he erred when he suddenly arose for illustration purposes.

Before the marker could make contact with the board, his brain throbbed with intensified velocity. Simultaneously, the stomach erupted, threatening to emit its undulating burden. A clammy sweat oozed from his entire body. Helplessly, he groped for the chair. With a loud thud, he sat, and a long series of wicker squeaks grated on the aching skull.

Slouched in agony, he conceded defeat and prescribed a written exercise. Elbows fixed firmly on the table, he pushed his face deep into wet palms to ponder the early morning lesson, namely, that one must never enterprise at a whiteboard when unwell. Rising from the chair had been recklessness and he vehemently castigated himself for such poor judgement, vowing that in future prudence would be a major component in his survival kit.

Since the beginning of the school year he had successfully combined a teaching career with a wild social life, thanks to a wonderful acting ability which camouflaged many shortcomings. On this morning, however, the actor had slumped, leaving him alone and exposed. For the first time, he had failed, and it hurt.

This illness was different from any other he had experienced, but he understood exactly the reason for it. On the previous evening, he had taken ill with a bout of ’flu and had repaired to a bar in search of treatment. Later in the night, a friend had invited him back to his place to find a proper cure.

It had been a chilly night with only a thin sickle of moonlight. Constellations flashed overhead, and frost was a silver flickering on the turf rick below. The friend counted crisp footsteps along the rick and, having taken measurements, paused, looked around and listened.

The silence was mesmeric, broken only by a vixen’s wailing in the distant forest. Quietly, he removed turf sods and when a cavity appeared in the rick he began to dig.

Suddenly, the still of night was broken. He jerked as the spade struck a sheet of metal and the piercing sound screamed to the sky.

‘Oh shit! I shouldn’t have done that!’ he exclaimed, and there followed more nervous looking around and listening and waiting before work resumed.

When the metal had been removed, a huge bunker appeared. There were hundreds of bottles. All full. All alluring. All crystal clear and, as stars poured mellifluous rays from a vibrant sky, each moonshine bottle sparkled delight…

‘Morning, everybody!’

Brother Bonaventure’s style of entering a classroom was unique. It was sudden. It was powerful, denoting to all and sundry that he, and only he, was boss. His austere posture exuded authority and a stern stare intimated that he distrusted all, teacher as well as students. An unapologetic misanthropist, his physical appearance exuded aggression and, standing over six feet tall, his corpulent frame towered above all others. The huge head seemed magnified by its baldness; only two dishevelled tufts over each ear remained. He spoke quickly. He walked quickly. He opened doors quickly. When speaking, he would lower his head to plant a fixed stare on his target over black rimmed spectacles, and the jigging of a double chin added pulse to his imperiousness. He was a fastidious, cunning headmaster, gifted with a sharp intuition for silent classrooms which always raised his deepest suspicions and he delighted in prowling along corridors to sniff them out. The alibi seldom varied – the name of a student whom he knew to be absent.

‘Excuse me, Mr Ó hÚrdaill!’

Cathal Ó hÚrdaill raised his head and stared bleary-eyed at the intruder. At first, he considered reaching for a book, but he had neither the desire nor ability to conceal the truth. His entire energy was being absorbed by a desperate effort to keep head and stomach quiet. The huge headmaster cast long deliberate stares from the top table to the students and then slowly back to the table again. A great sense of triumph was masked by a stunned expression of horror as he continued to utilize ice-cold silence to maximum affect. In this wordless dialect of tension, he was fluent.

‘May I speak to Mark Hogan?’

Cathal Ó hÚrdaill knew his boss’s ploy well and, without bothering to check, he informed him of that student’s absence.

‘Hope I didn’t interrupt anything important!’

The sarcasm was stinging. He left, but, having banged the door, he instantly reopened it and the huge bald head reappeared. Gone was the expression of horror and, instead, a sardonic grin enveloped the fearsome features as he stilled the room with hostile silence for several more seconds. Then he belted his caustic exit line with blows like a blacksmith’s hammer on the anvil.

‘Great work, my boy, and wonderful example!’

When the door had been slammed, Cathal Ó hÚrdaill muttered an aside, ‘Get out you bollux!’as he replaced his head in supportive palms. He heard whisperings from his sixth-year students which clearly indicated whose side they were on. Most of them were eighteen-year-olds who detested Brother Bonaventure’s disdainful inhumanity. He had never communicated with any of them on a personal level; he didn’t seem to have that ability. Individuality being unimportant to him, he viewed students as merely a herd.

At that time, very few schools in the country retained religious headmasters, but Brother Bonaventure’s superior had decided, for some peculiar reason, to delay transference to a lay headmaster for two more years and had pleaded with him to remain on, even though he was sixty-three years of age and simply unable for the task. His people skills were minimal. He was the archetypal bully; shouted orders and threats were his idea of communicating. His was an autocratic school in an era when autocracy didn’t work. The role was beyond him and, in his desperate efforts to play it, he overacted. He was a truculent fumbler on a stage that never suited him.

Cathal Ó hÚrdaill, on the other hand, showed respect for the young people, and they loved him. He encouraged them to address him by his first name, much to the annoyance of both headmaster and some of the staff. Being only a few years older than his students, he spoke their language and there was a mutual understanding. On this particular morning, they understood that he suffered from ’flu – several students as well as some teachers were absent because of it – and even if they had suspected that it was exacerbated by a generous treatment of a friend’s bunker medicine, they would have understood that, too. So great was their respect for him that they could forgive him any such aberration. He was an assiduous, caring person who dared to reveal his human frailties at times and who, in turn, could respect theirs.

Whisperings died as they observed a smile breaking through the anguished face and all wondered what thoughts were at play within.

Why have you chosen teaching as a profession?

Because I believe I have a lot to offer, was the well-rehearsed reply. While working with the local youth club I learned that authority tempered with a caring disposition always worked. I enjoyed dealing with young people and I look forward to transmitting my love of the Irish and English languages to them.

Because I hadn’t known that jerks like you were in charge of schools, snapped the inner wit.

Brother Bonaventure took a dislike to the young man from the moment he first set eyes on him and he decided instantly that he most certainly would not be appointed. The interview, therefore, was merely a sham and, as it progressed, the young man realised that his prospective employer was even more inimical than first impressions had indicated. He deplored the abrupt manner of questioning and the supercilious gait, but what agitated him most of all was the tactic of trying to unnerve him by deliberately pausing for several seconds after each reply, as if to insinuate that what had been said hadn’t impressed; that it wasn’t credible. Not once did the interviewer smile or pass any casual comment that might have indicated some sense of decency behind the poker face. It was, undoubtedly, sheer intimidation. It was more a brusque interrogation than an interview.

Discipline, as I’m sure you are aware, is essential to good teaching. How would you deal with, let’s say, a male student who would threaten to assault you?

In all his preparation Cathal had never anticipated that one; its purpose was, obviously, to totally discombobulate him. It was a time to ad-lib and, to his astonishment, the words came together.

I would deal very calmly with such a situation. I would say nothing that might provoke him, but neither would I show fear. I would reason with him in the hope of assuaging his anger and, in this way, I think I might triumph.

I would break his arse, of course, with one belt of my boot, just as I would love to break yours right now, you ignoramus, beamed the inner wit.

It was the norm that three people would sit on interview boards, so there were two others at the table that day, none of whom got a word in. Whenever one or other of them attempted to speak, the headmaster’s powerful voice would roar its next question and, having been thus drowned out on several occasions, they acquiesced and graciously accepted that their roles were merely ones of silent observers; of rubber stamps.

But they were both amazed at this display of venomous ill will by the headmaster, as his attitude at the other interviews earlier that morning had been totally different; he had been mannerly, even friendly, and they had been allowed to contribute freely.

It was clear to them that, for whatever reason, he was hellbent on crushing this applicant, and well they knew of his ability to detest somebody for no particular reason. A travesty of justice was occurring before their very eyes, yet they remained silent.

Tell me something of your background.

Cathal was relieved to return to one of his rehearsed answers.

I was reared on a small holding in Gleann Léinn Gaeltacht on the south coast of Kerry after my family moved there from the nearby island. Life on that holding was very educational; the constant struggle with the sea and with the soil taught me the value of patience and perseverance.

And how to cope with pricks like you. (Whenever it was inappropriate for him to speak his true feelings, the inner wit would kindly oblige.)

I see here that you qualified to teach three years ago. What have you been doing in the meantime?

The headmaster’s voice was suspicious, his lips rounded as if about to whistle.

I worked in London during those years in an insurance office and, for a short time, with a building company. The experience was a worthwhile one in that it introduced me to a different way of life and it gave me the opportunity of meeting all sorts of people.

But never have I met a swine such as you, jabbed the inner wit.

This, of course, is a Catholic school. In what way would you expound our strong Catholic ethos if you were to work here?

Yet another unexpected one, but, again, he improvised.

Mainly by example. By anything that I might say or do. Young minds are susceptible to all sorts of influences and, yes, it would be incumbent on me to propagate my strongly felt values among the young.

A mighty performance! enthused the inner wit.

What are your views on extra-curricular activities?

This question was asked after an exceptionally long pause during which the headmaster stared sceptically at his subordinate. He was doing his utmost to rattle him. The chairs had been organised so that the headmaster’s own chair was much higher than the others, thereby giving him an even greater sense of empowerment. One of the observers raised hand to mouth to hide a yawn while the other twirled thumbs and pretended to be interested.

I would see such activities as being an inherent part of the educational process and, yes, of course, I would love to be involved.

It might make your attitude more affable, you arsehole. The inner wit had remained a valued friend throughout his life, forever reliable.

Any hobbies?

At this point the interviewer changed tactics. He abandoned the cold stare and, instead, cast casual glances about the room, up at the ceiling, out through the window and regularly at his watch, making it obvious that he had no interest in the answers. The young man found this approach to be even more unnerving, but he bravely continued.

I love football, music and poetry. I write a little and I fish regularly.

Oh, how I would love to shove hook, line and sinker straight up your rear end. The inner wit was in his element.

What are your views on trades unions?

This question left the young man under no illusions as to the headmaster’s own views on the matter, so he proceeded cautiously.

The Trades Union movement is, without doubt, a very necessary one. However, I would be very sensitive to industrial disputes or to any obstructions in the area of education, but trades unions, responsibly managed, do have a very positive role to play.

Yeah, to protect us from numbskulls like you. He thanked his loyal friend for helping him through.

Despite the dogged nature of the interrogation, he was happy with his performance. He always believed that a clever presentation of the truth, embellished with carefully chosen falsehoods, amounted to the perfect interview. While he felt that there was no hope whatsoever of his being appointed, he was, nevertheless, proud that he had stood firmly against the aggressive one.

Afterwards, the two observers were left dumbfounded when the headmaster stated that the person who had just left the room wouldn’t, in his opinion, be suitable at all for the post, that he didn’t seem to possess the ability to teach. They both thought that such prejudice was inexplicable, that the candidate had performed excellently in the face of such disgraceful adversity, and yet they continued in silent obedience. Undoubtedly, they had been carefully chosen.

The local canon was chairperson of the school’s managerial board, even though he had never shown the least interest in the affairs of the school. He chaired each meeting in a lackadaisical manner and quickly left, his duty fulfilled until the next time. On this afternoon, however, when all candidates had been interviewed, he visited Brother Bonaventure and asked him to appoint Cathal Ó hÚrdaill, saying that for long years he had been a friend of that young man’s mother who had died six months previously.

The headmaster was flabbergasted by the very idea of such interference. He explained that the young man in question had been very unimpressive in his interview and that two others had performed far better. But the canon stood firm. He was adamant that his request be granted. As chairperson of the managerial board, he did, of course, have the advantage of authority and he persisted with his demand until the headmaster, who was only secretary to the board, was left with no choice but to do a volte-face. Next day, Cathal Ó hÚrdaill’s appointment was ratified.

In his office, Brother Bonaventure, too, was re-enacting that same interview. Mental telepathy perhaps! and, as he recalled it, he fumed at the interviewee’s tissue of lies, as he saw it, and at the canon’s disgraceful intervention. Hands prayerfully joined and index fingers denting pursed lips, he swung thoughtfully on his swivel chair.

You sent for me, Brother, said the grey-haired deputy headmaster.

Take a seat, Peter. I need your advice on a matter.

Advice! Peter Cleary was shocked. During his ten years as deputy headmaster not once had he been consulted for ‘advice’. His boss just wasn’t that kind of person. He had never needed advice. He always acted single-handedly, and well he might, for he had been endowed with a resourceful kit of deviousness, guile and the ability to manipulate and to intimidate, and in all these areas he was a master craftsman. Now, amazingly, he seemed to be in a predicament and, in Peter Cleary’s search for the familiar incisive headmaster, all he could see on the chair was a revolving confusion. Was this genuine, he wondered? Was he really in a quandary? Or, was he, as was often his wont, up to some dirty tricks?

It’s about this drunken idiot, Peter. What action do you suggest we take?

The deputy headmaster knew exactly who was being referred to. Yes, this was definitely dirty tricks territory and, therefore, he must proceed very cautiously.

What drunken idiot, Brother?

What drunken idiot?