by Roddy Doyle
—How are you getting on in there?
—Grand.
I was buttoning up the shirt.
—Are you decent?
—I am.
She came in through the steam, and I was sure it was my woman. Ah, sure. The thin hair up in a bun. I stopped being old Henry and asked her.
—Were you ever a Miss O’Shea?
—No, she said.—I wasn’t.
She didn’t hesitate or raise a grey, wet eyebrow. She went straight for the kettle.
—How’s the knee?
I told my leg to straighten, and it did. One slight click and I was back in action. She wasn’t looking. She was messing with the teapot. I could have cheated; I could have stayed. But—
—Grand, I said.
I didn’t want to be helpless.
—You’ll have the tea before you go, she said.
—I will.
I will. I hoped she’d look, and admit it: she was Miss O’Shea.
But she wasn’t. And she didn’t.
She gave me a couple of fig rolls. She watched me eat them. They were stale but I said nothing.
—Redmond, she said.
—That was your name before you got married?
—Yes, she said.—I was twenty.
—Young enough.
—Young enough, she agreed.
I stood up.
—Thanks very much, I said.—I’ll bring the clothes back to you.
—They’re yours, she said.
I was wearing a dead man’s clothes again.
—Thanks.
—They fit you.
It was true.
I went out the back door, after she’d slipped me a ten-shilling note.
—I’ll see you next week so, Henry.
—Yeah, I said.
But she wouldn’t. She’d see me, but not knee-deep in her garden.
I went to mass.
I went, and stood and kneeled - and sometimes groaned - and sat, and listened to the hum of the Latin around me. I looked at the mothers in their Sunday best. I stood up and left with everyone else. I even stood around outside and chewed the rag with the other oul’ lads and louts leaning against the church wall, waiting for the Manhattan, the pub across the road, to open. I went to the church every Sunday, so the priest would see me there, clean-shaven, clean-shirted, a widower, well able to look after himself.
There was a job going, and the priest had it. He stood in front of the bike one day, late afternoon, getting dark, when I was going downhill, towards the high cross - the real thing, stone, not a film prop - at the junction, the last steep stretch before home. I saw his new black shoes and I stopped.
I’d nodded before, two or three times, but I’d never spoken to him.
—Not a bad day now, he said.
—No, I agreed, although I was sick of the day and the weather that came with it.
He stared at my hands on the handlebars, and looked back up at me.
—You’re a hard working man, he said.
I said nothing back. I didn’t understand priests; I hadn’t a clue what he was doing there.
—Henry, isn’t it?
—Yeah, I said.—That’s me.
—Henry Smart.
He was used to being listened to; he was used to stopping traffic.
—That’s right, I said.
—I’ve been asking around about you, he said.
He was a lucky man; thirty years earlier, he’d have been dead for doing that.
—Why? I asked.
Then I made a quick decision.
—Why, Father?
—I have a job you might be interested in.
—Is that right, Father?
—That’s right, he said.—Caretaker of the boys’ school. Are you interested?
—I don’t know, I said.—Why me, Father?
—People speak highly of you, he said.—And good men are scarce. You’ll be kept busy. But I don’t think you’d mind that too much.
I nodded.
—The last incumbent wasn’t too fond of hard work, said the priest.—Or children.
I looked at him.
—I don’t mind hard work, Father, I told him.
—You’ve had children yourself, Henry?
I thought quickly about it.
—Two, I said.
—Are they nearabouts?
—They’re in America. Father.
—And the grandchildren?
I shrugged.
—You’ve lost count, he said.
I didn’t kill him. I stood up straight beside my bike. I pushed it an inch; I was ready to move.
—Will you think about it? said the priest.
—I’ll think about it.
—You’re interested.
—Yes, Father, I said.—I’m interested.
—Good man, he said.—Good. When I see you at mass a couple of Sundays in a row, I might even offer it to you. There are one or two other candidates I want to talk to first.
He stood aside.
—I’ll let you go.
He walked off, up the hill. I thought about going after him with the spade off my bike; his neck was an easy, red target. But it had started pissing down, black fuckin’ rain. A job with a roof - it was already keeping me dry. I went home and polished the alligator boots and I wore them to mass the next Sunday. I liked the company and the Latin. And five weeks after I kneeled at my first mass, the priest knocked on my door.
—The job’s yours, he said.
I took a breath. I kept my hands at my sides.
—When, Father?
—Tomorrow, he said.
—Thanks, Father.
He held out a fat set of keys.
—I won’t bother you with the which-one-is-which palaver, he said.—You can learn by trial and error. Eight o’clock tomorrow morning. You’re expected.
—Grand.
I liked the neat click of the lock in the front gate. It was new; it wanted to give. The railings were new too, and silver. The path along the perimeter was sharp and new, where the handsome mammies parked their prams while they wrapped up their eldest boys and sent them in to learn. The tarmac from the gate into the yard was new; it held onto my soles for just a welcoming second before letting go of me again. Everything was new. The teachers were young. The headmaster was a gentleman. The walls inside still gave off the good smell of new paint, even on the wet days when the corridors shrank between lines of damp, hanging coats.
I’d finally found a school that wanted me. I was maintaining a building that wasn’t falling apart. And I caught myself thinking, just the once: James Connolly would have liked this. I copped myself on; it was only a fuckin’ school. But I was content enough as I did my daily rounds, swept the yard, fixed the leaking tap, threw disinfectant at the cement urinal and listened to it hiss and eat the tiles.
The quiet life was mending me.
—You’ve abandoned us, Henry.
I looked and saw her, Missis O’Kelly. Outside the butcher’s on the Main Road. I’d just bought a load of calf’s liver. It was heavy and wet in my hand, beginning to seep through the brown paper. But I wasn’t going to take out my net shopping bag. It stayed safe in my coat pocket. This oul’ one had been in Cumann na mBan; men carried rifles, not shopping bags.
—Hello, Missis O’Kelly, I said.—Grand day again.
It wasn’t raining. The only thing dripping was the blood from the bag in my fist.
—Have you retired? she said.
—No, I haven’t, I said.
My back was as straight as I could get it.
Her eyes were brown, and younger than the rest of her.
—I’ve just moved on, I said.—A new job.
She looked down at my knee - at both my knees.
—It’s grand, I told her.—No bother since. I’m looking after the boys’ school.
—Looking after? she said.—Caretaking?
—That’s it, I said.
—But who’ll take care of
my garden? she said.—It’s already growing wild.
She was well able to go into her own garden and beat back nature. She’d carried me into her house without sweating. But that wasn’t the point. A good garden looked better with a handy little man standing or kneeling in it. And I’d seen the way she’d looked at my knees.
The suburban life was doing things to me. I was grabbing back the years.
—I could drop by on Saturday, I said.
—Good, she said, like I’d finally seen reason.—That’s arranged then.
I heard the explosion from out on the roof. Some poor little fucker had dropped the bottle of ink.
By the time I got down the headmaster was showing the young lad how to use a mop. The kid was still snivelling, still half expecting to be hammered. But he wasn’t going to be hit, and his body was beginning to know that. The headmaster - I’ll give the man his name: Mister Strickland - he’d swept the broken glass to the side of the floor, and he was running the mop across the block tiles like a man who’d done it before and liked being useful.
—Good man, Henry, he said.—I beat you to it.
—I was up on the roof, I told him.
He said nothing to that and dropped the mop-head into the bucket and sloshed it around. He squeezed it out.
—Come over here now, Peter, he said.
Peter was small and probably ten. He pulled himself away from the wall and slowly made his way to Strickland. He kept his feet out of the blue-stained suds.
Strickland held out the mop handle.
—Your turn, he said.
Peter hesitated - I waited for the quick jab, the mop handle to his gut. I knew it wouldn’t happen but I still expected it. Peter took the handle. He was tiny beside it.
—Off you go now, said Strickland.—Let’s see what you’re made of.
He stood back and gave the kid his elbow room. Peter held the mop like it was a leper’s prick; he wasn’t happy at all.
—Go on, said Strickland.
We both watched Peter as he sent the mop out over the floor, and dropped it. He picked it up. He gathered up the suds. The ink was cheap - dyed water - so it didn’t stain the wood.
—Good man, said Strickland.
He took the mop from Peter.
—Now, Peter, he said.—Listen to me now. If you work hard in school, that might be the last time you’ll ever have to use a mop.
—Yes, sir.
—Off you go.
—Thanks, sir.
—And mind the wet floor there.
Peter didn’t move.
—The ink, sir, he said.
—What about it?
—Mister McManus sent me on the message, sir. To get the ink.
—Go back to Mister McManus—
I saw the fear hop into Peter’s face. So did Strickland.
—Tell him the bottle was empty, he said,—and I’ll bring the ink up to him myself in a few minutes. But I’ll have to mix some more first, tell him.
He watched Peter.
—Got that?
—Yes, sir.
—That’ll be fine, he said.—Off you go.
Peter slid over the wet tiles. He tried not to run because he knew he wasn’t supposed to.
—Poor Peter, said Strickland.—He’s a bit of a worrier.
He picked up the broken neck of the bottle. The spout, for pouring the ink, was still jammed in it.
—Can you get that out, Henry? he said.—And I’ll find a new bottle.
The bell was rung every morning. Strickland lifted it over his head, held it there for a long second, then let it fall, his arm held straight - it shaved his knee. It went up again, and down, four times, and the boys, cold and giddy, got into their lines and waited for the go-ahead, permission to walk in, out of the cold, in to the hissing radiators and coloured chalk. They turned up every morning, and they were let in. No boy was stopped at the front door. The nuns were safely next door, in the girls’ school, and they never climbed over the railings.
These boys ran out of the new houses every morning. Most of them had been born in rooms like the one I’d been born into - What about me? But their parents had brought them out to clean air, fresh paint and free primary education. The houses were good, and built by the state. The school was good, built by the state. It was a national school - although this was Ireland, so the manager was the priest - and this was my reward. I’d been run out of the country before the state was founded. But now the state was looking after me. And I looked after its little lads. They’d be waiting, some of them, when I took the block of keys from my jacket pocket and found the one I wanted, and opened the front gate.
—Hiya, Hoppy Henry.
—Jesus, lads, you’re early.
Hoppy Henry - I fuckin’ loved my name, the cheek and life that went into it. And I thought the boys were like me, and that they loved the place. It took me a while to calm down, to notice the shivers and malnourishment, the ringworm, the bruises. It took me a while to accept that poverty could also be suburban. And it was a while before I noticed the disappearing boys. That last lesson came with a cough.
I heard it as I crossed the yard, on my way to the outside jacks with a bucket of disinfectant. The yard was closed on three and a half sides, by the school itself, the hall and bike shed. The wind was trapped in there and made to do laps. It went clockwise, always, and so did the kids. All games, the chasing and the football, went from left to right. That morning was a windy one, the middle of April but still winter, even if there were pink blossoms being whirled among the running boys. I was the only one walking into the wind, from my windowless office in under the hall, to the jacks.
—Howyeh, Hoppy!
The top layer of the disinfectant was being shaved off by the wind and thrown back into my trousers. There was a slate, fresh-smashed, on the ground, near the front door - dangerously near it. I’d get rid of the disinfectant first, clear the jacks of kids and throw the contents of the bucket so hard it would smack the back wall and roll back, chewing the old smell with its new one. Then I’d go in to Mister Strickland and warn him about the flying slates. I looked up now to see if there were more slates missing or on their way down. There was the bucket of disinfectant pulling the arm off me; I was going to have to climb out onto the roof and into the strong, mean hands of the wind; I’d found rat droppings on top of my desk, when I was mixing the disinfectant. It was a fuck of a day already. But I was happy.
Then I heard the cough.
It came straight out of my memory, like one of the slates. Came out, and down, and sliced me. My mouth, my eyes - I was split in half.
Victor. My brother, and his last cough - I’d woken to its dying echo but he was already dead. And I’d just heard it again. I’d heard a cough that had opened flesh. There was a dying child in the school yard.
The yard was full. Every boy under twelve from the Ratheen estate was in there. But I saw him immediately. There were invisible hands holding him up at the shoulders. His face was white and disbelieving - he was climbing out of his own mouth. He knew it but he didn’t understand why his own life was leaving him. He was trying to close his mouth, but couldn’t.
The wind whipped around me; I could feel the disinfectant splashing on my hands, over a lifetime’s cuts and damage. I didn’t put the bucket down. I wanted to move, but I couldn’t. The kid’s mouth was closing, slowly. His eyes were back; his shoulders were coming down. He was alright, for now. He’d cough again. I’d be given another chance.
Strickland came out with his bell. He saw the broken slate and stepped back into the school, the corridor behind the glass. I saw him shout, and immediately his staff, the country boys, came running out past him, ready to herd their lads out of the yard.
I finally moved. I went over to the jacks and threw the disinfectant. The bucket went with it; I couldn’t hold on. It clattered against the far wall, above the urinal. The hand stung, and I let it sting. I took my punishment, but it wasn’t enough.
I got up
onto the roof. I hoped the wind would grab my arm and throw me down into the yard. But it wasn’t as strong up there; it wasn’t trapped and angry. I looked down at Strickland walking back across the empty yard. He had the kid with him, trotting along beside him, happy now with the big bell in his hand.
It was called consumption when it got Victor. Now it was T.B. And it was under control, well on the run. There were sanatoriums, and a man called Noel Browne. No one coughed to death in the new Ireland.
But I knew what I’d heard.
There was just the one slate missing. The others were well tacked down. I got off the roof; it was easily done, even with a wooden leg. I went down the wide stairs to Strickland’s office to tell him the good news, to lick up to him and hear him say Good man. To make sure he hadn’t seen me standing by while the poor kid was breathing his second last. I nearly ran along the corridor. I knew it; I was pathetic.
I’d been lots of things in my time, but never pathetic. Never in my own eyes. I’d been stupid and magnificent, and all the little countries in between. But I’d never seen myself as pathetic; I’d never been on that island.
When I got to his office he was coming out, with the kid. He had his coat on.
—I’m bringing Seán home, he told me.
Seán looked quite excited. He was going home early, in a car. His lungs were sleeping; he was grand.
Strickland locked the office door.
I kept an eye out for Seán after that. But he didn’t come back.
I asked Strickland.
—Young Seán, I said.
—Poor Seán, he said.—He’ll be fine.
—Where is he?
—Wicklow, said Strickland.—In the sanatorium up there. In a room all by himself. His mother, God love her, can look in at him every Sunday, through the glass. And his father’s there too. In another room.
He clapped his hands, once.
—But, he said.—Seán will be back.
I believed him. But I woke up. I began to see and hear. I still saw the progress, and smelt it. It came from the walls, and from inside the classrooms. But I knew I wasn’t in a republican heaven. Bad lungs weren’t left at the gate, and bad bastards occasionally crawled off the farm and became teachers. I kept hearing Seán’s cough, every time I crossed the yard, even fighting the loudest wind. Every time I walked along one of the corridors.