Five other classmates were present and, as was my usual response, I ignored him.
“Fucking yellabelly,” he said.
I watched under my eyes as he strutted up to the blackboard, picked up a stick of chalk, and began writing.
After he’d finished, the boys laughed. I looked at the blackboard. The words Harkin is a fat-arsed queer confronted me.
“That stays on ’til the teacher wipes it off,” he said. “Otherwise, I’ll have to give you a good hiding.”
The boys laughed again. The hoarse resonance of their laughter was unbearably humiliating. It mocked my years of docility in front of Mickey and all the others who’d taunted me. A keg of resentment, my mind exploded and I bounded toward him, cursing like a washerwoman.
“You fucking-well remove that, now.”
My hands clenched to fists and Roland’s eyes dropped to them. Curiosity tinged with doubt flashed in his eyes.
“Fuck you.” He threw back his head contemptuously and turned to walk away.
I spun him around and punched him in the chest. The punch was so violent, it propelled Roland through three rows of desks, his arms rising and legs buckling as he sped backward. He landed on his skinny arse in the middle of the room, and he picked himself up quickly and made no attempt to approach me.
“I’m leaving this room for exactly one minute, you bastard,” I said. “If those words aren’t off the board by the time I get back, I’m going to make you lick them off.”
I walked hurriedly around the perimeter of the football field. The boys fell silent when I reentered the classroom. The words and Roland were gone. Without acknowledging the removal, I sat and recommenced my work.
A sea change occurred and the boys accepted me. Even Roland, once his bruised ego recovered, tried to befriend me. I thought about what a few old Knockburn men said about political violence, how sometimes it was necessary in order to focus an enemy’s mind. The strategy worked in a school environment, too.
My repeat year at St. Malachy’s passed without further incident. When the exam results published, mine were astounding—a coveted string of A and B grades. Even Father Rafferty deigned to congratulate me personally, something I’d never known him to do. Connor and Fergal were marginally successful and left school, Fergal to help his father on the farm and Connor to take a job at a local bank in Duncarlow.
Moving into the sixth form to begin the first of my final two years at Saint Malachy’s, I chose to specialize in history, English literature, and economics. Becoming a sixth-former was an unofficial rite of passage: we had our own common room, replete with a careers reference library, plump sofas, magazines, and newspapers; and teachers treated us as adults. No longer was it assumed we were present in class against our will. We were now proven young men bound for universities throughout the United Kingdom and Ireland.
A few weeks before the end of the first term, Uncle Brendan, who was coming home for Christmas, informed me he was arriving a little earlier so he could attend the annual prize-giving at school, where I was to be presented with an award for my turnaround. I greeted his news with mixed emotions. I looked forward to seeing my uncle, but didn’t relish the prospect of receiving such a prize in front of him. The award, a new category at Saint Malachy’s, recognized the “Best Improved Pupil of the Year” and reminded me of a raw period I wanted to forget.
On the actual night, I stepped across the stage to enthusiastic applause and received my prize, a gilded goddess of Grecian style atop a plinth of polished Connemara marble. The irony that she was yet another woman whom I didn’t wholeheartedly desire did not elude me.
“It’s quite an honor to have a new category created just for you,” Uncle Brendan said, after I turned back from receiving congratulations from a woman seated on my other side. “Once your name’s inscribed and she’s set in the trophy cabinet, you’re immortalized in the school’s annals.”
I peered at my twenty-three-inch-high goddess. “A dubious honor, is it not?”
“An honor, notwithstanding.”
A few days later, in the privacy of Granny’s home, he reiterated how proud he was of me and told me that I was a survivor and how very fortunate I was, because what had happened with Father Cornelius could have wreaked havoc on my impressionable young mind. He paused and peered at me, obviously trying to gauge if I wanted or needed to discuss the matter further.
I remained utterly impassive.
“I’m here if you need to discuss Father Cornelius or your feelings for boys, Gabriel,” he concluded.
A shiver whipped through me. “Everything’s fine now,” I said. “What we spoke about in the field that day is water under the bridge.”
His lips curled into a feeble smile. “I’m here if you need to talk.”
The idea occurred to me that if he was bringing up my uncomfortable past then I could jolly well bring up his. “By the same token, I’d like to know something about the woman you dated before entering the priesthood, Uncle Brendan. No one seems to want to talk about her, or why there was friction between you and Granda about it. You can tell me about it. I’m an adult now.”
He reddened and didn’t reply immediately. “It was a painful stretch in my life and, while some good things came out of it—”
Uncle paused when Granny came in to collect the empty teacups. She lingered, clucking as she fluffed up and adjusted the sofa cushions. She looked at Uncle Brendan intently as she passed by him on her way out again.
“It’s a period of my life I’d rather forget,” he said.
“Why don’t you want to tell me?”
“I don’t want to discuss my past with you or anyone else.”
That God had helped Uncle Brendan overcome his unhappiness with the priesthood and move on with his life compounded the glimmer of hope I harbored within myself with regard to the war raging inside me. Indeed, the hope that Bridget’s ripe breasts and liquid warmth had stirred within me that night at the B&B grew with the passage of time. There were days of optimism and days of denial. That she’d aroused my blood signaled the certainty I’d turn out normal on optimistic days. But there were more denial days, days when doubt as black as a winter midnight crammed inside my head, days when my obsessing alter ego convinced me that I had to be a homosexual because I hadn’t tried to repeat the experience. It feasted on my doubt, filled me with angst born of the certainty that it had indeed all been a fluke, that I wouldn’t get aroused if I tried with another girl, and thereby assured its utter accuracy. I avoided further contact lest this prove to be the case.
It was also becoming increasingly difficult to ignore or reason away the terrible desires. I was seventeen and they were relentless. No matter how much I swept them away, they returned seconds later to beat me down, corrupting my every thought, even in the sanctity of the classroom. There were two of me: good Catholic Gabriel, who wanted to be normal and lead an exemplary life, and dark, degenerate Gabriel, who lived only to lust. Sometimes, in the common room, I’d look out the window and watch the sun disappear behind a wooly, navy blue cloud, and the cloud’s core would stay dark while its ragged edges were gilded like my unwanted goddess. I was the gilt-edged cloud with a core of darkness.
The only way to vanquish dark Gabriel was to submit to his degeneracy. I’d masturbate and a temporary, reassuring calm always came afterwards. Then, a day arrived when, as I conjured up the habitual, last minute figment of Bridget’s breasts, I found myself unable to climax. I tried again and failed. It happened the following day. And the next. I wanted to talk to someone desperately, but I couldn’t, not even Uncle Brendan. Sometimes, my insides felt so hot with panic, I wanted to run about the house, hurling china and upturning furniture. That was impossible, of course, so I’d run to the secluded spot by the river where we used to bathe as children and scream away my terror at the bemused cows chewing on the lip of the high red bank.
Toward the end of the year, I passed my driving test, though my parents would not allow me to borrow the car to a
ttend dances yet. But another perk of being a sixth-former was that we got invites to parties at other schools called “sixth form socials.” With Martin and Pani, now in their final year, I went to my first social at Saint Clare’s College in a coastal resort town ten miles from our school. It was a cheerful event, monitored scrupulously by glowering nuns in off-white habits, who, circling the dance floor perimeter like beneficent tigresses, were ready to pounce should a dirty-minded schoolboy attempt to kiss one of their precious charges.
An unexpected invitation came to attend the Granderson College social. It was the first time Saint Malachy’s boys had been invited to a Protestant social. Schools of different denominations rarely socialized, and when they did, it was always at athletic and debating competitions. We’d no doubt been invited because our senior rugby team was doing surprisingly well and gaining respect in the hallowed circles of Protestant school sports departments. Father Rafferty was delighted. In his eyes, we’d crossed some invisible barrier. He swooped into the Common Room to strongly recommend a contingent of us attend, and that we behave in exemplary fashion when we did.
“I’m not going,” Pani said, after I’d told him I knew a pupil there. I spiced it up by adding she’d spent the entire summer teaching me how to ride, though omitted to say it was on a horse.
“We should go,” Martin said, turning down the volume of the Neil Sedaka tape playing in Pani’s car. “It’d be an education.”
Pani adjusted the rearview mirror so he could check his pimples. “Education, my arse,” he said. “No way am I going there.” He squeezed a pimple on his chin.
“You can park your car in a dark corner of the school car park so nobody’ll see it,” Martin said.
He’d articulated exactly what I’d been thinking, both of us having chalked Pani’s reticence down to embarrassment about his old car with its noisy exhaust and a fresh dent on the passenger door, which also screeched unmercifully when opened.
“It’s got nothing to do with my car,” Pani said, looking savagely at Martin. “I can’t abide the thought of hanging around snotty Prods.”
Martin worked on Pani and got him to change his mind. On the night of the social, as we drove up the winding drive, Pani’s car headlights struck the enormous pale-gray girths of beech trees and miles of sprawling rhododendrons. The hedge was endless. Just as we were beginning to think the drive would never terminate, he turned a curve and a rambling Georgian mansion with ivy-covered gables confronted us.
Pani emitted a great rush of air through his teeth. “It’s just like Queen’s University.”
We thundered into the half-full car park. Martin peered around the car park frantically. “Park over there.” He jabbed his finger excitedly in the direction of a less well-lit area. Pani drove toward an empty bay next to four girls climbing out of an orange BMW 2002.
“Not here,” I said, through gritted teeth.
“Both of you go to hell.”
Pani reversed into the bay so fast, he caused the driver exiting the BMW to whip her leg back inside and shut the door.
Martin lowered his head. “I’m not getting out of this tin can until they go inside.” He pretended to search for something at his feet. “I’d never survive the screech of that fucking door.”
The driver glared in at Pani before joining her friends, who were adjusting their hair and patting wrinkles out of their skirts. All the girls turned to look at Pani’s car and then started toward the entrance. Martin waited until they’d disappeared inside before opening the car door, its screech especially monstrous given the school’s regal setting.
“How many times have I told you to do something about this?” Martin said. Placing his hands at the back of his neck, he flung out his hair so the ends flowed evenly over his shirt collar. A car entered the parking lot. “Jesus, somebody’s coming. Let’s split, Gabriel.” My cousin didn’t wait for me. He spirited across the car park in his bottle-green flared pants, slowing to a walk only when he’d reached the narrow path sweeping to the entrance.
I hurried after him. “You could have waited,” I said as I joined him.
“That car’s a fucking disgrace.”
“Well, hurry up and pass the driving test and borrow Uncle Frank’s car.”
His face went splotchy. Martin had already taken the test—twice. He was a good driver, but he couldn’t handle the conditions of the driving test. The pressure made him forget to signal when turning and he could never execute a three-point turn. It took him five maneuvers.
We checked our reflections in the glass panes of the entrance door. “Is my hair still nice at the back, Gabriel?”
“It’s fine.”
The school social, like others we’d attended, was set up in the gymnasium. Within a minute of entering, Fiona, whom I hadn’t seen for almost two years, called out to me from across the room. She wore a checked midi-skirt and a dazzlingly white blouse with abundant ruffles that set off a hunter green twinset. A single strand of pearls was her only adornment. Her hair was ABBA-blonde, though now boyishly short, and her cheeks were as ruddy as I remembered. She wore no makeup. I was excited she’d even remembered my name. Pani arrived and I made the introductions.
“How’s old Stroller?” I asked.
“He’s turned into a fine jumper. And I’ve got a gray now, too.”
Martin’s eyes lit up. He loved horses.
“Mind if I try him out some time?” I asked.
She laughed and affectionately smacked my arm. I could see Pani, despite his vitriol about mixing with Protestants, was suitably impressed.
“Sure, but no jumping this time.” Fiona chortled.
So did Martin. Indeed, he buzzed around her like a bumblebee around a flower. He remarked on her elegant necklace and asked if she wanted to dance. Fiona seemed surprised, as it was still very early, but she accepted and led him away to join circle of ladies dancing in a dusky corner. Within two minutes, she returned with the girls in tow. After introductions, we chatted until, as always happens in such situations, people begin engaging in side conversations.
“Have you decided which universities you’ll apply to next year?” she asked me.
“Whoever’ll accept me.”
“I’m serious.”
“I’m thinking of reading law at Trinity or Queens.”
“No English universities?”
The idea of attending an English university both terrified and attracted me. My adventurous side longed to quit Ulster and leave all the petty bigotry behind, but the quiet side felt sure that strange men in England might take advantage of me. I’d read of such things in the English press, how perverts sought out “Dilly Boys” who sat on the steps of the Eros fountain at Piccadilly Circus. Such reports filled me with dread. It was impossible to share this with Fiona though. She’d been to school in England and would probably laugh at my foolishness.
“Shall we dance?” I asked.
She nodded and we went out on the floor.
“So, you haven’t applied to an English university, then?” she persisted.
It struck me she might think I was just a narrow-minded Catholic. “Someone I know goes to university in Cardiff and likes it a lot. Maybe I’ll apply there . . . perhaps Durham, also.” Our eyes locked, and she smiled. The more I looked at her, the more I began to forget about the disturbingly boyish hair. “And you?”
“I’m planning to read economics anywhere but here. The older I get, the sicker I get of all the fighting and bigotry. I’m leaning toward Cambridge, Bristol, or the London School of Economics.”
I admired her directness in alluding to the quagmire of Northern Irish politics so assertively. Not once during that summer when we’d first met had we mentioned politics. We’d talked only horses and school.
“All good schools,” I said.
“If I end up in Bristol, and you in Cardiff, then we’ll likely bump into each other. There’ll only be the Severn Bridge and a few miles separating us.” She grinned mischievously.
“I didn’t know that.”
The set came to an end and I stood beside her, utterly unsure what to do. I was intrigued to know more about her, but the fact that she was a girl, as well as the fact that I hadn’t experienced any reassuring surge of physical attraction to her, weighed on my mind. Before I could decide or take my cue from her, a thin girl in an emerald satin dress brayed Fiona’s name from across the gym and slithered toward us. This was probably a secret arrangement they had to aid one another in awkward situations with boys. Caroline told me girls did this sort of thing.
But Fiona made no attempt to leave. About ten feet to my right, Pani looked similarly perplexed. He stood by a girl’s side, thrusting his head back every now and again to adjust his mop of unruly hair, a habit of his when he was dead unsure. Fiona introduced the girl in green, Heather, and we chatted politely for half a minute or so. No signal came forth to call Fiona away and, after an absolutely lovely to meet you, Heather slithered away. Heart pounding, I slipped my arm around Fiona’s waist and couldn’t believe it when she immediately sidled up to me.
All the barriers fell. It was as if we’d seen each other every day since that summer we’d first met. We danced, helped ourselves to food from the buffet table, chatted, and danced some more. Toward the end of the evening, after learning she’d traveled to the social with Heather and another friend, I asked slyly if I could see her home. I knew she’d decline. She was an impeccably bred Protestant and would most likely suggest we make another date.
She accepted without hesitation, which put me in a terrible pickle. I hadn’t asked Pani. There was also the dreadful matter of his car. I excused myself and walked frantically around the gym looking for him, all the while cursing myself for my damned stupidity. I found him near the coffee urns. He was chatting to the girl I’d seen him dancing with earlier. As soon as propriety permitted, I butted in and pulled him aside.
“We’re taking Fiona home. I’ll do the same for you when my parents let me borrow the car.”
A Son Called Gabriel Page 28