'Yes, you are!' he said. 'In the context, yes, you are!
What can only be described as a look of utter hatred suddenly crossed the good man's eyes. He flushed and plucked a string on one of the violins, as if to mark the taking of a bold decision. 'Has it ever occurred to you that you don't belong here, Father David?'
'Well, of course, Mr Dorran,' I said. 'I've never been sure I belong anywhere in the world. Perhaps you'd take pity on me therefore and spare me the terrible agony of having to listen to seven hundred impressionable young people singing "The Beautiful Month of May".'
'That is typical arrogance,' he said.
I could see Mr Dorran was fighting to restrain some coarser instinct. He looked at me as people do when they think they see through you. 'Can I remind you,' he said, his jaw slackening, 'this is a comprehensive school. You may find it difficult to imagine just what that means, Father. It is a com-pree-hen-sive. We have to make certain allowances here. This is not Eton College.'
'Heaven forfend,' I said.
'Pardon?'
'That really would be something to worry about.'
'You know what this town is? It's an unemployment black spot. I don't think you understand what has happened here. The factories are empty. The churches are empty.'
'Ah, Mr Dorran,' I said. 'But the heart is full.'
The Head of Music conducted a symphony of derision into a single sniff. 'You should take a leaf out of Bishop Gerard's book,' he said. 'He comes here with the crook and everything else, but you know what? He sits down at the piano and plays Boyzone to get the pupils' attention.'
'Yes,' I said, 'but Gerard has a much larger range than I do.'
Mr Dorran looked at his tired shoes, as if he might find there an instant companion for his piteous feeling.
'Good afternoon, Father. I have a group of musical illiterates awaiting instruction in the finer points of Johann Sebastian Bach.' And with that he was off down the corridor with his rick of broken strings.
My contact lenses slipped during the school service. The smoke from the burning incense stung my eyes and the lenses were lost for a second in the sudden dampness, making me see the congregation for a moment like rows of creatures under water. The children stood in their lines of blazers and uttered the prayers as if they were chanting the seven times table, which they were, without the satisfactions of either pattern or precision. I had to ask Mrs McCourt to be my assistant at the Kissing of the Cross when it became clear that every other pupil was chewing gum. She stood with a look of great piety before the cross, holding a paper towel, stopping the offenders as they knelt down and relieving them sorrowfully of their once sugary fragments. Each halted pupil behaved as if it were an added ritual, giving up the contents of their innermost selves. 'Behold the wood of the cross,' I said, 'on which Christ died.'
Children tend to like the Crucifixion, not the veneration of the cross so much as the driving in of the nails and so on. It appeals rather directly to their obsession with cruel and horrible images. Good Friday was a version of Nightmare on Elm Street to most of them. They liked the spectacle of Christ being scourged with metal-tipped whips; they admired the nails being hammered into His hands and the sponge of vinegar going up and the spear being driven into His side as the dark clouds rolled above and the constant mother wept at the base of the cross. You could see it in the children's eyes. They found it amazing, the drama of brutality, the soreness, the cracked limbs, and they were never so silent as when Christ's agony was given to them in vivid pictures.
After the service, when the pupils and teachers had poured out of the hall in a wave of sudden laughter, eye rolling and phone start-up jingles, I went to the second floor to talk to a group of fourth-year students doing an after-school project on world religions. I stopped in one of the empty corridors, the tiles on the floor shining up, appearing almost to speak of historical scuffing and departed concerns. The more robust teachers called it the Social Sciences corridor: it began at the stairwell with Classical Studies, a room presided over by Mr Muir, a young Catullus fan with a marked disaffection for all events that had shown the bad taste to occur after the year 300 AD. The next room along was Modern Studies, a non-subject much preferred by shirkers, encouraged by a nice woman called Susan who admired China. There was a run of English classes piled with tatty copies of Lord of the Flies, a number of geography rooms decked with charts about soil erosion, and singing out, close to the end of the long corridor, was Mr Platter's Art class, a room festooned with terrifying teenage approximations of the work of Joan Miró.
That day, Good Friday, I stopped in the corridor to look at the walls. They presented such a contrast with the oils of former abbots at my old school, those prints and architectural drawings framed and hung so handsomely next to the big hall. In contrast, the walls of this Catholic comprehensive were replete with old photographs of the working poor, sepia-toned, white-lighted, each figure a smoky spectre from the plates of Adamson, Annan or David Octavius Hill. From the Classical Studies rooms to History, 'Unloading jute, Dundee Docks' and 'The forge at Sumerlee Ironworks, Coatbridge'. Dotted between them were photographs of cobblers (tie-wearing, waistcoat-snug, side partings, young) sitting in rows at the Loch Street Co-op in Aberdeen and 'Girls in the dyeing room at Templeton's Carpet Works, 1910'. From English to Geography were cold, industrial prints showing the building of the Forth Road Bridge, and between Geography and Art, 'The new liner City of New York takes shape at Clydebank, 1886', 'East coast fishwives gutting herring, 1900', 'The men of Cumnock Colliery, 1912', 'Cleaning fleeces before baling, circa 1870' and a larger one, smudged and grey: 'Workers at William Blackie and Co.'s book bindery at Glasgow in 1932'. The people in the photographs had the solid bearing that only history affords. Arms folded, working overalls creased and blackened, eyes sharp, they lit out from a known, dead world, no longer unhappy, no longer curious, but ghosts in that long corridor children now pass down on their way to a better time.
***
The pupils were waiting in World Religions. They hung over their desks as if they had just been dropped there from a great height, looking like their limbs confounded them and their hair bothered them, and several chewed the frayed ends of their sweaters in the style of caged animals attempting to escape their own quarters. They tended to wear uniform, though each pupil had customised it with badges and belts and sweatbands; you felt they had applied strict notions of themselves to the tying of their ties and the sticking up of their shirt collars. The small energies of disdain could be observed in all this, and the classroom fairly jingled with the sound of forbidden rings and bracelets.
They had already been given a talk by Sister Pauline, who apparently spoke quite passionately of her attempts to gain the canonisation of Mother Mary Joseph, the founder of her order, and another group had gone on a visit to the central mosque in Glasgow.
'It was mad,' said one of the girls. The threads of her school badge had been unpicked: once upon a time the Cross of St Andrew, it was now a flare of orange fuzz on the top pocket of her blazer, like a sacred heart. 'Totally mad,' she said. 'We had to wear these mad as shit scarves and stop talking and everything.'
'And shoes,' said a tall boy next to the radiator. 'They had a thing for shoes by the door. Yer no' allowed shoes. No' even trainies. Guys went into one place and lassies into another. It's mad. You're no' allowed to mix.'
'What did you learn?' I said.
'They chop off women's hands for nothing,' said the girl.
'They eat bulls' cocks,' said the boy. 'Telling you. They eat anything.'
That was the first time I met the pair of them, Mark McNulty and Lisa Nolan. They called him 'McNuggets'. I never knew him as that, though I would come to know him well enough.
'I don't know why we had to go there,' he said. 'It's all suicide bombers and everything. You're jeest walking down the street and next minute people are blown up and dying everywhere. Jeest for walking down the street. It's totally nuts.'
As this was said
, the mouths of most of the other pupils twitched into a smiling complicity. Giggles erupted. Friendly swipes were given or received. A smaller boy with a cold called Cameron seemed to take his own view. 'That's no' right,' he said. 'That's jeest prejudiced.'
'Shut it, Ca-Ca,' said Mark.
'My name's Cameron.'
'Shut it, Cameraman.'
'Come now,' I said. 'What else did you learn?'
'It felt creepy,' said Lisa.
'That's not very thoughtful,' I said.
'It's true, but,' said Lisa, looking for support.
'Check this out,' said Mark. 'It stank. They're all ... thingmi. Whit's it called? Asylum seekers.'
'You can't let them say that, Father,' said Cameron. 'They are jeest being totally ignorant.'
'It was on Fox News,' said Lisa. 'My da watches it.'
'That's jeest crap,' said Cameron.
'Language,' I said.
'Whatever,' said Mark. 'Don't ask us if you don't want to know. We went to the place. It was a total dump. They throw acid in people's faces if you don't agree with them. That's some crazy shit.'
'There's no evidence for that,' said Cameron.
'Dry your eyes, Cameraman,' said Mark.
'Aye, shut up, Cammy,' said Lisa. 'He puts on this big act. He's always dropping science about shit he knows nothing about. He does it in Modern Studies as well. Like, "I love foreigners."'
'Stop Xeroxing me, bitch,' said Mark. 'I'll walk Cameraman down by myself, no problem. All his shit about camel jockeys.'
'Please,' I said. 'I won't have names in here.'
'Awright, Father,' said Mark. I saw him winking at the girls over my shoulder; I saw he knew how to use his brown eyes. 'But you've got to admit,' he said, 'terrorists are terrorists.'
'They're not terrorists,' said one of the other boys. 'They just believe in their own religion.'
'Exactly,' said Cameron. 'These people, many of them, their ancestors were building temples, inventing things. You know, making carpets and stuff, when people in America and in this country were still running aboot in the swamps.'
'Aye,' said his friend. 'It's Christians that are responsible for most of the world's greatest atrocities.'
'Get a grip, Eval,' said Mark. 'It's not Christians or Jews that go flying planes into people's offices.'
'No, you get a grip, McNuggets,' he said. 'It's Christians that put people into gas ovens. It's Jews that bomb people out of their own houses in Palestine...'
'Oh, get lost,' said Lisa.
'No, you get lost,' he said. 'It's Americans that burned babies in Vietnam. It's Catholics that put bombs into bloody chip shops in Northern Ireland.'
'Exactly,' said Cameron. Mark stood up.
'Shut it, Cameraman,' he said. 'It's no people from this country that drive planes into people's offices. It's no people from here that take folk hostage and cut their heads off. It's no Americans that gas their own folk. Why don't you and yer wee boyfriend there just go and live together in fucken Gayland or wherever it is you get yer ideas from.'
'That's quite enough,' I said. 'We won't have that kind of language in here. Do you understand?'
'Whit language?' said Mark, his face crimson. 'The Scottish language?'
'No,' I said, 'that's fine. Let's just do without the expletives.'
'That is our language, Father,' he said, smirking and including us all in the wealth of his joke. Lisa looked at him through her clumpy mascara and smiled. It was clear that Mark was the hero of the form. Lisa did more than smile: she glowed through her cheeks; she loved him.
'Any road,' she said, 'I hated that mosque place we went to. They're jeest into killing people for nothing.'
'That is not very tolerant,' I said, feeling quickly unctuous. 'The people you are speaking about, those terrorists, are, I believe, a small minority, and the people at the mosque wouldn't hold those views.'
'They're always going to those countries,' Mark said. 'Weird places in the Middle East where they learn about bombs.'
'It may be just a violent minority,' I said.
'It's all violence in those countries,' he said.
I tried again. 'Civilisation takes many forms, and, as Christians, we must use our faith to help bring peace to the lives of those people who have none.'
'Not just peace,' said Mark. 'More than that. Democracy.'
Old political notions tugged at me, 1960s notions, but I thought there was something in what Mark was trying to say.
'Perhaps we have a duty in that direction,' I said. 'Many people think so. But we mustn't indulge in insults by saying these people are only terrorists. There are many good people. They have beautiful traditions.'
'But we did it in English,' said Lisa. 'They chop women's heads off for going with men. They bag them up and wipe them out.'
'That wasn't in English,' said Mark. 'You saw it on Fox.'
'Shush, McNuggets,' she said, blushing. 'It was me that told you about it.' Lisa had the quick temper that often elicits admiration among young people. 'You dogged that class.'
'My da told me,' he said. 'They just want to get weapons and do in all their enemies, and you've got to say "no way" to that shit.'
'These arguments are interesting,' I said. 'As Catholics, we often find that mercy is the key to our dilemmas. You went to the mosque in Glasgow. These people do not see God in the same way we do ourselves, but they are part of our community.'
After a while, some of the pupils put on their coats. There were buses to catch and suppers to be in time for, but Mark and Lisa seemed in no hurry to go home. It ended up just being the three of us, and their talk grew ever freer, even more rude, as if the extracurricular atmosphere had bled into one of immunity and licence. Except when quoting their prejudices, they spoke of their families as if they were enemies and spoke of the future as if it could never come quickly enough, a fixed site of retribution, where no one was boss and beer was freely available.
I pointed out of the classroom window at the middle of the sea. 'That's Ailsa Craig over there,' I said. 'Have you ever been out there?'
'To the rock?' Mark said. 'Paddy's Milestone. Why would anybody go out there? It's just an old rock covered in bird shit.' I looked past the coast to where the island rose like a lilac pyramid in the fading light.
'Because it's beautiful, Mark.'
'It's always been there,' said Lisa, walking over to the window and pressing a new stick of gum into her mouth.
'Exactly,' I said. 'You've both lived here your whole lives, haven't you? What, fifteen years? And Ailsa Craig has been out there every day. Don't you wonder what it's like?'
'I know what it's like,' said Lisa. 'It's boring.'
'No, you're boring,' I said. 'There are no people out there. Just a world on its own in the middle of the sea.'
'No government,' said Mark, looking out.
'No nothing,' said Lisa.
'It's a bird sanctuary,' I said.
During the short time we watched it from the school window, Ailsa Craig became several degrees darker until it folded into the dusk and a small light blinked at the base of the rock.
'So what do you like, Mark?' I said.
'Celtic,' he said.
'So that's your tribe. A football club.'
'It's no' a tribe,' he said. 'It's a tradition. Oh, man. Did you see the Liverpool game at Anfield? We're in the semifinal of the UEFA Cup for the first time in thirty-three years or something. That game. I'm telling you. That was bitchin'. Totally awesome. To beat Liverpool on their own soil.'
'I used to like Liverpool,' I said. 'Not the team. I don't know anything about football teams. I liked the place.'
'That's why he's so happy,' said Lisa. 'He thinks Celtic are going to win the European Cup.'
'The UEFA Cup,' said Mark.
'Whatever.'
'We could do it, by the way,' said Mark. 'Martin O'Neill could do it for us. Henrik Larsson could do it. You know what? That Liverpool game was the best night of my life. No kidding. When tha
t guy came on at the beginning and sang "You'll Never Walk Alone", that was it. Every fan in the stadium held up their scarf. Just a sea of colours. Pure magic. We drew with Boavista. If we beat them in the return match in Portugal we're in the final. I'm telling you, this could be the best year we've ever had.'
Lisa rolled her eyes. 'Paul Lambert,' she said.
'That's right,' said Mark. 'He's awesome. Even I would shag him.'
'Excuse me,' I said. 'Language. That's quite enough of that.'
Mark was a danger to himself and others; you could tell by the way he narrowed his eyes and screwed around with his hair. He knew how to insinuate himself into peoples worries about themselves, and he did it with his eyes and his hands, as well as with his words, the kind of sharp and brutal honesty that passes for charm with some people. 'Father,' he said, 'in your whole life have you ever had sex?'
'Stop it,' I said.
'You've got to answer,' said Lisa.
'I'm not answering,' I said.
'Come on,' said Mark. 'Get over yourself.'
'Get over myself? Is that another one of your American television phrases?'
'Right. Whatever. Come on, Father. Is it yes or no? Have you ever had sex in your whole life?'
'You're very disrespectful,' I said. 'And I'm not in the business of answering a question like that.'
'That's awesome, man. He has!' said Lisa.
'I know he has,' Mark said. 'If he hadn't he would just have said "no". You're busted, Father. It's "yes".'
'Don't be so idiotic.'
'Don't sweat it, Father,' he said. 'We're all human.'
'I have my doubts about that,' I said.
'That's right,' he said. 'Like Arabs.'
We talked about other things, or they talked and I nodded, the young people's views proving less interesting to me than the liveliness with which they were able to express them. It all left me doubting my basic honesty but also feeling giddy and hopeful and slightly breathless.
During my time in Dalgarnock, it had begun to cling to me: not faithlessness, which I haven't suffered since leaving Oxford, but a large private sense of wanting to depart from the person I had always been. I could see it happening: one sort of world was colliding with another, and that evening I wanted to join their world and embrace their carelessness. That's what I wanted to do. I wish I could say I knew their kind and beheld all my errors, but what I knew about that pair, Mark and Lisa, was only what I wanted to know. They were very young and ready for life.
Be Near Me Page 4