Boy Who Made It Rain

by Brian Conaghan

  ‘Okay, see you tomorrow, Rosie,’ I said and pecked her on the cheek.

  ‘Don’t be late.’ What was she saying? Of course I wouldn’t have been late.

  ‘I won’t. Promise.’

  ‘Night, then.’

  ‘Night.’

  She shut the door before I looked away. The curtains were being drawn as I reached the bottom of the path. It was curtains.

  Smokers

  There was something all too familiar with that morning’s conversation. As though the previous night never existed. A peculiar déjà vu.

  ‘I don’t want you to get hurt,’ Rosie said.

  ‘I know you don’t,’ I said, ‘I just got scared.’

  ‘We should protect each other.’

  ‘We will.’

  When she went to gather her stuff for school I stood in reflective mood, weighing up the possible eventualities that would unfold. Feeling apprehensive, edgy yet strangely confident I was happy Rosie and I had discussed everything and she was standing beside as we went to school. My rock. The little devil on my shoulder, however, had different ideas and was nibbling at my ear quipping, ‘just using this poor girl for your own means, there is no substance behind anything you say.’ While waiting at the doorway for Rosie to come bounding down the stairs, guilt penetrated my mind. I despised myself.

  ‘Are you ready?’ I shouted.

  ‘A minute, just looking for something.’

  ‘We’re going to be late.’

  ‘Why are you so eager?’ she said as she scuttled down the stairs.

  It was a still day, and still freezing. Both of us made breath circles from the cool air. Rosie blew bigger and more defined ones. Mine were whimsical and imperceptible. Rosie, I felt, could sense my anxiety, she broke long periods of silence with humorously inane conversations, which served only to try taking my mind off the proceedings.

  ‘What would you call your band if you were in one?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Yes, you do, everyone has played that game. Come on what is it?’

  ‘It’s Approaches to Learning,’ I said. Rosie guffawed and dismissed it out of sight.

  ‘That’s pure shite.’

  ‘Okay, smart arse, what’s yours?’

  ‘Don’t know, never really thought about it.’ I liked that acerbic wit about Rosie.

  ‘Don’t talk shit, come on, I told you mine,’ I said.

  ‘Okay, promise not to laugh?’

  ‘Cross my heart.’

  ‘Okay, it’s Bedroom Busker.’ I held it for a moment giving the impression that I was mulling over the beauty of the band’s name, my eyes tightening to suggest that I believed this was an inspired choice.

  ‘Utter shit,’ I said, but in truth I actually quite liked it.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’d never buy anything from a band with a name like that.’

  ‘You haven’t a clue.’

  This was followed by another long period of silence, not an uncomfortable silence, but a type of silence that led me to think that Rosie was being overtly introspective and ponderous. Apart from my own predicament, there was something significant on her mind. Something more pressing than what was on my own, which then went haywire. Approaching the school I was thinking that this whole episode was all some big Glaswegian conspiracy against me. I envisaged turning a corner to discover McEvoy, the NEDs, Cora, Connor, Miss Croal and Rosie’s mum all laying in wait. Coshes and clubs at the ready for their veritable feast. A lynch mob.

  The red sandstone façade faced both of us. School. Not a soul to be seen other than eager first- and second-years. We hurried in. Rosie accompanied me to my first class, music, like some muscle bound bodyguard. We sat alone in the class plucking away at one of the guitars. I played her Pale Blue Eyes by The Velvet Underground, and told her it reminded me of her. A lie. She seemed impressed by this more than the tune. The bell rang. We embraced warmly before Rosie trudged off to her art class.

  ‘I’ll see you in English.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Or do you want me to come and get you first?’

  ‘No, it’s alright. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘What if you bump into him?’

  ‘We’ll stick with the plan.’

  The class was a nice distraction. Writing chord progress-ions for two periods and trying not to sound different from everyone else out there. As much as I tried to be original, it all sounded derivative and teenage. I’d never make it out of the confines of my bedroom. I was destined to be a bedroom busker forever. The bell rang and my heart started like a sprinter off the blocks. I waited back in the pretence of tidying up, labouring over putting guitars in their covers, plectrums in their box and music sheets in their folder. I even started to put the chairs under desks until the teacher got wind of my actions.

  ‘That’s fine, Clem, you’re going to be late for your next class.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thanks. See you tomorrow.’

  I hoped so. I really did hope so.

  I walked briskly to English. Miss Croal looked happy to see me when I hurried into the class. The others already had their heads buried into some reading material. Waiting for Godot. I didn’t have the heart to inform them that he never arrives. They were either going to be engrossed or dumbfounded by it. Rosie’s eyes were planted firmly on me, relieved, no doubt, that I had made it safely between classes. She gave me a little wink. A very affectionate wink. Cora Kelly, who was sitting beside Rosie, made a joke face that suggested I was in some kind of trouble.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, Miss.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ she said, rather sycophantically. ‘I see your eye is a little better.’ Indeed my eye was much better, just a touch of yellow discolouring underneath the socket, but no swelling. Certainly all the wandering around in the cold for the past two days helped it recover.

  ‘Yes, it was nothing really.’

  ‘Like you said.’

  ‘We’ve just started reading Beckett’s Waiting for Godot,’ she said, handing me a copy of the play. ‘You are familiar with it, aren’t you?’

  ‘We read it at our last school,’ I said.

  ‘Aye right.’ The voice from behind me spluttered. Cora Kelly.

  ‘Some of us are just reading the intro.,’ Miss Croal said. I took the book from her and made my way to my seat, opened the play at the introduction and began reading. It was familiar territory. Man’s place in society. The meaning of existence. Why are we here? Why do we do the things we do? And then do them all over again? Beckett captured it and articulated it in an artistic, condensed fashion. I merely whispered, ‘what the fuck…’ when I needed answers to the bigger questions. There will come a time when I’ll give up and not search for a response. This school was one of them.

  The two periods flew by. As time generally does when you never want it to. Time plays games with you. The big hand hits you hard. When you need it to slow down it speeds up, and when you need it to run it toils. I pretended to read more Beckett, words flashing through the brain without meaning or reason. I was miles away. It sounded like a knelling bell. Rosie waited at the door for me. Cora hovered around as she could sense something wasn’t quite right.

  ‘Comin to the smokers?’ she asked Rosie. Rosie looked at me as though waiting for my approval, which I gave with the flick of an eye.

  ‘I’ll see you back in here in ten,’ she said. Cora had already made her way to get her nicotine fix. ‘Clem, I’ll stay if you want.’

  ‘No, no. You go. It’ll be okay. I’ll just go down to the music room and fiddle about.’

  ‘If you see him, just walk the other way.’

  ‘What about the plan?’

  ‘You won’t have time, we only have about eight minutes now.’

  ‘Okay, you better go. I’ll see you back in here.’

  Around every corner, every bend, every nook and cranny of the school building was the expectancy of McEvoy and his cohorts appearing. Lying in wait. Ready to
ambush. Prepared to pounce. Walking towards the music room I chuckled to myself because the irony of the two lads waiting for Godot was not lost on me. Only their wait was full of anticipation, confusion and excitement in the main, while mine was full of apprehension and dread. All characters in this story waiting. One set in hopelessness the other one in expectancy. A significant difference was that my Godot would be sure to arrive. Maybe I was McEvoy’s Godot? Was he waiting or searching? Searching for Clem! Doesn’t seem to have the same ring to it. Searching for Clem! No.

  Each scream, cry or chant was amplified. Every time I heard a noise from behind me my heart boxed my chest and my ribs juddered. I was just waiting for the next sound to be the determinant one: ‘Haw! You, ya English fanny.’ ‘Wit did a tell you aboot cumin back in this school?’ Perhaps it would have been much better to have the physical attack from the outset, without warning, to avoid any unnecessary vocal confrontation. A couple of punches to the back of the head, a few hard digs in the kidneys, an array of boots into the stomach. (I’d tense it up for them). A swift stampede. Much better to have it done inside the school, my thinking being this way it would only last a few seconds before someone would inevitably come to my aid, a conscientious member of staff. A true professional. Integrity. Anything happening outside school could be a relentless free for all. In my experience I have realised that the teachers here tend not to want to get their hands dirty at any shenanigans taking place outside the school gates. Outside their jurisdiction. Outside their school. I was safe in and around those corridors.

  I made it to the music room in one piece. Some of the emo and grungier kids had made it there before me and had nabbed the best guitars. Trying to play some Green Day power chords, or some other band of similar ilk. I liked these types of students. Generally they were friendly, inoffensive and well into their music, as well as their image. They looked like ghouls with the remnants of the previous night’s eye-liner, exhausted faces from their play station exertions and arms filled with silver and leather accessories. They spoke a weird hybrid of Glaswegian and pseudo-American slacker dialect. Throwing around phrases like ‘Check this cool wee tune out, dude.’ I found it amusing. I enjoyed being around these dudes in the music room. Before I could play an A D E7 A progression trying to capture the beauty of Dylan’s Visions of Johanna the bell had already gone. I sang the first line to myself. I thought about replacing Johanna with Rosie, but there was syllable concern. Back to English. Back to waiting.

  Once again I arrived late into class. A waft of stale smoke permeated around the room smacking me right in the face as soon as I entered. Did everyone in the class head direct for the smokers at interval? Did anyone abstain? My tardiness, for the second time in just over an hour, didn’t go down too well with Miss Croal.

  ‘This is the second time during this class, Clem.’

  ‘Sorry Miss, I got held up in the music room.’

  ‘Well, once is a mistake, twice is taking the proverbial.’

  ‘It won’t happen again, Miss.’

  ‘Well, it’s not good enough,’ she said, as though scolding a child. I didn’t quite know how to react. I stood in silence looking at her. ‘Oh, just take your seat.’

  I think she was trying to prove a point to the rest of the class. Exerting her authority. Demonstrating how she treats each pupil equally. No pets. No favourites. No crushes. Trying to quash rumours. Trying to get the girls onside. Her transparency was embarrassing. I looked at Cora, who semi-grinned at me condescendingly and slowly shook her head. She clearly knew the rumours. In my mind she was responsible for igniting them; top of the suspects’ list. I glanced at Rosie. Her face suggested a different expression altogether. Ashen would be the only word to describe it. And, unlike Cora, this look wasn’t a result of Miss Croal’s little performance. I mouthed, are you okay? She didn’t say anything, but I could sense she was itching to say something to me. She had a weight on her chest. She flicked her eyes towards the door. Meaning let’s go. I flashed mine towards Miss Croal before raising my eyebrows to indicate that I was temporarily stuck.

  ‘Miss, can I go to the toilet?’ Rosie suddenly said. She was sending out a clear message to me. An invitation to meet her outside the class.

  ‘You’ve just come back from your break, Rosie.’

  ‘Please, Miss, I have to.’

  ‘I won’t budge, the answer’s no.’ Rosie’s face was scathing.

  ‘It’s women’s problems, Miss,’ Rosie said. This was always the trump card for female students to play. Sometimes male students resented them for using their bodies to abuse the system. Jealousy. No teacher in their right mind could, or would, deny any female student who claimed to have ‘women’s problems’ a toilet visit. And in half the cases for ‘women’s problems’ read ‘cigarette break’. But what can be done? They have the toilet break system by the balls. If a woman has problems a woman has problems. Ipso facto. Although, the clever teachers could count the four-week cycle of each class. A bit too OCD. I think the girls should just come clean and say from the outset ‘Miss/Sir, I have my period.’ As opposed to the cryptic ‘women’s problems.’ Miss Croal knew she had no ammunition left. ‘Okay, Rosie. Make it quick.’ Rosie leapt from her seat, taking her bag with her. My cue was next. I wanted some of the dust to settle. I waited until Miss Croal was seated and composed.

  ‘Miss, can I nip to the toilet?’

  ‘You’re kidding me, Clem, right?’

  ‘I’m not Miss, I have to go.’

  ‘The answer has to be no,’ she said, and then returned to what she was doing. This was what I didn’t want to happen.

  ‘Miss, I’m desperate.’

  ‘Clem, you’ve just had your break.’

  ‘I know, but I didn’t need to go then.’

  ‘Let’s be honest, you’re bored and disinterested and you don’t really need to go, do you?’

  ‘I’m not bored. I actually like Waiting for Godot.’

  ‘And isn’t it a coincidence that Rosie has just asked to go as well?’ Did she know about Rosie and me? She sounded disgruntled. It was time to pull out the big guns.

  ‘Miss, I need to go.’

  ‘You don’t.’

  By this time the rest of the class had raised their heads to view our exchange.

  ‘It’s men’s problems, Miss.’

  Laughter. A little derision from the females. A lot of agreement from the males.

  ‘Men’s problems, eh?’

  ‘Afraid so.’

  ‘Okay, Clem, let’s hurry it up,’ she said. In that moment our relationship severed. I was reduced to being viewed in the same category as the rest of the minions. She should have realised that, at the end of the day, we are all young people: still learning, growing, carting around our own insecurities and pecularities, making a barrage of mistakes along the way. All still emotionally growing. I liked Miss Croal, however, and scalded myself for putting her in this position. This public capitulation. This public humiliation. And all because of my juvenile problems. It would be best to try and explain it all to her at a later date I thought as I slung my bag over my shoulder and headed for the ‘toilets.’ I hadn’t returned to school for this reason, to leave classes, be a distraction. I didn’t want to cause anyone any trouble. That was the last thing I wanted to do. Keep the head down, get the exams done successfully and get the hell out of dodge. That’s the mantra. I mean, how hard could that have been? I placed Waiting for Godot on her desk and we glanced at each other. Hers was more of a glare.

  ‘Sorry, Miss,’ I whispered.

  ‘Just go.’ I think she recognised that I was in some sort of trouble and by using the word just in a way gave her consent to my leaving, knowing full well that I wouldn’t be back.

  The Boy Who Made it Rain

  There was no one to be seen. The corridors were empty, so much so that the echo of my shoes could be clearly heard as I walked, first one way and then the other, in search of Rosie. There was a distinct air of High Noon about wandering thes
e halls alone. Were eyes on me? Was I being followed? Had a plan already been hatched? Was I being duped and betrayed by Rosie? Did Rosie actually have women’s problems? If so, it must have come on her that morning. With this on my mind I made my way to the female toilets. No noise heard from inside. Should I go in? I waited outside for a minute or so, until a second- or third-year girl came ambling along.

  ‘Are you going to the toilet?’ Stupid question.

  ‘Naw, am aff tae confession, where dae ye think am goin?’

  ‘Can you see if Rosie Farrell’s in there for me?’

  ‘Wit, ir you some sort ay perv?’

  ‘Don’t talk crap,’ I said, trying to act all blasé.

  ‘You’re that Inglish guy, irin’t ye?’

  ‘Can you just see if Rosie is in there for me, please?’

  ‘Ah heard that you were shaggin that inglish teechur.’

  ‘Just find out if she’s in there.’

  ‘She’s no.’

  ‘How do you know? You haven’t even looked.’

  ‘These ir the fird- and fourff-year bogs, she’d be up at the fiff- and six-year wans.’

  ‘Cheers, thanks for the help.’

  ‘I won’t tell everybody you hang aboot the girls’ bogs.’

  ‘Go ahead, I don’t give a damn,’ I said and bolted up to the senior girls’ toilets, which were situated next to the smokers. Convenient. Add perversion to the litany of other things. I honestly couldn’t have cared less.

  ‘Rosie!’ Silence. Pause. ‘Rosie!’ Silence. Pause. One last time. ‘Rosie!’ Nothing. I decided to enter. Tentatively. See how the other half piss. Four doors faced me. Croals Gagging For Her Hole!!! was written in big red letters on the first. I slowly pushed it open. Empty. It had the mark of Cora Kelly written all over it. Poor punctuation.All Guy’s Are Dicks!!! was scribbled on the next door I tried. Once again empty. No idea who had written it, but whoever it was needed to brush up on their grammar and punctuation too. The third door made me smile. Someone had written Fuckabove The Fratellis, below which was scrawled The Smiths Will Save Your Soul!!Written by the fair hand of Rosie. Made me feel all empowered. Nice to see no mistakes also. I didn’t make it to the final door because the next thing I know the main door had swung open. Panic. I shot into the third cubicle and closed the door behind me. Facing the toilet as opposed to sitting on it. I stood there as still as I could. Like a game of statues. The only thing I couldn’t restrain were my hands, which, out of fear, shook uncontrollably. My feet glued to the floor. It was as if rigor mortis had set in. This had the potential for disaster. It did occur to me that it could be Rosie, but whoever it was didn’t have the same movement as Rosie, nor did they make the same idiosyncratic sounds as Rosie, their shoes clicked off the floor too. Rosie wore trainers. Red vintage Diadora. Nothing with a heel. Ever. My face remained in its contorted expression, becoming even more twisted when the visitor clicked the lock to close the cubicle next to mine. I heard the knickers being taken down.