The House of Slamming Doors

by Mark Macauley

  A chauffeur in a black Daimler from a firm called Gordon Jacks met us at Heathrow Airport and I was definitely quite excited as we drove through the airport tunnel past all the orange lights. The bit I didn’t like was when we pulled up at the school.

  ‘All right, old cock. Don’t forget to write to your mother,’ said the old man, all cheery, pleased to be rid of me. ‘And don’t forget to let your grandmother know when you get a weekend break. If she’s not too busy she’ll have you to stay. She’ll probably let you even bring a friend if you play your cards right.’ (Charlton was the next-door estate.)

  So I reached up to kiss him goodbye but he backed off like he’d been shot. He just grabbed my hand and shook it, very manly.

  ‘You’re a bit too old for all that stuff, Justin. All right, off you go now. Don’t stand gawping.’

  He jumped back in the car and they drove off. There I was left alone standing on the crunchy gravel beside my bags, watching the Daimler disappear down the drive. I knew my parents weren’t great but I never imagined they could just dump me here by myself. What had I done wrong?

  Our dormitory was enormous: a huge octagonal room on the first floor. There were about twenty beds. On the first night, Fanshawe, the dormitory monitor, who had already been there a couple of terms, told us what to do. ‘Right! Lights out, you little shits. No more talking.’

  We all curled up and tried to sleep but it was only 8:30 and the sun was still pouring through the windows and all I could think of was everyone at home out playing by the Liffey or on the farm while I was stuck here in bed in a weird place in the middle of nowhere. I had never felt so much loneliness before.

  I lay there that first summer’s night trying really hard not to cry. A few beds away I could hear another new boy, Evans-Williams, sobbing away, poor fella. Fanshawe was not impressed and shouted at him to be quiet.

  ‘Stop your snivelling or you’ll go on report!’ Evans-Williams didn’t stop as he couldn’t stop and the very next day he received three of the best from the headmaster. Three of the best meant three whacks on the bare bum from a huge white gym shoe.

  The headmaster of Junior House was called Jocelyn Trubbs-Laycock and he was quite old by the time I arrived. He never really spoke to me and I don’t think he taught me anything. He was just in charge. I do remember Sundays, though. On Sundays we could wear either our family kilt, or boy scout’s uniform if you had passed all the tests to be one. I couldn’t believe my eyes when Mr Trubbs-Laycock appeared for Church wearing full boy scout’s uniform, whistle, shorts, the lot. He looked hysterical because he was fat, very bald, and nearly sixty-five years old. No one dared laugh as we were all so afraid of him and his gym shoe.

  That summer of 1956, my first term, I was beaten twice. I don’t know why, I swear to God. For some reason I just can’t remember what he told me as he pulled down my shorts. I do remember it hurt but I didn’t cry. I just prayed really, really hard to God, to kill him.

  As a special treat every Saturday night we had a film-screening in this huge room. It was normally a war picture showing all these heroic British soldiers winning battles, like Reach for the Sky about the fighter pilot Douglas Bader who lost his legs in the war. On the first day back for the next term that autumn of 1956, we had a showing of a film called Whiskey Galore.

  Before the film started, the sports teacher, Mr Needham, appeared and told us all the ‘terrible news that your beloved headmaster, Jocelyn Trubbs-Laycock, has passed away during your school holidays’.

  I didn’t dare tell anyone that it might have been me who’d had him killed.

  Sixteen

  One should not lose one’s temper, unless one is certain of getting more and more angry to the end.

  William Butler Yeats

  Saturday, 16 November 1963

  Halfway up the avenue, Liam Cassidy is painting a black five-bar gate that leads into the lawn field, a huge piece of land where the horses are often galloped as the ground always manages to stay good, even when it’s been raining. Maureen Cassidy appears with a thermos and a packet of chicken sandwiches. She loves surprising her husband.

  The Jaguar rolls down the avenue towards the main gates. Bobby is driving. He is dressed in hunting green, the correct attire for hare-hunting. Helen sits beside him, clasping his huge Zeiss binoculars, wearing tweeds but still managing to look elegant. On the red leather rear seat sits Bobby’s hunting hat and crop, a full picnic basket and Cromwell.

  ‘It’s so quiet without the children now they’re back at school,’ says Helen. ‘Is that an awful thing to say?’

  ‘I miss the noise, sometimes.’

  ‘Do you really?’

  ‘Yes. Apart from the boy. I know it’s not his fault, but it’s his face. It’s such a reminder.’ Bobby is determined to remain firm.

  ‘I know, darling. I know. I’m sorry. I really am.’ She rubs the side of his huge arm with fondness.

  ‘Here we go!’ says Bobby as he stops the Jaguar beside Liam and Maureen sitting on the grass verge, eating sandwiches and supping tea. The Cassidys put down their cups and stand up. Liam doffs his cap.

  ‘Morning, boss. M’lady.’

  ‘M’lady,’ adds Maureen respectfully, and bowing slightly.

  ‘Good morning,’ says Helen.

  ‘So, what are you working at today, Liam?’

  ‘Em, after this? Digging the new strawberry patch. It’s a shambles, boss. An absolute shambles.’

  ‘Right, forget the strawberry patch. Do it tomorrow.’

  ‘Right boss.’

  ‘Grab a tractor and go up and plough the field, the one behind the haggard.’

  ‘Which one, boss?’

  ‘Which one? Which one?’ Bobby explodes. ‘Oh for Christ’s sake, the one we always plough. Can’t you think for your bloody self, Cassidy? Jesus bloody Christ!’

  Bobby drives off at high speed, looking thunderous, leaving Liam and Maureen in his wake. They are stunned: he’s often angry, the boss man, but never for no reason. Apart from anything else, if he is angry with the staff, it is never, ever, with Liam.

  As soon as he is out of sight of the Cassidys, Bobby relaxes, and a wide smirk spreads across his face. ‘What are you so pleased about?’ asks Helen.

  ‘Hey? Oh nothing. A private joke.’

  *

  We’re sitting in the classroom waiting for the teacher and I’m hungry as I haven’t eaten but I’m not sure what the first class is so I ask.

  ‘What’s first, lads?’ Oh feck it! Me and my big mouth.

  Adams, that fat git and class bully, can’t resist.

  ‘Lads? Lads? History, you stupid Irish bog man!’ Everyone laughs. Not because he’s amusing but because they’re all afraid of him as he’s bloody strong and whacks anyone who upsets him. I don’t care any more as I haven’t had a letter from Annie and I’ll fight him to the death if I have to, even if he thinks I’m only a skinny little Irish runt.

  ‘I’ll get you later Adams – you fat, spotty, toffee-nosed English twat!’ says I, surprising myself and everyone else with my bravery.

  Jesus bloody Christ, you could have heard a pencil drop. Adams looks as taken aback as the rest of those Anglo-Saxon wankers. But pride’s at stake and he pulls himself together and jumps up to come and get me. ‘You fucking potato-muncher! I’m going to beat you to …’

  ‘Sit down!’ I’m saved by the skin of my teeth as the history master Mr Brown enters the room. Silence. I watch him as he performs his normal ritual of placing his umbrella under his desk and a wicker basket on top with The Times, as usual, sticking out the side. I bet he never reads it. It’s just for show. Then he does something he’s never done before, and puts his right hand on his right hip and sort of leans back and addresses the whole world but not one person in particular, all in his special fake-aristocratic drawl.

  ‘The naked human body is the most beauuutiful thing in the whole world!’ Now we’re all united, us boys, scratching our arses and wondering what the fuck he’s on ab
out and I’ve just had enough of England and the bloody English for one day and I know I shouldn’t do it but I can’t help it.

  ‘Excuse me, sir?’

  ‘Ah Montague, with that rather trying Irish accent. Speak!’

  I can hear Adams chortling away behind me.

  ‘How long have you been teaching history, you fecking English pervert?’

  *

  At The Hall, in a field behind the haggard, Liam Cassidy sits on a noisy, shaky Massey Ferguson tractor, ploughing. Why, he thinks to himself, did he ask me to plough this stupid field? It doesn’t make sense. But then, nothing the boss man does makes sense.

  *

  I’m bending over and there’s only two more whacks to go and my arse is stinging but it was worth all ten with the enormous gym shoe belonging by that pervert of a house master, Mr Macadam. I stand up slowly, rubbing my sore behind. My arse may be red but I will not, absolutely not, let him see any change in my face. ‘I apologize for my behaviour, sir. It will not happen again,’ he says, panting and out of breath. Not only has he flayed me alive, he’s now teaching me what to say.

  He is a little deaf so I’ll make the most of it.

  ‘I apologize for my behaviour, sir, calling Mr Brown a pervert, which he is. It will not happen again,’ says I, softly.

  ‘What? What did you say?’

  ‘Nothing sir,’ says I, all innocent. ‘Just what you said.’

  ‘Get out! Out!’

  *

  It is mid-afternoon. The field behind the haggard is finished, beautifully ploughed. Liam Cassidy leans over a gate, admiring the straight lines. ‘Ah well, that’s what the man wanted and he pays the wages.’

  In Lady Helen’s bedroom, three Chanel evening dresses are laid out on the bed. Annie is standing in front of the dressing-mirror in a beautiful blue and gold ball gown. She talks to herself in a grand English voice. ‘The first dance? Of course, Sir Percy. Shall we?’ Annie swirls, spinning round in high heels.

  As she spins, she hears a car coming down the avenue.

  Inside the Jaguar, Helen is confused. ‘You still haven’t explained why you stopped so early. It was such a good day and the scent was so strong, I thought the hounds would go on for ever.’

  Bobby’s face is criss-crossed with bloody thorn scratches – heroic, manly scars from the hunting field.

  ‘Hey?’ Bobby, distracted, peers through his windscreen. Without warning, he shoves his right hunting boot on the brake and stops the car so fast that Cromwell falls off the back seat.

  ‘What now?’ asks Helen, growing impatient with her husband’s increasingly peculiar behaviour.

  Ignoring his wife, Bobby grabs his binoculars, jumps out, and stands looking into the distance. Through the 7 x 50 lens, even though it is almost dark, he can just make out the beautifully ploughed field. Bobby smiles and gets back into the car.

  ‘Darling, whatever’s the matter with you? You’re behaving very queerly!’

  Bobby doesn’t answer. He’s far too excited about what’s about to happen.

  Minutes later, the newly lit turf fire blazes in Bobby’s study. Cromwell, lying by the fire, snarls. Bobby is sitting on the black leather and brass fender and removing one of his hunting boots with a boot-jack.

  ‘Would you like to explain how, on God’s earth, you managed to plough the wrong field?’

  Liam Cassidy stands almost to attention, very wary, cap in hand. ‘I didn’t, boss. That’s the one you told me to.’

  ‘No, it bloody wasn’t! Do you like working here?’

  Liam is frozen with fear. Fear of giving the wrong answer, fear of losing his job.

  ‘I said, do you like working here?’

  Lady Helen walks into her bedroom and stops in her tracks. She cannot believe her eyes. ‘What on earth do you think you are doing?’

  Back in Bobby’s study, Liam is trying to stop himself from getting deeper into trouble.

  ‘The best job around, sir.’

  Bobby’s boot comes off with a pop. He waves the boot hook at Liam.

  ‘The only job around. I’ll tell you something, Cassidy, you’re not wasting my good money. So, in your own good time, with your own bare hands, you will turn back the sod. Every single piece. The whole field. Tomorrow!’

  ‘But it’s Sunday, sir, tomorrow, it is. My only day with the family.’

  ‘I don’t give a tinker’s cuss,’ says Bobby.

  Liam looks upset, but he is relieved. At least it’s over, he thinks. I still have my job, thank the Lord.

  Bobby is delighted with the execution of his plan. At the same time, he knows he will not be happy to see Liam go: Liam Arthur Cassidy, unlike the rest of the bloody Irish nation, is a great worker. It will take at least two men to replace him. Luckily, farm labour is cheap. Liam will just have to be sacrificed.

  Seventeen

  I am a Christian. That obliges me to be a Communist.

  George Bernard Shaw

  Sunday, 17 November 1963

  It’s ten in the morning and it’s wet. In the middle of the ploughed field stands Liam Cassidy, pouring with sweat, drenched with rainwater and replacing sods of earth. Bobby stands looking over the gate, watching. He is dressed for Mass, a Bible in his hand.

  ‘Ya big bully!’ Annie shouts at Bobby from behind.

  ‘Annie!’ Maureen is horrified at her daughter’s outburst.

  Bobby, straightening his face into a terrible scowl, whips around to confront Maureen and Annie. ‘You want to control your daughter, Maureen Cassidy. Not only has she a big mouth, but my wife caught her sneaking around in my house, in our own fecking bedroom, wearing my wife’s best clothes. Unbelievable!’

  ‘Yes sir. I heard. I’m very sorry, sir. I’ll have a word,’ says Maureen.

  ‘You do that. Otherwise, she’ll end up on the street, like so many of her type.’

  Maureen cannot believe her ears. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said: she’ll end up on the street, like so many of her type.’

  Maureen shouts across the field at her husband. ‘Liam? Time for Mass. Come on. Now!’

  Bobby pretends outrage. ‘Hang fire! I didn’t give him permission.’

  ‘You don’t have to give him bloody permission, because you can stick your job up your you-know-where,’ says Maureen, angrier than she’s ever been in her life. ‘You think you’re clever just because you married money. Well, you’re not. You’re nothing but a big gombeen!’

  Maureen storms past Bobby, through the gate, into the field, and up to Liam. Meanwhile, Annie cannot resist having another go at Bobby. She’s always hated him and now’s her chance to have a real dig.

  ‘Hey Mister? How come a horrible person like you managed to have such a great son?’

  ‘Ah, there’s the rub: maybe I didn’t. Don’t forget Mass now,’ says Bobby cheerfully.

  Eighteen

  Lack of money is the root of all evil.

  George Bernard Shaw

  Thursday, 21 November 1963

  It’s night at school. Everyone’s asleep and I’ve sneaked through the dark corridors and now I’m in the phone box. I’ve got Mum on the blower and she sounds sober, which is strange for eleven o’clock at night. ‘Mum? Can you hear me? I wanted to ask you …’

  *

  The Montagues are in bed. Cromwell lies between them, snoring happily. Bobby pretends to read his Horse And Hound while listening with great interest to Helen’s phone call.

  Helen continues without pause. ‘Very well, thank you darling. Although, it’s a frightfully bad line. Anyway, Night Train runs next week at Fairyhouse. He should win …’

  ‘As long as that arse of a jockey doesn’t fall off like last time,’ interrupts Bobby.

  ‘Oh, and I ordered a stunning gown from Sybill for the Kilcullen Hunt Ball. I do hope it’s not full of trogs like last year. Oh yes, your poor father is very upset. Liam’s wife …’ She hesitates and turns to Bobby. ‘What is her name, darling?’

  ‘Maureen,’ answer
s Bobby.

  ‘Anyway Justin, Maureen Cassidy was frightfully rude, and then Liam literally gave his notice, which is very unwise. Where’s he going to find work or a home for that matter? Justin? Are you there? Hello? …’

  Why has Justin put the phone down? She doesn’t believe she has been cut off.

  Bobby watches Helen carefully as she processes these thoughts. And in a moment of bravery, inspired by the fact that everything is going as planned, the way he wants it for once in his bloody life, Bobby grabs Helen, roughly.

  ‘Come here! Now, I said, you bitch!’

  Helen is speechless. Cromwell, startled, is kicked flying off the bed by his lord and master.

  Bobby is giving Helen, for the first time in years, what she has always wanted.

  *

  It’s like I’m in a dream and I’m looking at my feet then I’m looking down at the ground way below me and I know if I jump I’ll make a terrible splatter in the courtyard. I hope they make that fat wanker Adams sweep me up, all the bloody mess. I wish I was there to see it. So, Dad, you win. Sound man. Fair play to ya.

  I look up at the stars, twinkling away they are, and it’s my favourite time of day, night-time is, and the sky’s all clear but I’m still going to jump all the way down from the school roof exactly ninety-seven-and-a-half feet according to Callaghan, the maths master, and it’s a perfect evening to do it. I hope to fuck there’s a heaven otherwise I’m in big shit.

  He was a right eeiit, that Callaghan. He used to teach biology as well as maths and once he got a hold of these two South American toads, Romeo and Juliet he called them, even if he wasn’t really sure of their sex. He kept them for us to gawp at in a special temperature-controlled fish tank. God, it was the latest thing this contraption and Callagas-bags, as we called him, was really proud of it. One night there was a power cut all over Hampshire and when they put it back on, the thermostat switches went wrong on the fish tank. When we got in for first class there was poor old Callaghan, sentimental fucker, in floods of tears over his toads, who’d been boiled alive.