A Long Way from Heaven
Page 43
‘No, Brother.’ The boy shrank further into his seat as the master hovered over him.
‘No! You admit that in the house of God you chose not to pray, to beg forgiveness for the revolting little creature you are, but to give your attention to a form of life even lower than yourself?’ He straightened sharply. ‘Do you still have this inspiring being in your possession?’
‘Yes, Brother.’
‘Then pray fetch it out. Let us all have the benefit of this wonderful piece of creation, so wonderful that it can lead one away from the path of righteousness.’
The boy inserted trembling fingers into his pocket and, feeling the insect’s tickling limbs, brought it out and made to place it on the desk. Before he could withdraw his hand there was a flash of movement and the painful taste of leather over his wrist. He cried out and held his smarting hand to his chest, leaving an upturned cockroach wriggling helplessly on the desk.
Sonny stared pop-eyed as the master made a brief visit to his own desk and fumbled among a tin of miscellany, then returned to Kearney’s place. Taking the object he had selected from the tin, a pin, he brought his hand down in a stabbing movement and skewered the writhing cockroach to the desk.
‘There! Now he may entertain us all for the rest of the lesson.’
Replacing the strap on its hook he returned to his desk, allowing everyone to breathe a little easier.
Sonny stole a glance at his neighbour who could not tear his eyes from his struggling pet and was still rubbing his pained wrist tearfully. Though they had not set out on the best of terms Sonny felt that he must offer some morsel of comfort, so defeated did the child appear.
‘He’s a rotten old pig, isn’t he?’
The master looked up sharply, his opaque stare touring the rows of shifty-eyed boys. ‘Did someone dare to speak? I was not aware that I had invited comment.’
‘It was me,’ piped up Sonny, drawing the master’s impatient glare.
‘Ah, the lunatic once again.’ Brother Simon Peter drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘Perhaps it is rash of me to ask, for what pearl of wisdom could a lunatic have to offer? But pray repeat your statement as I failed to hear it the first time.’ He waited; his bulbous lips held a sardonic warp.
Sonny was not to be intimidated as the other boy had been, but decided to moderate his former opinion. ‘I said: I think you’re rotten.’
There was a collective intake of breath and those seated in front spun round involuntarily to gaze at the new boy.
‘Eyes front!’ snapped the master and the boys quickly averted their admiring eyes.
‘So, you find my punishment of Kearney not to your liking, Feeney?’ said the master calmly. ‘That is truly most distressing, and there was I thinking that Kearney had been let off rather lightly. Tut, tut.’ He suddenly slammed his palm down onto his desk, dislodging a container of pens which clattered noisily to the floor. ‘Feeney, you tempt my patience to the point of violence. I do not like your face, Feeney, neither does my friend. Be very, very careful.’
How dearly Sonny would have loved to answer: ‘I don’t like yours much either’, but that would be seeking an introduction to Codgob’s ‘friend’.
‘Very well, we will, if Mr Feeney will allow us, proceed with our lesson which today is rather special. Instead of us employing the usual charcoal for our drawings, Brother Francis has instructed that we use these paints which he has provided – though why he should want to waste his own, personal property on scrofulous louts such as you is questionable – nevertheless, if that is his wish who am I to disobey? Shaughnessy and Connel, do the honours, if you please, while Mr Feeney provides us with a subject.’
Sonny inspected the room, pretending to think of a subject, knowing as he did what his reply would be.
‘Well, Feeney, have you sufficient intelligence to understand my request?’
Sonny nodded. ‘I have.’
‘Then what is it to be? Do not keep us all in suspense.’
‘I can only think of one thing I’d like to paint,’ said Sonny. ‘’Tis yourself.’
Brother Simon Peter raised the V above his nose in mild surprise. ‘Why, boy, I am beginning to revert my opinion of you. Perhaps you do display a modicum of intelligence after all.’ He turned to the rest of the boys who were spellbound by the repartee. ‘Let us hope that the end result of Master Feeney’s suggested subject will do credit to its owner.’
Sonny examined the large sheet of paper in front of him and felt the quality of the brush with his thumb. Though he had never painted before, the moment he picked up that brush something magical happened. Almost warily he dipped it into the paint and applied it to the paper. Then he withdrew the brush and studied the result: one black blob. A surge of excitement. One black blob in the middle of all that virgin sheet. All that white just waiting to be filled in.
After the first, few testing strokes he became more confident. The colours began to flow, taking shape of their own accord, as if it were not he who wielded the brush but some mysterious force outside him. It was at that moment Sonny decided that this was what he was here for. This was to be his life.
The man sat perfectly still. Each time Sonny looked up to study the model he met with cold, fathomless eyes, as if the master knew what was in his mind, as if there were only the two of them in the room. The large mahogany-framed clock ticked portentously, its brass pendulum beating away the seconds to the moment of judgment. Sonny, his original intention dissolved in the rush of creative discovery, painted on, dipping his brush from paint to paper, paper to water, water to paint.
When it was finished, Sonny laid down his brush and stepped back to inspect his masterpiece, and realised, even in his self-congratulation, that he had made a terrible mistake. But it was too late to alter it now for the subject had risen from his chair and, ignoring all the others, came straight to him.
The room was still, save for the ticking of the clock. All eyes were upon them, sensing that something was about to happen. Brother Simon Peter lurked behind Sonny and stared at the painting; at the enormous lips, red and bloated, the protruding eyes beneath the angry black vee. Though hardly audible his voice held patent menace.
‘This is your idea of a jest, Feeney?’ Something stirred in the opaque eyes, but what, the boy could not measure as he looked up, attempting innocence.
‘Why no, Brother.’ He returned his eyes to the painting which, viewed by any unbiased observer would have drawn immediate acclaim for the accuracy of its brilliant caricature.
The other boys exchanged glances and fidgeted uneasily. Someone ought to have told the new boy one did not play jokes on old Codgob. For one precious minute they thought that the man was going to laugh as his mouth twitched precariously at the corners. They should have known better.
Brother Simon Peter snatched up the paper and in a mad frenzy ripped and twisted Sonny’s beautiful painting until it resembled fine snow and was scattered to all corners of the room. Worse was to come. Grabbing the amazed boy by the collar he hauled him roughly to the front of the class where he glowered and slobbered over him, grinding his teeth, clenching and unclenching his hands.
‘Imbecile or not, you have gone too far this time.’ The nostrils flared white with anger. ‘You are about to learn that your attempts at humour can bring you nothing but pain. Take down your breeches.’
Sonny’s jaw dropped. He had been prepared for a punishment but not the humiliation that the Brother intended to mete out. He hesitated then said, with a resolute jut of his chin: ‘I’ll not.’
An air of apprehension from the gathered onlookers wavered under his nose. He could smell the fear from their grimy little bodies as the master, calmer but no less menacing, reached out and lifted the strap from the wall.
‘My friend is waiting,’ Brother Simon Peter said evilly. ‘The longer he has to wait, the angrier he becomes.’
Sonny was frightened now. His face grew pale, making his hair appear more vivid than ever. Still he did not move.
‘I’m no coward!’ cried Sonny, fumbling with his trousers and at the same time trying to unravel the sickening knot in his stomach.
He allowed his loosened garment to drop to his ankles, his face not white any more but red, trying to cover his nakedness with his hands.
‘Hands by your sides, boy.’ The thick lips trembled gloatingly and then with no further warning, the master grabbed his jacket, thrust him roughly over a bench and began to administer a harsh punishment to the little white rear, appearing to enjoy every lash.
Sonny squeezed his eyes and mouth tightly shut, trying to blot out the pain, counting each stroke. Five! Six! Seven! The sadistic teacher was totally absorbed in his task, almost drooling over the pink marks that began to multiply on the clenched buttocks. ‘Have you had enough, boy? Do I see you cry? Are you not sorry for the ungracious manner in which you treated your master?’ Saliva flew in all directions as he delivered his breathless demands, still beating enthusiastically.
But Sonny refused to give in, would never cry. He tasted the salty blood that swelled from his bitten lips. Eleven! Twelve!
Cry, boy, cry! willed the master.
But Sonny remained silent. Thirteen! Fourteen!
A quiet murmuring arose from the watching boys. Nobody had ever lasted this long before. Why did he not cry? Did he not understand that the blows would continue until he begged for mercy?
Brother Simon Peter’s arm rose again and again, his energy unflagging, beating himself into a trance, seeing not the boy Feeney but himself, cowering under the hand of his tyrannical father: ‘You will cry, boy! You will!’ Bells began to ring inside his head, joined by a steady buzzing noise. Not until his arm had risen and fallen many more times did he realise that the clanging was not in his head but in the corridor outside, signalling the mid-morning break. The buzz of consternation from the boys percolated his madness and he stopped, panting for breath, allowing Sonny to rise from the bench.
Painfully, but still dry-eyed, the boy pulled up his trousers and limped back to his place to help with the tidying of the paints. This done he followed the others to the corridor, and though he did not spare a glance for the master, Brother Simon Peter could not fail to detect the triumphant light in the boy’s eye.
The classroom was silent again. He was alone. Alone save for a pinioned, wriggling insect at which he now stared, his gleaming face alight with animosity. Leaning over, he detached the pin from the wood holding the skewered cockroach speculatively, turning the pin in his fingers so that the creature revolved.
‘He thinks he can beat me,’ murmured the Brother vaguely, studying the insect whose struggles were becoming weaker. ‘But we shall see.’ Very gently he placed his thumb and forefinger against the pin, pushing the insect towards the point, thereby releasing it. It fell to the desk, amazingly on its feet, and attempted to crawl away. The master placed a finger in its path, making it confused. It attempted to detour the obstruction but on turning found its way blocked yet again. Futilely the cockroach sought for an escape while the master looked on half-interestedly. ‘Yes, we shall see,’ he said again, and promptly brought his thumb down upon the insect, putting an end to its misery. Sonny was not to receive such mercy.
Chapter Forty-two
Someone lingered at Sonny’s elbow. He pretended not to notice and proceeded in his proud-shouldered gait.
‘You were daft you know.’
Only now Sonny fixed his grey eyes on his unwelcome companion. ‘Who asked you?’
The boy repeated his statement, undaunted by the glare of hostility. ‘You were daft. He’ll be after you every lesson now. Why did you not cry? He would’ve stopped hitting you then.’
‘I never cry,’ scowled Sonny jerking a thumb at his chest. ‘Anyways, it never hurt. Well, not much any road.’
He walked on, the freckle-faced boy still at his shoulder. ‘Sorry about your painting,’ the boy sympathised. ‘I thought it was real good, just like him.’
Sonny grinned. ‘Aye, it was, wasn’t it?’
The other grabbed his arm, drawing him to a halt. ‘Look, I’ve decided to forget about the way you insulted me this morning, seeing as how you stuck up for me with old Codgob.’
‘’Tis very kind of ye,’ answered Sonny, but his attempt at sarcasm was lost on the other.
‘Aye well, we lads have to stick together, don’t we? ’Tis the least I can do, to make up for the beating you took.’
‘I’ve had worse,’ lied Sonny.
The boy held out his hand which still bore an angry red weal. ‘Are we friends, then?’
‘If ye tell me your name,’ challenged Sonny. It was back to the argument of this morning.
The boy hesitated before answering, then decided that it would not be losing face to back down to a hero. ‘My name is George,’ he said, then gave a grin that was minus two front teeth.
Sonny, his own face creasing into a smile, took the hand that George offered. ‘Mine’s Sonny.’
‘I know that,’ laughed George, making Sonny remember that he had had to deliver his name to Brother Simon Peter.
He gave a sheepish grin. ‘Oh, aye.’
They walked on. George stepped aside as they came to the outer door, allowing Sonny to enter the playground first. Seeing them, Dickie, his stockings sagging tiredly around his ankles, ran over to meet them. He and his helpers had been hiding round the corner until they were certain that Brother Simon Peter’s lesson was over, but news had already reached him of his brother’s exploits.
‘I can’t leave ye for five minutes, can I?’ he sighed, apeing their mother. ‘Did I not warn ye what he was like? Did I not say he’d give ye a hiding if ye crossed him?’
‘He was real brave,’ cut in George. ‘He never cried.’
‘Our Son never cries,’ replied Dickie contemptuously. ‘Has he done much damage then?’ he asked, tugging at the waistband of his brother’s trousers. ‘Let’s be having a look at your bum.’
‘Will ye get your hands off!’ yelled Sonny indignantly, knocking his brother’s hand away, then relented. ‘Oh, all right, then. Away.’
A long crocodile of eager spectators followed their course to the privy and fought for a good ringside seat.
‘Eh, look at that,’ breathed Dickie as Sonny gingerly prised away his trousers, which had begun to stick to the broken, weeping skin. ‘Stand back everybody. Go on, back!’ he yelled herding the interested party out of viewing distance. ‘If ye want to see it ye’ll have to pay. Farthing a time. C’mon, those with no money can sling their hook.’
Amid a lot of grumbling George turned away. ‘I ain’t got no money.’
‘Nay, ye cannot charge him,’ Sonny told his brother. ‘He’s a pal.’
‘Look,’ replied Dickie who was busy holding back the crush of boys. ‘If we let him in for nowt they’ll all expect to get in free. Have ye no head for business?’
‘’Tis my bottom they’ve come to see,’ objected Sonny. ‘I say who comes in an’ who doesn’t.’
‘Suit yerself,’ replied Dickie releasing the pressure on the spectators; allowing them all to crowd in. ‘A rich man ye’ll never be.’
Sonny gave an exclamation. ‘’Twas your pockets ye were thinking to line. Now, c’mon, stop arguing and let ’em look if they want to.’
He moved this way and that so that everyone was able to get a good look at his injured bottom, basking in victorious recognition. It was only his first day at school and already he was a hero.
Dickie winced in sympathy. ‘Oh, our Son, how are ye gonna hide that from me Mam? She’s bound to see it sometime.’
‘Don’t you go saying anything,’ warned Sonny swivelling his bottom as those
around him ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ in admiration. ‘Else I’ll likely get another hiding off her. Then she’ll probably tell Dad and he’ll come down and give old Codgob a bazzacking, and then he’ll take it out on us, and me bum’ll be like mincemeat.’ He groped in his pocket for the bread and dripping which was by now somewhat the worse for wear and looked most unappetising. Nevertheless he bit into it with relish. ‘No, we men have got to keep these things to ourselves,’ he mumbled sagely. ‘’Tis nothing to bother the womenfolk with.’
Dickie laughed uproariously. ‘Get away, me Mam’s the only one you’re scared of.’
Sonny stuck his bread between his teeth and hauled up his trousers threateningly. ‘I’m not scared of anybody! I’m gonna have ye for that.’
But once again the sound of the bell intervened and the crowd rapidly dispersed, leaving Sonny to button his trousers and hurriedly bolt down the remainder of his snack.
In school he perched painfully on the edge of the bench and took the slate that someone handed to him, awaiting instructions. Brother Francis noticed the tiny, ginger-haired boy wince and gave a sigh of regret. It was inevitable, of course. Brother Simon Peter would brook no spirited behaviour nor tolerate any backtalk from cheeky little boys. He had never yet known a new boy to return from one of Brother Simon Peter’s classes without the customary stripes on his rear. He hoped the young chap had not suffered too badly; he had taken a great liking to Sonny, despite his readiness with a bold answer, and his colleague could be very severe. But no, he watched Sonny chattering happily to his neighbour – it would take more than a beating to break this young fellow’s spirit.
Brother Francis leaned over his desk and said in an authoritative voice: ‘Very well, boys, let us proceed with our arithmetic, shall we?’
The unanimous groan that met this suggestion relayed the fact that the boys did not hold him in the same awe as his grim-faced counterpart. They knew quite well that, beneath the stern exterior, the man was smiling.