by Simon Bourke
“So,” she said, her voice faltering, “I went to your school this morning.”
“Did you, Nan?”
“Yes. We’ve to go back there this afternoon, me and you.”
“For what?”
“Do you want beans?”
“Yes, please, Nan. What do we have to go to the school for?”
She stood there with a carton of eggs in one hand and a tin of beans in the other, looking at him as if he were mad. “For a meeting, of course!”
The pan sizzled as she added the oil and slid three fat, juicy sausages into it.
A meeting, with Sheehan and Mr. Aylesbury, no doubt; but at least he’d have his nan with him. Chances were she’d do most of the talking, and he’d get away with mumbling a few sullen promises and half-hearted apologies.
“What time is it at, Nan?”
“Half four, when everyone is finished. I told you I’d get all this sorted out, Seány, didn’t I?”
“You did, Nan.”
“How many slices of toast? Four?”
The bread was in the toaster before he had the chance to reply.
“We’ll have you back in that school in no time, Seány,” she said, cracking the eggs into the close to overflowing pan. Soldiers going into battle wouldn’t have been fed as well.
*
“Come in, come in, Mrs. McLoughlin, yes. And you too, Seán; yes, yes.”
The headmaster of Dooncurra Vocational School ushered his two guests into the classroom which, at first glance had appeared empty, but there in the corner behind a desk sat the lonely, forlorn figure of Seán’s maths teacher, Mr. Sheehan.
“As you can see Mr. Sheehan is here, ready and waiting. He’s just as eager to get this resolved as you are, yes, yes.”
Mr. Aylesbury’s tone was entirely conciliatory, his ardour most likely dampened by the earlier meeting with Patricia McLoughlin. He wasn’t a very imposing headmaster to begin with; small and slight, with his hair slicked into a side parting, he could have been mistaken for an overgrown first year were it not for his immaculately-pressed suits and well-polished shoes. What he lacked in stature, however, he more than made up for in spirit. He possessed a dogged determination to make every one of his student’s lives a misery, or at least that’s how they saw it. If you were to ask Mr. Aylesbury, he would you tell he was working towards the betterment of Dooncurra Vocational School and nothing more. He would tell you he was entirely justified in dragging students into his office for not having their shirts tucked into their trousers, using profanities on the school grounds, or chewing gum inside the building; running in the corridors, littering, slouching or loitering. He was moulding these young people into mature, responsible adults, and he took his responsibilities very seriously.
Where Seán McLoughlin was concerned, there was an awful lot of moulding to do. This recent incident was just the latest in a litany of misdemeanours. He was neither a troublemaker nor a disruptive student, but he was burdened with an apathy and a general intractableness which made him almost impossible to teach. He’d discussed Seán’s progress or lack thereof with the boy’s mother on several occasions, but his behaviour had remained the same. So when his secretary told him that it was Seán’s grandmother, a Mrs. Patricia McLoughlin, who was waiting in his office when he arrived at 8.15 this morning, he had hoped for a more constructive meeting. Perhaps this woman could talk some sense into the boy? Instead, what he got was a dressing-down, a talking-to, the likes of which he hadn’t experienced since his own distant schooldays. He’d tried to reason with her but it had proved impossible. She was immovable, irrepressible; an absolute nightmare, in all honesty. In the end he had been happy just to get her out of her office, agreeing to meet her again later, on the proviso that she leave so he could have his morning cup of coffee.
Seán briefly looked at Sheehan as he took his seat, receiving a deathly stare for his trouble. The teacher was not happy and, regardless of the outcome of this meeting, it seemed unlikely that he and Seán would ever reconcile their shaky teacher/student relationship. They were seated in the same kind of chair that Seán used in class, and he had to resist the temptation to lean back and rest his feet on the table. Instead he sat upright as advised, and waited for Mr. Aylesbury to begin.
“Now then, now then, yes, yes,” the headmaster muttered, looking down at the table. There were a couple of sheets of paper and an official Dooncurra Vocational School stamp in front of him. Seán twisted his neck to try to read what was written on the paper, but it was upside down and too small for him to decipher. He had an idea of what was there, though: the details of his crime and quite possibly that of his punishment too.
“So,” continued Mr. Aylesbury, “we all know why we’re here so let us proceed, eh? Yes.”
“Indeed,” nodded Patricia firmly.
Sheehan sat back in his chair, his jaw jutting outwards, brow furrowed in annoyance.
“Now I’ve taken a statement from Maurice – Mr. Sheehan – about the events of yesterday afternoon. I believe the best thing would be to compare his version of events with Seán’s, so that we have some common ground.”
He looked at Seán expectantly. Seán in turn looked at his grandmother who nodded her assent, and so he began.
“Well, I was in maths yesterday, double class like every Tuesday, and it was about twenty minutes into the class. We were doing Pythagoras, I think, weren’t we, sir?”
He looked at Mr. Sheehan, eager to involve him in the conversation: We’re all friends here, boy, don’t be shy.
“Yes,” grunted Mr. Sheehan reluctantly.
“Okay, so we were doing Pythagoras and I don’t know what happened but I must have been daydreaming, ’cos next thing I know Mr. Sheehan is in front of me asking a question, and to be honest, sir, I hadn’t a clue what the answer was.”
He looked at the headmaster, hoping to find some sympathy there.
“Go on, Seán,” said Mr. Aylesbury quietly.
“So yeah, I didn’t know the answer to the question. I could have made a guess at it, but what was the point? I was caught rotten. I hadn’t a clue, and that was that.”
“And then what happened, Seán?” asked Mr. Aylesbury.
“Well, I suppose we had a bit of a run-in, meself and Mr. Sheehan, that is.”
“And what was the nature of the run-in, Seán? Yes.”
“Well, Mr. Sheehan said something about me fancying one of the young wans in the class and I don’t fancy her, sir; I don’t. And it made me wicked embarrassed ‘cos everyone was laughing, and I thought of the slagging I was going to get after class and I suppose I just flipped a little bit.”
Maurice Sheehan suddenly sprang to life. “A little bit? A little bit? You told me to fuck off! Three times!!”
He pointed his finger accusingly at Seán. It was the worst possible thing he could have done. Patricia reared up like a dragon leaving its cave after years of hibernation.
“Excuse me. Excuse me! Who do you think you are, pointing your finger at my grandson like that? Who do you think you are? Sit down and put your slimy finger away, you horrible little man!”
Mr. Sheehan looked at her in astonishment, clearly he hadn’t been warned beforehand. He had thought he was attending a routine meeting about a misbehaving student, which would involve said student being dragged across the coals and begging forgiveness for his sins. How wrong he had been; he was being faced down by a woman who ate men like him for lunch.
“But, but – ” he spluttered, looking to his colleague for reassurance. Mr. Aylesbury was busy, however, reading the documents in front of him; a wise decision on his part.
Satisfied that she had seen off the threat to her kin, Patricia turned to Seán and requested him to continue.
“Anyway, as I was saying, we had a disagreement and I said some things I shouldn’t have, and I’d like to extend my apologies
to you, Mr. Sheehan.” Seán stood up and put out his hand for the teacher to shake. Still reeling from his encounter with the dragon, Mr. Sheehan shakily got to his feet and sourly clasped Seán’s hand. Seán smiled at him, a ‘fuck you’ smile, a smile that said, ‘I’ve beaten you, and there’s nothing you can do about it.’
They sat back into their chairs and Mr. Aylesbury resumed command.
“Now, I have some forms I need you both to sign: here and here. Just for our records, you understand, yes.”
He slid the sheets of paper over to the McLoughlins and indicated where they were to sign. Patricia carefully read each page and then deliberately etched her signature where requested, passing the pen to Seán who signed with a flourish. The headmaster gathered up the sheets and stood up, offering his hand to them both and thanking them for their time. As they left by the main entrance, he called after them: “So we’ll see you in school tomorrow then, Seán, yes?”
“Sure thing, sir,” Seán called back as he skipped down the steps and away out the gate.
10.
And he was back the next day. He felt slightly aggrieved at having to return so soon, but at least this way the memory of his heroic encounter with Mr. Sheehan would be fresh in the minds of his classmates. His social standing within the school hierarchy was ordinarily somewhere in the middle; not cool enough to hang with the really cool kids, but some way above the nerds, swots and acne-ridden B.O sufferers. He was comfortable with that. He and his small circle of friends went about their business with a minimum of fuss. They drank occasionally, smoked hash infrequently and copped off with girls every now and then. They were known but not well-known. Was that about to change? Was Seán McLoughlin, an unremarkable student from humble beginnings, about to be rocketed into the stratosphere? Was he ready to sit alongside the beautiful, the gifted and the rich at the very summit of Dooncurra Vocational School’s most-influential list? It was a possibility. How many students had told a teacher to fuck off like that? Not many. And how many had sauntered off the school premises in the aftermath, only to return a couple of days later as if nothing had happened? Even fewer. In his view he was a warrior returning from battle, a soldier coming into port, the blood of his enemy still staining his fatigues. He had faced down the enemy, their common enemy, and sent it scuttling for cover. He was a legend, a king. No, not a king; that wasn’t enough. He was a god, and as soon as he walked through those school gates he would take his place on the throne. His subjects would line up at either side of him, throngs of them, four-deep as they strained to catch a glimpse of their hero.
“McLoughlin, ya nutter, wanna hang out with us after school – go for a few joints?”
“Hiya, Seán. I heard what you said to Sheehan and it made me so wet. Would you like a blowjob?” “Can I do your homework for you, Seán? Honestly, it’s no bother.”
“Seán, we need a new captain for our football team; can you do it?”
“Here, Seán, take this money and my new jacket; fuck it, here’s my runners too.”
And he would just smile in deference, eager to please his subjects. But not too eager, seeing as he was a god and all.
Seán usually walked to school with a couple of friends who lived nearby, Murt and Pegs. Because he was going from his grandmother’s house, however, he would have to travel alone this morning. That suited him fine; he didn’t want those two gobshites messing up his grand entrance. It didn’t take as long to reach the school when walking from Ard Aulinn, so he set out a bit later than usual. His plan was to arrive at about five to nine, when the majority of kids were still skulking around the main gates. He wanted his audience as large as it could possibly be. If all went well he would be enveloped by his adoring public, hoisted onto the shoulders of some of the sturdier lads and carried onto the premises to rapturous applause. He strutted down the road whistling a nameless tune, saluting cars, merrily kicking cans, stones and whatever else crossed his path. Rarely had he looked forward so much to a day at school. He passed a few groups of students as he neared the school but they were only little lads, first years who probably already thought he was a god. It was the big dogs he was looking out for; the tough lads from his year, the hot young wans from his year and, most importantly, the fifth and sixth years. As the school’s main building loomed into view he spotted a few lads he knew from his year, not friends, mere acquaintances, walking on the opposite side of the road.
”Hey, McLoughlin, what are you doing back? I thought you were being expelled.”
“Nah, man. I’m back today, I was only suspended,” he said cheerily.
The boy guffawed, as did his mates.
“Suspended? After ya told Sheehan to fuck off? Jaysus, they’re going soft around here, I reckon.”
“Must be,” Seán called back.
And that was that; the boys continued on their way and Seán on his. Not one mention of the word ‘legend’, not one ‘fair play to ya, boy’. But they were quiet lads; telling a teacher to fuck off wouldn’t impress the likes of them. It was the hard cases that’d be doing the back-slapping, giving the friendly punches on the arm and looking at him with new-found respect.
He hurried onwards. The gates were just around the corner; this would be his big moment. As he rounded the path and gazed upon the old grey school, however, his heart sank. Only a handful of people hovered around the entrance: kids being dropped off by their parents, a couple of lads chugging on the end of a cigarette. He looked at his watch and realised he’d mistimed his arrival. It was nine on the dot, everyone was already in class. Fuck it. The one morning he hadn’t wanted to be late. That was his big chance gone, now; the impact of his return would be lessened once word spread. People would still come up to him in the hallway to congratulate him, but that wasn’t the same as receiving the acclamation of an adoring mob.
There was nothing for it now but to get into class and salvage what he could. If he was lucky he’d get there before the teacher, and claim at least a moment or two of glory before lessons began. He jogged through the quiet hallways to the back of the school and room G14, where his English class was due to begin. There was no one outside the door, and he couldn’t hear the usual hubbub coming from inside; Ms. Enright was probably already here. What a disaster; now he would have to wait until break. But his lateness did allow him to make a grand entrance of sorts. He took a deep breath and opened the door. Ms. Enright – slim, mid-twenties, with mousy-brown hair and a penchant for long flowing dresses – turned to see who was interrupting her class.
“Hurry up, Seán, come on now. Sit there at the front beside Mary.”
He did as he was told and took his seat beside Mary, boring Mary who never said a word outside of the class but couldn’t shut her fuckin’ hole inside it. There would be no congratulatory words from her. He didn’t even get a chance to look back and gauge the reception. Were they shocked? In awe? Horrified? He would have to wait until this class was over to find out. It was a shame he was so distracted, because he liked English. They were studying Lorna Doone for the Junior Cert and, although he didn’t care to admit it, he had read the book from cover to cover in just a couple of nights. He was destined to fail miserably in most of his subjects, but not English. He thought he could get an A in English. Take that, Daryl. But today he wasn’t really interested in discussing the merits of R. D. Blackmore’s work; he just wanted the class to be over so he could be showered with praise, and blowjobs, if there were any going. In the seat beside him, Mary was rattling on about the conflicting desires of John Ridd or some other such guff, while Ms. Enright sat propped on the edge of her desk, listening intently. She was one of the younger teachers in the school, not particularly attractive but young and a teacher, which made her desirable in most of the boys’ eyes. Rumour had it that she was a lesbian, although that was based on nothing more than a lack of make-up and her resistance to the charms of the older lads.
It’d be great if she was a lesbian, t
hought Seán. Maybe that was why she liked Mary so much. The two of them were at it every evening after school. Ms. Enright provided grinds, and Mary was probably only too happy to receive them. They waited until the school was empty and then found a quiet room somewhere in the depths of the building, where they could do all the ‘grinding’ they wanted. Of course it wouldn’t start like that; they’d keep up the pretence for a few minutes of a teacher guiding a pupil through her work, both of them sticking to the ‘curriculum’, while all the time their loins became increasingly inflamed. Eventually, when she couldn’t resist any longer, Ms. Enright would put down her books, take off her glasses and approach Mary. The young student would look at her quizzically, but she knew well enough what was happening; she’d been waiting for this for a long time. She wouldn’t complain when her teacher began to carefully undress her, maintaining eye contact as she slowly removed each item of clothing until Mary stood there, naked and exposed, but more exhilarated, more alive than she’d felt in her entire life. She’d allowed herself to be pushed to the floor, groaning with desire as Ms. Enright peppered her with kisses, brushing her lips all over Mary’s naked body as she flitted in and out of her erogenous zones. Lost in the moment, Mary would pull Ms. Enright to her, whispering ‘I want you’ as she nuzzled and nibbled at her neck. The teacher would back away and for one horrible moment Mary would think she’d said the wrong thing, but when she saw Ms. Enright release her hair from its bun, shaking it free so that it spilled over her shoulders, her fears would be assuaged. The older woman would unzip herself and casually step out of her dress. She wasn’t wearing underwear, she never did, and so Mary would see it all, that which she’d dreamed of for so many nights. Ms. Enright’s figure was much fuller than she’d expected. Her breasts, plump and fat, hung free, their nipples erect in anticipation. But it was her pubic region that astonished her most; it was wild and unkempt, like a jungle just waited to be explored. And explore it she would.