by Roddy Doyle
—We were watching a thing on the telly last night, says Rita.
But Paula knows that Paddy wasn't in the house last night. She saw him going off in his taxi yesterday.
But maybe that's what it's about. It's the feeling of being together that matters, not whether or not they're actually sitting beside each other, cuddled up, whatever. They can still think We, even if they're miles apart. She doesn't know. There was only ever Charlo.
But maybe it's just sad. Clinging to something that's not there. She hopes not. She likes Rita.
She'd be in trouble if she didn't work. It isn't just about the money. She doesn't hate her work. She doesn't like it either. It keeps her going. The buses and trains, the hours
The panic attacks, whatever they are, don't come if she's busy.
They do come. But not as often, not as badly. She can't go too mad if she has to go to work. She measures it out in steps. One day at a time, sweet Jesus. Whoever wrote that one hadn't a clue. A day is a fuckin' eternity.
Jack comes home with a note. He's in the house a good while, upstairs, before he gives it to her. He doesn't really give it to her. He puts it on the table.
—What's that about? she says.
—You've to sign it, he says.
—That's not an answer.
She's never spoken to Jack like that. She doesn't think she has. She doesn't look at him.
But she stops that. She looks. It's her guilt, not his. She looks at him.
—What's up? she says.
—I've been suspended.
He's looking at the table, at the note, or the letter – whatever it is.
—What? she says.
But she heard him. She wants to run to the school. She'll go at the throat of whatever bastard wrote that note.
She's been making more soup.
Fuck all that.
—Why?
He says nothing. She picks up the note and reads it.
—Jesus Christ.
She looks at Jack. She throws the note at the table. It slides off the table and lands on the floor. Jack bends down and picks it up.
—They just fill in the fuckin' gaps, she says.
She takes the page from Jack. She looks at it again.
—My name, your name, the date he wants to see me.
—She, says Jack.
She brings the page closer to her eyes.
—Is it even a proper signature?
—Don't know, says Jack.
—Who is it?
—Miss O'Keefe.
—Who's she?
—Year Head.
—Okay. I thought she was nice. I'm a great fuckin' judge of character.
—She's okay, says Jack.
—Does she not have the time to write a proper letter? Dear, fill in the blank, I am sorry to report that your son or daughter, fill in the blank. For fuck sake. It's serious. Why, Jack?
—Why is it serious?
—No. Why?
She looks back at the note.
—It isn't even on it, she says. —Why are you suspended?
—I said something about a teacher, says Jack.
—Ah, no. What?
—I said he couldn't teach properly.
—Ah, Jack.
—He's useless.
—We're all useless, she says. —I don't mean that. But —
She looks at the note, at the date for the meeting – the order to appear.
—That's tomorrow, yeah?
—Yeah.
—Okay. Why did she take it for granted that I'd be able to go? Did she ask you for a time?
—No.
—Why didn't she phone?
—Don't know.
—Did you use bad language?
—No.
—Sure?
She puts up her hands.
—No, no; sorry. I believe you.
She gets her mobile. It's on top of the stereo.
—I was supposed to meet John Paul.
It's annoying. It's more. She wants to cry. One son drags her away from the other.
That's not fair. It's not Jack's fault. It is Jack's fault. It took ages for her to phone John Paul, weeks. To work up the nerve, the courage – whatever it is. Just to ask him to meet for a chat. But he'll understand. He's a father himself.
She holds the phone. She changes her mind. She won't text him. She'll phone him. She'll talk to him properly later.
—So, she says. —Okay. Now. Let's get ready for this.
She looks at him.
—What did you say to – who was it anyway?
—O'Driscoll.
—Mister O'Driscoll.
—Yeah.
—What did you say to him?
—I didn't say anything to him, says Jack.
—No messing, Jack. Please. Tell me.
Jack looks at her.
—You know ratemyteachers.ie?
—What?
—It's a website, says Jack. —You can rate your teachers. Like, give them marks and that.
—And is that what you did?
—Yeah.
—What's it like?
He kind of shrugs.
—You grade the teacher, he says. —Helpfulness, clarity, popularity.
—Is it legal?
He's surprised, worried for a second – he's thinking. Then he settles.
—Yeah.
—Sure, Jack?
—It looks like a report.
—Except it's for the teacher, says Paula. —Instead of the kid, like.
—Yeah.
—So, she says. —I don't get it. What happened?
—I gave him his grades. 1, 1 and 1.
—And that's bad.
—Yeah. Out of 5.
—Why did you do this, anyway?
—I just did, he says. —They were talking about it. In school, like. And, you know. I did it for all my teachers. I gave them all grades.
—All bad marks?
—No, he says. —Mostly good. They're sound, most of them. It was on the News, about ratemyteachers. Something about the teachers' unions giving out about it. And Gozzer – you know him. John – you say he looks like that cheesy singer.
—Tom Jones.
—Yeah.
—He's lovely.
This irritates Jack. He's almost squirming.
—He looked it up and filled it in, like. And he told us about it, so I did the same. I just filled it in.
He looks at her now.
—There's nothing wrong with it.
—Did you sign it, Jack?
—No.
—So, says Paula. —I'm still a bit lost.
—You can put in a remark, says Jack. —For each teacher.
—Ah.
—So, I wrote that he was a useless teacher. He is.
—And did you sign that?
—No.
—It was all – what? – anonymous?
—Yeah.
She points at the note from school.
—What happened?
—The religion teacher, Miss Kelly —
—She's nice, says Paula.
She remembers a good-looking woman, in a black suit. Smiling, leaning across the desk to shake hands with Paula, at the parent-teacher meeting last month, the first one Paula had ever gone to.
—Isn't she? says Paula.
—She asked us about ratemyteachers and what we thought of it.
—She ratted on you.
—Yeah.
—The fuckin' wagon.
—Yeah.
—The cunt – sorry.
She sits up.
—So, let's get this sorted, she says. —You told her about what you'd written.
—Yeah.
—Did you write about her, by the way?
—Yeah.
He's really blushing now.
—Nothing dodgy?
—No. Just, she was great.
—I'd better see it.
—What?
—The ratemyteachers
thing.
—Why?
—So I know exactly what it's about.
She stands up.
—And you're sure it's legal now, Jack?
—Yeah, he says. —Why wouldn't it be?
It's her turn to shrug.
—I don't know.
—The teachers just don't want it to happen. But it's okay. It's monitored and that. You're not allowed to swear or write anything too mental.
—Let's have a look at it.
—Okay.
They go up to Jack's room and, again, Paula loves the way Jack knows what he's doing, tapping away at the keyboard, like a bright kid in a bad film.
—That's the home page, he tells her.
—What's the home page?
—Kind of, the front. The contents.
—It looks nice, she says.
There's a group of students, some black ones and a gorgeous Chinese kid.
—Are they Irish? she says.
—Don't know, says Jack. —The idea came from America.
—It'll be an Irish picture soon enough, anyway, says Paula. —The way things are going. Are there any black kids in your class, Jack?
—One, he says.
—D'you like him?
—It's a girl, he says. —I don't really know her.
He's blushing again. She's standing behind him but she can see the colour in his neck.
She puts her hand on his shoulder. She leans nearer to the screen. She reads.
—Honest, Essential Critique. That's fair enough, isn't it?
—Yeah.
—Can you print this out for me, Jack?
—Don't have a printer.
—Oh. Yeah. Sorry.
Her defence is already in tatters.
—Doesn't matter, he says. —I'm buying one, myself.
—Are you?
—Yeah, he says. —I have half of the money.
—You're great, she says.
She squeezes his shoulder. He pulls it away. She takes her hand down. She has to keep learning. She never got this far with John Paul. He was gone when he was Jack's age.
She reads a bit more. A new world is upon us. Embrace it and thrive!
—That's a bit much.
She points at the words. She touches the screen.
He rubs the screen where she touched it. She wants to laugh; she wants to slap him.
—Let's see the evidence, Jack, she says.
He shifts the mouse. He clicks.
It's there. He scrolls down the list of teachers. There are little faces beside each name. Smiley faces and frowny faces. Most of them are smiley. He gets down to the end of the list.
—What's their problem? she says. —You all love them.
Jack shrugs.
—Show me the site for Mister O'Driscoll, says Paula.
—It's not a site.
—I'm trying my best, Jack.
—Okay.
He clicks. There's nothing there that makes much sense, at first. Jack touches the screen. She's tempted to wipe it with her sleeve.
—See? he says. —They're his marks. They're the comments, there.
—There's only four.
—Yeah.
—That's not many.
She reads the comments. She has to lean over.
—Sorry.
She reads out loud.
—We call him Dopey. No more info needed. Did you write that one?
—No.
He points at the third comment in the list.
—That one.
She leans down again. She reads.
—Useless.
She looks at Jack.
—It's not very nice, Jack.
—He is useless.
—Okay, she says. —Now I know.
She stands up straight.
—No, hang on.
She taps his shoulder.
—Show me Miss Kelly.
—Why?
—Go on. And the other teachers.
She hears no clicking.
—Evidence, Jack, she says. —You wrote nice things about the others, didn't you?
—Yeah; kind of.
—Come on, she says. —I'd better see it all. They'll have seen it, when I go in tomorrow.
He clicks. The screen goes white, and fills again. She leans down.
—Eight comments, she says. —She's popular. Which one is yours?