by Seamus Deane
‘How do you mean, gone?’
‘Gone, for God’s sake, and he was left like a man doing press-ups and the smell under him was like burnt toffee and there was smoke round his crotch. Gone.’
I laughed, embarrassed, for I really didn’t know exactly what was supposed to happen, and maybe being gone was part of it – although she seemed to have left very early. But the smoke and the toffee smell? I had heard nothing of that.
Joe was bent over his stick, jabbing at the gravel; his chin was so low on his chest that it appeared, for a moment, that his head had slipped.
‘When Larry got up, he was pulling his clothes together and crying and looking all around him. Over at the hedge, across the field from him, he saw a fox standing looking at him. It was still as a statue. Then it put up its head and barked.’
‘A fox?’
‘A fox. It was her. He ran out of that field and started running for the lights of the Lone Moor Road. Every couple of hundred yards or so, the fox would appear again in front of him, until just short of the first street lamp it disappeared, and Larry was able to get down the street and in home. He was babbling. They got the doctor, put him to bed; his fiancée came and all the relatives, neighbours, everyone, and the priest was sent for. He heard Larry’s confession and gave him the last rites. When he came out of Larry’s room, the priest went straight up to the fiancée, took her aside, told her the marriage was off, that she was to forget Larry, that Larry would never marry, could never have children, would never know a woman in his whole life. So there. That’s the story of poor Larry.’
‘And that’s why he never talks but stands there looking up Bligh’s Lane where it all happened?’
‘That’s right.’
We were both silent.
‘But the priest,’ I ventured, ‘he couldn’t have told anything if he had heard it in confession.’
‘He didn’t have to; Larry was raving for weeks after. It all came out. People sat around listening and crossing themselves and crying.’
Joe clattered his stick up and down on the railings. It was almost dark by now. The factory lights were on full; they must be working overtime there. The library windows were blazing too.
‘But I thought you said she was the woman in the painting? Did he recognise her, tell everyone it was Mademoiselle Murphy?’
Joe looked up at me in surprise.
‘What are you raving about? What woman? What painting? Larry never saw a painting in his life.’
‘But you said he had carnal knowledge of that woman, the King of France’s woman.’
‘Christ, go home and stick to your stupid football. Never let me see you near that art room again or I’ll report you. Your have a dirty mind. What woman? Carnal knowledge. What would you know, you dirty-minded scut?’
He banged his stick against the railings, and I jumped back as he snarled at me, his false teeth coming right out on their pink shield, and his face folding in. Then he sucked them back again in a flash and stomped off round the pond, struck uphill towards the factory, waving his stick and talking furiously to himself The clouds above the factory were rolling high for thunder. Even as I ran up the steps and past the shining library windows, the first growlings came and the heavy drops of rain made exclamation marks all over my shirt. I was soaked long before I got home.
MATHS CLASS
November 1951
Every morning, at nine o’clock sharp, he came rushing into the room, his soutane swishing, his face reddened as if in anger, his features oddly calm. We would be ready with the thick tome of algebra open at the right page and as many questions as possible prepared in advance. He spoke nasally but smilingly. He had tight curls and glasses; but for the redness, he could have looked harmless. His name was Gildea.
He sat at the high desk, raised on a platform above the class. He lifted his chin, closed his eyes and chanted:
‘Mental algebra. Ground rules. Well-known, but must be repeated, first for the sake of the brain-dead and the memory-less, who are in the usual staggering majority; second as a warning to those more fortunately endowed, but who take a litigant’s pleasure in claiming that they have not been told, that they do not know, that the rules are not clear. I lie awake at night, imagining for these creatures a condign punishment; yet I have failed. Does this bespeak in me a failure of imagination, or in them an unanswerable corruption? You may answer the question, McConnellogue.’
‘I’m afraid I cannot, Father,’ replied McConnellogue automatically. This was routine.
‘Your sorrow is touching. Perhaps you do not realise the importance of the question. Harkin, be so good as to inform McConnellogue what a litigant is.’
‘A litigant is a person who creates disturbances by abuse of the rule of law, Father.’
‘Do you agree with that superb definition, McConnellogue?’
‘Absolutely, Father.’
‘You are not litigious, McConnellogue, are you?’
‘No, Father.’
‘I shall test you in that statement. Are you more literate or more numerate as a consequence of my loving care, five times a week, forty minutes per time, McConnellogue?’
‘I am equally blessed in both respects, Father.’
‘Would you say that McConnellogue will go far, Heaney?’
‘I would, Father.’
‘Under what conditions would you say so, Heaney?’
‘Under the conditions imposed by the question, Father.’
‘Are you conversant with these conditions, Duffy?’
‘I am, Father.’
‘What’s your name, Duffy?’
‘Duffy, Father.’
‘Glad to hear it. Now, ground rules. We have here, in this venerable textbook, forty simple sums in algebraic form, to each of which there is only one correct answer. There are, in this room, forty boys. One sum for each. The coincidence is pleasing. We begin with Johnson, the strange-looking creature in the left-hand corner of the front row. He gives the answer to number one in no more than two seconds. If he takes longer, he will be deemed to have given a wrong answer. McDaid, the object next to Johnson, takes number two, and so on throughout the whole zoo-like assemblage we, in our politeness, call a class. However, if Johnson is, in McDaid’s considered opinion, wrong in number one, he, McDaid, does number one over again and gives the correct answer. If the person next to McDaid happens to believe that Johnson was right in number one, and McDaid wrong to correct him, he skips number two and does number three; whereupon McDaid must, if he agrees with this verdict, re-do number two. Equally, the person next to McDaid also has the choice to believe that both Johnson and McDaid were wrong in number one; if he takes this choice, he does number one over again. And so on. The choice enriches as one proceeds, so that by the time we reach that evolutionary cul-de-sac named Irwin at the back of the class, the choice will be veritably kaleidoscopic. If any sum is done wrongly by any preceding student, whether that be immediately or more distantly preceding, the student who observes this must do that sum correctly. If a sum is done incorrectly, the punishment is a mere two strokes. If a sum done correctly is incorrectly corrected, the punishment is four strokes. If the whole class misses a sum incorrectly answered, homework is doubled. If it misses more than one sum incorrectly answered, homework is doubled for the number of nights corresponding to the number of missed incorrect answers. If every sum is answered correctly, the sun will stand still in the heavens, and I will take up the teaching of a secure and sure subject, like religion. Right. Johnson, proceed. Two seconds from now!’
Johnson began.
‘X equals minus two.’
McDaid followed.
‘X equals three.’
It went round, very fast. The row in front of me was into it now. Suddenly, Gildea intervened.
‘What number are you doing, Harkin?’
‘Number thirteen, Father.’
‘Fair enough. You evidently believe that number twelve was correctly answered?’
Harkin hesita
ted.
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Fair enough. Your decision. Next man. Two seconds only.’
‘X equals four.’
‘What number was that?’
‘Number twelve, Father.’
‘You consider it was wrongly answered, then?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘So Harkin should have done it again?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Harkin?’
‘I believe number twelve was correct, Father.’
‘And with that, all preceding number twelve, otherwise you would have repeated one of them?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Next man. Not you, Molloy. You have just corrected Harkin. The squalid thing beside you. Is it alive?’
‘I am, Father.’ This was O’Neill.
‘No exaggerations. Just give me your answer.’
‘X equals five, Father.’
And that is the answer to…?’
‘Number thirteen, Father.’
‘Ah. So Harkin was wrong to have done number thirteen and wrong in having done it?’
‘Just wrong in the answer he gave to it, Father.’
‘Then number twelve was, in your Opinion, done correctly?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Then Molloy was wrong in correcting number twelve?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘So why did you not do number twelve again?’
‘It had already been done correctly, Father.’
‘But the man preceding you had done it wrongly? Ground rules state you correct the preceding error, right?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Did you?’
‘No, Father, but …’
‘Quiet! What number are you going to do now?’
‘Number twelve, Father.’
‘Answer?’
‘X equals four.’
‘This was a correction of Molloy? Yes?’
O’Neill had blundered and knew it. He just nodded.
‘Molloy, your answer was “four”, was it not?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘But that was wrong, I’m told. Now it’s right. Where are we here? Is this mathematics or is it chaos?’
Silence. Gildea smiled.
‘The difference should be discernible, even to you people. Duffy, proceed, unravel the mess.’
‘X equals two.’
‘What number was that the answer to?’
‘Number one, Father.’
‘You think the first sum was wrong?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes, what?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Sir? Sir? Have I altered in appearance? Has my Roman collar become a tie, my soutane a suit of mouldy tweed?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘You insist on “Sir”?’
‘Yes, Father.’
The class tittered and then went still.
‘A spark of wit; I enjoy that. It cannot go unpunished, of course. But to the point. The first sum was wrong, you say. So all since that have been wrong?’
‘Technically, yes, Sir.’
‘Technically? Ah, a litigant speaks.’
‘Just ground rules, Sir.’
‘Were they, or were they not, wrong?’
‘Some were wrong in themselves, Sir. Some were wrong in that they were done before number one was corrected, Sir.’
‘Wonderful. A true litigant. You’re sure of yourself, Duffy?’
‘Absolutely, Sir.’
‘Right. Let’s start all over again. First man, first sum.’
‘X equals minus two.’
‘You stand by that?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Duffy was wrong then?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘All this trouble for nothing, then?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘All agree?’
‘Yes, Father.’ A chorus.
‘Right, Duffy. Compute your error. One wrong answer – two strokes. One correct answer, “corrected” wrongly by you – four strokes. Eleven perfectly correct or undisputed answers cancelled by you on the grounds that they should not have been given when, in fact, they should have – forty-four strokes. Waste of time, six strokes. Playing the professional litigant, twelve strokes. Insolent mode of address, ten strokes. Moment of wit, six strokes. Can you add that?’
‘Eighty-four.’
‘Eighty-four what?’
‘Eighty-four strokes, Sir.’
‘Right. We’re getting somewhere. You can add, you are learning your catechism, you are about to learn a lesson about the overweening confidence that has always marked you and your ilk. What is it that this soothes my heart like?’
‘Balm, Sir.’
‘A correct answer at last. Out you come.’
‘No, Sir. I was right. They are wrong.’
‘Oh, my. Oh, my. Duffy’s right, everyone else is wrong. I see storm-clouds gather. I see apocalypse threaten. We are all innumerate but Duffy. Harkin, do that sum again, on the blackboard this time. So we can all see.’
Harkin scrawls on the blackboard.
‘Can you refute that, Duffy?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘It’s the correct answer?’
‘Yes, Sir. To the wrong sum.’
‘The wrong sum? THE WRONG SUM? This is ecstatic. You surpass yourself. Explain, we’re all agog.’
‘I’m doing section B, Sir. Everyone else is doing section A.’
‘And why do you choose B, when we all choose A?’
‘Because we did Section A yesterday, Sir. I assumed you did not want us to repeat what we already knew.’
‘Anyone else remember our doing Section A?’
‘Yes, Sir.’ A chorus.
‘Did I specify Section B, Duffy?’
‘No, Sir, but you did not specify Section A either.’
‘How many strokes do I owe you, Duffy?’
‘None, Sir.’
‘Your opinion, not mine. Class, stay in your seats. Do nothing. First boy I see do anything useful, two strokes. Duffy, leave the class. Class, homework doubled. Duffy, homework quadrupled.’
He hunched over his desk, glaring. The door closed quietly behind Duffy. We stared into mid-air.
SERGEANT BURKE
May 1952
Rory Griffin and I were totally enclosed within a circle of six of them. Willie Barr, their leader, kept licking the side of his mouth with his thick tongue. He was stones heavier than us; older, much tougher. He held his fist out to let Griffin see the pennies lodged between his clenched fingers. ‘That’s what you’re going to get hit with,’ he snarled. ‘And then you! He showed me his fist. Griffin first, because he was bigger. He pointed to his smaller comrades, telling them in what order they would hit us. Griffin was white with fear. I supposed I was too. There was a tremble in the back of my legs that really sickened me, for I knew it meant I wouldn’t even be able to make a decent attempt to run. They were too close anyway. Griffin went down at the first blow, his face cut round the mouth. He was crying as Barr pulled him up for the next blow. Someone called: ‘Cops!’ and tersely Barr said, ‘Everybody sit down, in a circle. Pretend to laugh at something.’ I was pulled down with them as the police car moved slowly along the road twenty yards away. The passenger window was down, and the policeman was looking out. It was Sergeant Burke, getting a lift home from the Lecky Road barracks. ‘Don’t either of you move,’ warned Barr. ‘Griffin, don’t you try to look round! Griffin was still sobbing quietly and looking at the blood smear on his hand where he had wiped his mouth. I looked at Barr’s forearms and heard the pennies jingle in his palm. I moved and felt a stone rub the inside of my leg, snaffled it, jumped up and threw it as hard as I could at the car, now almost past. The stone bounced on the car boot and struck the rear window. ‘Holy fuck,’ shouted Barr as the car reversed in a whine and everyone ran, including Griffin. I stayed where I was. I couldn’t move. The tremor in the back of my legs had gone, but now
I felt my feet were melting in my boots. The driver of the police car, a young constable, was upon me already, and Burke was leaning on the car door, a few feet away. The constable grabbed my shoulder and might have cuffed me if Burke had not said, very casually, ‘Just bring him over here, Constable. He’ll walk over himself’ I did and stood between them. Burke heaved himself off the side of the car, strolled round to the back, looked at the window, fingered the little chip mark the stone had made in the glass and the flake of paint it had loosened on the boot. Now why did you do a thing like that, sonny?’ he asked in an almost soothing voice. I said nothing. Although I had my back to them, I knew Barr and the others were watching from the top of the back field. ‘Beat the shit out of him,’ shouted one. Burke stared up at them. ‘Nice friends you’ve got there. You want to give me their names? Constable, get out your notebook and write in it.’ Burke gestured towards them and brought his face close to mine. ‘I don’t care, you understand, if you give me their names or not. I know every one of them. Willie Barr, for instance. Seamus Greene. Just write those names down, Constable. You, sonny, I know you don’t want to talk. I understand that. You can just nod your head, that’s right, isn’t it?’
I nodded. That was co-operation enough for Barr.
‘Fuckin’ stooly. Just like your uncle, like the whole lot o’ ye,’ shouted Barr. Burke clucked his tongue, opened the back door and half-ushered, half-pushed me in on the black leathery seats. ‘Drive on, Constable,’ he said, getting in beside me. ‘My tea’s getting spoilt. We’ll give this wee lad a walk home to teach him a lesson. All right, son?’ Fuck off,’ I muttered and the constable turned round angrily. Burke laughed and restrained him. ‘No, no. We can’t hit the wee lad; that’d make a hero of him. Just what he wants. Right, son?’ He squeezed my thigh with his hand, leaving brief white pressure points on my flesh. ‘Drive nice and slow, up his street, this one, to the top, then turn left? I saw women standing at the doors, talking, as they always did, and the men lounging around the street lamp at the corner, smoking their thin cigarettes. Their faces followed the car as it lazed up the steep street. Burke was smiling towards me and waving his notebook in the air. But he wasn’t saying a word, just staring at me out of his red, fleshy face.