“Sorry Michael, I must be a bit on the slow side, tonight,” said Rocky, “but I could have sworn I just heard you say you were moving in with Maureen.”
“Well, just for a bit, like,” repeated Quinn, the note of forced joviality causing his voice to go up an octave, “just to see how things go. Her flat mate moved out a couple of weeks ago so she said why didn’t I move in for a bit and see how things went. She said we’ll see how things go and... and... she’s not going to even charge me rent ... and ... we’ll see how things go, and ... well, you can’t say fairer than that.” He began to pick his nose with an air of nonchalance that didn’t fool his friends for a moment.
“I know she does a nice breakfast, Mick,” said Sweeney, “but I was wondering whether you thought the whole thing might be a bit... premature?”
“Premature!” repeated Quinn indignantly. “There’s nothing wrong in that department, I can assure you...” His voice trailed off. “Oh, I see... premature...” His brow furrowed for a second and he gave his arse a ruminatory scratch. “Well, you could say that, I suppose, but as far as I can see it’s a shot to nothing. I’m not paying any rent, so I can’t lose out whatever happens.” His brow cleared and a look of reminiscence overtook his face. “And after what she did to me last night...”
“And I assume we’re not talking black and white pudding here.”
“To be honest, it was more black and blue by the time she’d finished!”
“Well, good luck to you both, anyway,” said Rocky and there was a chorus of agreement. “She’s a brave girl, she must be if she’s happy to share a toilet with your arse.”
“Right, who wants a beer?” said Micky, clearly anxious to change the subject. “I’ll go and see if I can drum up some service.” Soon the food arrived and O’Driscoll found himself tucking into a lamb vindaloo, which he knew would play havoc with his constitution the next day. By the time he finished his curry and had another couple of beers, he was in the mood for mischief. Noticing Rock’s mobile telephone lying on the table, he nudged Micky and whispered, “Come on, let’s make a phone call.”
Rocky, who worked in I.T., was the possessor of a mobile phone, a great big clunking thing which he took everywhere with him because it was a condition of his employment that he be on call to deal with any unexpected systems problems. Although hardworking and conscientious, Rocky resented taking calls when he was away from the workplace and his friends had become accustomed to the sudden ring of Rocky’s phone triggering a convulsive start and a querulous response along the lines of, “What do the bastards want now and why can’t they leave a hardworking man to have a quiet evening with his mates?!”
It was not long before one of his friends (no one was sure who it was, although many claimed credit for it) had a brainwave and soon no night out was complete without a small delegation creeping off and calling Rocky’s mobile from the nearest payphone. Tonight was no different and on at least four occasions, the large clunking phone began to ring, causing its owner to leap into the air and swear violently. Those watching made mental notes, like judges at a talent contest, of the scores they would later award his reaction, while behind Rocky in the foyer area, O’Driscoll and Quinn could be observed holding up the restaurant payphone and representing the action of laughter in an elaborate mime.
What time the party broke up it would have been difficult for O’Driscoll to say. All he knew was it was an inauspicious start to a week in which he had only that morning promised himself he was going to reduce his alcohol intake drastically, take up running and clean up his act. Never mind, he reflected to himself as he arrived home, he had got the devil out of his system early this week, and it would be easier to ignore his seductive whisperings in the days to come. Pouring himself a final nightcap, he offered a silent toast to his friend for accomplishing the not inconsiderable feat of turning up to his own girlfriend’s birthday party late, pissed, unwashed and presentless and somehow managing to get away with it. A few minutes later the glass slipped from his fingers and red wine began to trickle gently down into the body of the sofa, and on that note John O’Driscoll drifted into sleep and into another day.
Tuesday
The moment he woke up, O’Driscoll’s insides told him that he was in for a challenging day. His bowels had turned to water, but the combination of vindaloo and lager in industrial quantities had produced a more sinister liquidity than the common or garden one typically triggered by the prospect of facing Father Kennedy and his morning ablutions were of a protracted and painful nature.
Upon arrival at school, he decided to skip briefing and spend the time in his classroom preparing for the day ahead, but as he entered the corridor a familiar figure rolled into view and bade him good morning. Prudence, for it was she, asked whether he had had a pleasant Monday and upon receiving an affirmative grunt in reply, went on to say that she herself had had a most interesting day learning all about the business of the school and wasn’t there a lot to remember but she supposed that everyone found it confusing at the beginning and it probably all became easier once one gained a little experience and she was so looking forward to seeing the little ones again and did he think that they had missed her, she had certainly missed them, and she didn’t want to be premature but she thought that she had made just a little impression on them and did he think she had made an impression on them and she couldn’t wait to get started because today was the day she was finally going to teach them and she had spent the whole weekend preparing a themed cross curricular multi-cultural project involving the Beatrix Potter characters and didn’t he think it was a much more, well, exciting way of bringing the curriculum to the youngsters and wasn’t it a privilege to be able to have a part in developing those wonderful little minds and had he noticed that funny smell again, it was a bit like a mixture of garlic and petrol?
Making a mental note to double his normal dosage of extra strong mints, O’Driscoll looked at the small figure bouncing before him and considered his response. He knew that part of the mentoring role he had agreed to undertake involved Mr. Barnett doing a lesson observation on Prudence after the first week or two, to see how much of a positive effect O’Druscoll’s input had on her practice. At the time, he thought little of it but now, in light of the scrutiny the temporary teachers themselves were said to be under, he was uncomfortably aware that Prudence’s teaching might hold the key to his future at Saint Catherine’s. It was not a comforting thought and, as he regarded the rotund figure capering about in front of him, his heart dropped into his boots.
“Er... do you remember on Friday we talked about what we’d do this week,” he began, speaking slowly and patiently, “and we agreed that during lesson three and four you would do some differentiated phonics work, followed by a writing task based on the family histories the children have been working on.”
The two great orbs that were Prudence’s eyes regarded him with something like reproach. “I know we said that’s what I’d do but I couldn’t help looking at the Peter Rabbit stories again over the weekend and I got so excited and I’m sure the children will enjoy it much more than silly old phonics and I’ve done lots of preparation and it will be the best thing they’ve ever done and they’ll remember it for the rest of their lives.” She began to jump up and down clapping her hands and making little squealing sounds. “Oh, please say yes, John. Please...”
“Prudence, I did make a promise to Mr. Barnet that I would help to make your placement a successful one,” said O’Driscoll, trying to speak in slow and measured terms. “And I do think it would be... unwise to try that particular approach with 5R until you’ve got to know them a little better.” She gave him a crestfallen look and he went on, “There’ll be plenty of time to try your project out in the future. Now, do you want to go through the lesson plan before the kids come in, there won’t be time during lessons one and two, and I’ve got to see that ed. psych. at eleven o’clock?”
“So you won’t actually be with me during lesson three and four?” asked Prudence and if O’Driscoll hadn’t been suffering quite so much from the previous night’s depredations, he might have detected a gleam in her eye as she spoke.
“I’ll be there for the first ten minutes to see you safely started but then I’ll have to go,” he replied. “I don’t know how long the meeting will last, but I’ll be straight back. Don’t worry, everything will be fine.”
“I’m not worried now,” answered Prudence, and a more observant watcher might have observed the same glint in her eye as she spoke.
At the duly appointed time, and having overseen Prudence as she set the class a phonics activity, O’Driscoll made his way to the conference room to discuss the challenging behaviour of a child in his class which had led to a referral to the learning support team. Having agreed with the educational psychologist a home/school programme to address the child’s needs, he made his way back towards the Year Five and Six corridor, looking at his watch as he did so and registering that he had been out of class for no more than twenty minutes. As he turned into the corridor, he could hear voices coming from 5R’s room, and he slowed down so he could get an idea of how the children were behaving now that Prudence was, for the first time, alone with them in the classroom.
The first thing he heard was a female voice declaiming, “I’m Jemima Puddlefuck, I’m Jemima Puddlefuck!” to the sound of laughter and exaggerated intakes of breath.
“Oo-er!” There was a long drawn out exclamation of mock horror from another female voice. “Miss Poo, Miss Poo, did you hear what she said?”
“Yes darling, I did, but I’m sure it was just a slip of the tongue,” cooed the voice of Prudence.
“If she’s Jemima Puddlefuck, then I’m Peter Shaggit,” said a deeper male voice which O’Driscoll recognized as belonging to Joe Cahill, and this generated another chorus of loud and ribald laughter.
Upon opening the door and entering the room, the first sight that met his eyes was the figure of Prudence, her face half-covered by a cardboard mask, bouncing along one of the aisles in a series of exaggerated hops. She was surrounded by a crowd of raucous, laughing children, some of whom were egging her on with whoops and shouts. His arrival was the signal for a magical transformation, with serried rows of little faces instantaneously replacing what had earlier been a scene of chaos.
“Oh, hello, John... er ... Mr. O’Driscoll,” said Prudence, smiling sweetly. “After you left, we had a discussion and the class decided to vote on whether to keep doing boring old phonics or try something different.” She smiled proudly. “Do you know there wasn’t one child who didn’t vote against boring old phonics, that’s what we’ve agreed to call them, by the way, and, well, I’m sure you can see how much we were all enjoying ourselves.” Manfully resisting the temptation to tear his colleague limb from limb, O’Driscoll gently but firmly reminded her of the requirements of the National Curriculum and the remainder of the lesson passed off without incident.
Walking towards the staff room, O’Driscoll suddenly caught sight of the figure of Father Kennedy in the distance. He was still a long way off and deep in conversation with Sister Bernadette, but there was no doubt that if he continued on his present course, he would pass O’Driscoll in the corridor. It would be the first time they had met since the confessional calamity of the previous Sunday and O’Driscoll had spent the days since wondering if he should try to broach the subject with the priest. The trouble was he could think of no set of circumstances that would explain why anyone would feel the need to masquerade as Paul Gascoigne while partaking of a holy sacrament.
As his nemesis approached, still deep in conversation with Sister Bernadette, O’Driscoll looked wildly around, but seeing no obvious escape route, deciding he would just have to try and brazen it out. He began strolling casually down the corridor but the nearer he got to Kennedy, the more conscious he became that his body seemed to have taken on a life of its own, for he was progressing in a series of elongated loping strides that John Cleese himself might have struggled to emulate, while his arms had begun to swing like great hairy pendulums. Taking a deep breath, he stopped and, taking the plastic wallet containing his afternoon’s lesson plans out of his pocket, began to examine the pages with studied concentration.
As the two approached, he decided to give the pose just the right note of relaxed unconcern by leaning negligently against the wall, but unfortunately he had chosen to execute the manoeuvre outside an open classroom with the result that he shot sideways through the door and crashed into a set of lockers in the entrance lobby. By the time he had extricated himself from the jumble of student possessions, Sister Bernadette and Father Kennedy were almost upon him. He snatched a look at them as they passed, and caught sight of Sister Bernadette’s face wearing its usual benign but sober expression. Kennedy, on the other hand, gave him a glare that would have sent a whole cathedral full of first communicants running for their lives, and his nostril hairs danced a manic fandango of disapproval, but other than that, he said nothing and passed on his way, leaving O’Driscoll clinging weakly to the wall and reflecting that at least the meeting he had been so dreading had passed.
His marking completed, O’Driscoll made a detour to his flat to pick up his kit and then headed off to five-a-side football. It happened that on that particular night, the pitch was available only between the hours of six and seven o’clock, leaving the players showered, changed and on the streets at the dangerously early hour of seven-thirty. They repaired to the nearest pub and an unknown number of rounds later and with closing time approaching, a consensus emerged that the Indian food of the previous evening had lit a gastronomic torch that would benefit from the oxygen of further indulgence. That was why at just after midnight, O’Driscoll found himself sitting down to his second consecutive late night lamb vindaloo, and by the time he arrived home, his system was experiencing the warm glow of today that precedes the hot fires of tomorrow.
Wednesday
It was a considerably chastened John O’Driscoll who finally appeared in the staff room at eight-thirty, his body having suffered another painful and protracted introduction to the day. The head began morning briefing by reading an extract from the current edition of The Catholic Herald.
Staff and governors from St. Catherine’s primary school shared details of the community work they do in the parish during a recent public meeting at Ealing Town Hall. Parish Priest Father Kennedy led the meeting and was supported by Sister Bernadette Mahon, and there were also eloquent contributions from younger members of staff including Sophia Gillespie, John Driscoll and Caron Black.
O’Driscoll caught Karen’s eye across the room and mimed the action of slamming a glass down and then drinking from it and she put a hand in front of her face as she stifled a laugh. He took her smile as an indication that she had either not observed the fiasco in the church on Sunday or did not hold him responsible for it. Either way, her manner was a positive sign and he took it as a good omen for the future.
Briefing was fairly uneventful apart from the news that there had been an outbreak of hostilities between Brett and his Year Six classmates during afternoon school. “Bit of argey-bargy between young Michael O’Brien and the American sprog,” said the Head. “By all accounts, it involved some rather... colourful language and Miss Gillespie had them sent down to me. I put ‘em both on a fizzer which means they’ll be kept in at break, but
other than that, I don’t want to make a big thing of it, not with Brett’s father and the other Americans coming in a few day. After all, we don’t want to jeopardize the special relationship after so many years.” With a chuckle at his own wit and a tweak of his left moustache, the Head brought the meeting to an end.
As O’Driscoll headed for his classroom, his insides fizzing with tiny, vindaloo infused eruptions, he contemplated the day ahead without enthusiasm. Approaching the door, his heart sank as he realized that, for the second day running, Prudence had deprived him of the few minutes’ grace that he would normally enjoy before the arrival of his tutor group. Her great owlish eyes blinked rapidly as he entered and she immediately launched into a new monologue or to be more accurate, a continuation of the last one. Wasn’t it a lovely day, she said, and she couldn’t wait to get started and she didn’t want to spoil their friendship but she was a little cross with him for making her return to boring old phonics the day before when it had all been going so well and the children had been expressing themselves naturally and creatively and that was the way children learnt best when they said what came from the heart and not parroting what came out of stuffy textbooks and now she had gained some experience in the classroom, surely he wouldn’t mind if she introduced a little bit more of Beatrix Potter when she took 5R after break that morning and did he think he was sickening for something as he was looking a little bit peaky and had he noticed that funny smell in the air again?
Grinding his teeth with the effort of trying not to kill her there and then, O’Driscoll reminded her that as part of the history syllabus, she was committed to teaching 5R about the Nordic invaders who had terrorized the English countryside more than a thousand years before. He was beginning to understand how the English villagers must have felt if the Norsemen’s invasion was anything like the one Prudence had perpetrated on him. Having gently but firmly ejected her from his room by sending her to the library to find the relevant set of textbooks (they were actually in his cupboard, but he was worried for his sanity and her life expectancy if she remained in his classroom a minute longer) he headed back to the staff room to grab a much-needed coffee. As he passed Sister Bernadette’s office, he heard his name being called and when he entered, found the nun sitting with the telephone in one hand and a piece of paper in the other. “Ah, John,” she said, “I wonder if you could give me some elucidation on a word I don’t recognize?”