“Of course, Sister, if I can,” he replied.
“Could you tell me,” she said referring to the piece of paper in her hand, “what a douche bag is?”
There was a pause while O’Driscoll cursed with all his heart the fates that had sent him past the Deputy Head’s office at that precise moment. His mouth opened and closed like a goldfish in a bag while his face contorted itself into a succession of its most manic masks.
“A parent has telephoned to say Brett Donnelly used the word as a term of abuse addressed at her child,” went on Sister Bernadette, who, concentrating on the piece of paper in her hand, was oblivious to O’Driscoll’s frantic gurning. “It is not a word that I am familiar with, but when I asked the parent if she knew what it meant, she would only tell me that it is something that American women use.” Raising her eyes from the paper in front of her, she asked, “Are you able to enlighten me, John?”
O’Driscoll had been frantically wondering whether one of the strategies he had considered in the confessional box, that of fainting, might serve muster in the present situation and had already started the process of swaying that would precede a graceful descent to the floor, when he suddenly had a brainwave. Screwing his features up into an expression suggestive of deep thought, he replied, “A douche bag is, I believe, somewhere where American women keep lipstick and rouge and... er... things like that.”
Sister Bernadette brightened. “So, it is what we in Britain would call a make-up bag?” she said.
“Absolutely, Sister!” replied a relieved O’Driscoll. “You’ve hit the nail on the head!”
“So if the word is used as a term of abuse to a boy,” went on Sister Bernadette, “it is rather as if in the old days, one called someone a sissy. Would you agree, John?”
“Absolutely, Sister!” replied O’Driscoll, who was prepared to agree with anything if it would only get him out of the room.
“In that case, I think, even in these times of political correctness, we can treat it fairly leniently. Do you agree?”
“Absolutely, Sister!”
Making good his escape, O’Driscoll again cursed the fates that had conspired against him. After all, how many times did Duffy find himself having to define an intimate item of female accoutrement to an elderly member of a religious order?
Brett’s use of the term “douche bag” had had the same effect on his Year Six classmates as it had on Sister Bernadette and, not wishing to appear ignorant of what was clearly a choice term of abuse, a delegation hurried to the school library in search of a definition. But the dictionary they consulted offered little other than a rather mystifying reference to “intimate irrigation” and the boys returned to the playground none the wiser, where they were met by a triumphant Brett.
“You don’t even know what a douche bag is,” he taunted them. “Fancy not knowing what a douche bag is, ya bunch of limey douche bags!”
Backed thus into a corner, they were left with little choice other than to have a stab at a definition. “We do know what a douche bag is,” announced Michael O’Brien, putting as much authority into his voice as possible. “It’s ... er...,” he suddenly remembered the words in the dictionary and had an inspiration, “it’s something to do with geography!” As he finished speaking, though, he knew this shot in the dark had been well wide of the mark and it was a long time before he was able to forget the howls of derisive laughter that followed him around for the remainder of the day.
With Prudence primed to begin 5R’s double history lesson about the Vikings on her own, O’Driscoll had agreed join her towards the end of lesson four. The class had been underway for only a few minutes when he was driven from the adjoining room where he was teaching by the sounds of pandemonium emanating from 5R’s classroom. On opening the door, the first thing that he saw was a boy in a cardboard rabbit mask wringing the neck of a boy in a cardboard duck mask, while all around the room, small children dressed as small animals were engaged in similar life or death struggles. In one corner, a label with the printed inscription, “Rabbits’ Social Area,” had been Blu-tack’d to the wall and under it three boys in rabbit masks had mounted three girls in rabbit masks and were simulating the act of sexual union with a realism that belied their years.
Behind them, O’Driscoll could see a boy in a Jeremy Rabbit mask swinging his bag around his head like a modern-day Eric Bloodaxe, while in another corner, Johnny Town-Mouse was operating a policy of slash and burn that would have satisfied the most demonic pillager. In the eye of this Hogarthian hurricane stood Prudence Pugh with a serene, almost seraphic expression on her face. It took a little longer to restore order this time, and it was lunchtime before an uneasy silence finally descended on the battlefield. As the dismissed 5R moved towards the door, Joe Cahill stopped in front of Prudence and, wearing an expression of beguiling innocence, said, “We were just saying, er... Prue, how we haven’t enjoyed a lesson so much for ages.”
Putting her hand on Joe’s head and smiling indulgently, Prudence answered, “Thank you, little man.” The action caused a dangerous gleam to appear in Joe’s eye, but it was extinguished in an instant and he filed dutifully out after the other children.
Prudence turned to O’Driscoll as the last pupils left. “You see, John,” she said, “how their little minds soak up knowledge when they have the opportunity to express themselves naturally, rather than just regurgitating boring old history, that’s what we’ve agreed to call it, by the way. I feel that my teaching methods, if applied across the curriculum, could benefit the school and I’m a little disappointed that you haven’t been as supportive as you could have been.” At that moment, perhaps fortuitously, Mrs. Goodwin arrived to say Prudence was wanted on the telephone and, firing off a final volley of reproachful blinks from behind her spectacles, she trundled off.
It was at the end of the day that O’Driscoll was able to sit Prudence down and try to explain the concept of the National Curriculum and the statutory requirement to follow it in the classroom. “So you see,” he finished, “all of us have to stick to what the curriculum says when we deliver lessons because that’s what will be assessed at the end of the year.” He concluded by saying that in order for that class not to fall behind, she would have to re-teach the lesson the following day, only this time sticking to the themes in the Key Stage Two programme of study, “Invaders and Settlers”, and not those suggested by the works of Mrs. Potter. He offered to sit down with her and jointly plan what she would teach, and with some reluctance, she agreed, although she did express disapproval over the acts of violence meted out by the Vikings, particularly their lack of respect towards women.
O’Driscoll had another problem and it revolved around whether to introduce the class to an English king from the Viking period who rejoiced in the name, “Cnut the Great.” He couldn’t help feeling that asking Prudence to introduce this name to the children offered too many hostages to fortune. It would be a simple matter for the fertile minds of Joe Cahill and his colleagues to rearrange the letter and word order to produce an alternative version of the name and apply it to their new teacher. After what had gone before, O’Driscoll counseled Prudence in the gravest terms not to use the name, “Cnut the Great,” and she agreed, asking whether she could leaven the diet of “boring old kings,” with just a little element of roleplay. O’Driscoll was now so worn out that, other than wearily reminding her it was easier to exercise authority when classroom activities were more tightly controlled, he did not protest.
There was a drink on at The North Star that evening to say goodbye to one of Faith’s friends who was going abroad, and in the same scenario that had been played out a couple of nights prior, Micky and Maureen made their individual ways to fraternize with their nearest and dearest. Micky was tonight wearing a pair of linen trousers, topped by a paisley shirt, while an expensive-looking pair of brogues adorned his feet.
“You been borrowing clothes o
ff that Smith bloke again, Michael?” asked O’Driscoll but Quinn failed to reply and his friends couldn’t help noticing that there was a restive air about the great man.
“What’s up, Mick?” asked Sweeney.
“I’m hungry,” replied Quinn.
“Well, get something from the bar.”
“I can’t, I’ve just come from having dinner at Maureen’s.”
“It’s not Maureen’s anymore, remember - you live there,” said Rocky.
“Whatever,” replied Quinn and there was a plaintive note to his voice.
“Anyway, how come you’re hungry?” asked O’Driscoll. “Didn’t she feed you?”
“She fed me all right,” answered Quinn. “It was what she fed me on!”
“What was it?” asked his friends, interest now thoroughly aroused.
Wearing the air of a barrister bringing forward a damning piece of evidence, Quinn enunciated one word, “Couscous!”
“Couscous?”
“Couscous!” There was a pause while his friends looked at one another before Rocky asked, “What is couscous, exactly?”
Micky gave this question consideration and scratched around in his unruly red hair before answering, “It’s hard to say, really. I know lots of things it’s not, but it’s harder to say what it actually is.”
“Semolina!” announced Sweeney. “I read somewhere that it’s a bit like semolina.”
Micky farted thoughtfully and then, clearly unwilling to take the irrevocable step of ruling out semolina, replied, “It could be something like that, I suppose.” As he spoke, he hitched his trousers up, but tonight the action was carried out with the air of resignation with which an ancient mariner, trapped at sea for days without sustenance, might have hiked up his canvas slops. “Couscous!” he said once more and it was clear that first, magnificent post-coital fry-up was but a distant memory.
Someone suggested they should drink Guinness in honour of Faith’s friend and in the twinkling of an eye, several congenial hours had passed and O’Driscoll was looking at a watch that said ten o’clock. He would definitely not end up in that bloody Indian tonight, he promised himself, and if he left after the next drink, he could be home by ten-thirty at the latest with a quiet and alcohol-free evening stretching ahead of him. It will come as no surprise to relate that two hours later, he found himself sitting in a room decorated with flock wallpaper, with a pint of Guinness in front of him, contemplating for the third time in as many days the large, laminated menu of the South Ealing Tandoori.
Thursday
The moment John O’Driscoll’s eyes opened he realized that, after three days of extreme overindulgence, his system was in a bad way. Having ignored the siren call of the vindaloo in favour of a marginally milder Madras the previous night, he had hoped that all would be well when he awoke but in fact the addition of Guinness to the usual pot pourri of vile ingredients sloshing around his insides had produced truly awful consequences within his digestive tract. Three days of alcohol had done nothing for O’Driscoll’s emotional wellbeing either, and the scorpions and spiders of the preceding week had been joined by other sinister visitors. Bats, locusts, weevils, stag beetles, even earwigs scurried or flew into the darkest recesses of his being, leaving his mind at the mercy of fluttery, insubstantial, random half-thoughts.
He considered giving morning briefing a miss but as this would mean facing Prudence Pugh in his classroom, he settled on Mr. Barnett as the lesser of two evils. Briefing was a desultory affair, containing nothing of note other than the introduction of two new temporary teachers, who would be on supply cover until Easter. One of them was a prim-looking lady of uncertain years, the other a dark-haired young man who acknowledged the greetings of the staff with a languid smile.
O’Driscoll left Prudence to finish the Invaders and Settlers lesson in period one, and settled down to work quietly in an empty classroom in the Key Stage Two corridor. No more than twenty minutes passed before what sounded like a stampede of BSE-infected cattle caused him to put his books down, swear softly and go outside to investigate. What met his eyes was the sight of one-half of 5R charging down the corridor in enthusiastic pursuit of the other half, the performance accompanied by a cacophony of whoops and shouts that had doors opening and angry members of staff appearing along the passageway.
The Anglo-Saxons had responded with a war-like spirit that their historical counterparts would have done well to emulate and the resulting carnage was what had caused so much commotion in the Key Stage Two corridor. The disturbance had gone down badly with the teachers whose lessons had been interrupted, and one or two had even threatened to take the matter to Mr. Barnet. As a lesson, it could hardly have gone more awry, the one merciful crumb of comfort being that Prudence had resisted the temptation to introduce the pupils to the name, Cnut the Great.
It was after lunch that O’Driscoll got the message calling him to Mr. Barnet’s office and in truth, it was one that he had been expecting. Passing through the outer office, he was met with a breezy, “Come in, young O’Driscoll, and take a pew,” and dutifully entered into the inner sanctum where the Head was waiting.
“Well, well, here we are. And how are you, young John?” asked Mr Barnett, tweaking his right moustache as he opened proceedings.
“Fine, thank you,” lied O’Driscoll, who was physically and psychologically far from well, and hoping Mr. Barnet would get to the point before he started to feel even worse.
“Capital, capital! And how are things in Years Five and Six?”
“Well, as far as I know,” answered O’Driscoll, hedging his bets until he knew where the conversation was heading. It was becoming apparent that under the breezy demeanor, Mr. Barnet was not sure how to proceed, but until he knew what his leader wanted, O’Driscoll was at a loss to help.
“And how is young Prudence’s teaching going?” went on the Head, giving his right handlebar another twirl. “Is it up there in the clouds doing figures of eight and victory rolls, or is it the kind of ground wallah that skulks around at the back of the mess looking for free drinks?” O’Driscoll now realized Mr. Barnet was asking him to comment on Prudence’s teaching, and a truthful answer would have been that far from being a “ground wallah,” it was more of a demented kamikaze attack, hell-bent on annihilating itself and everything in its vicinity. Realizing, however, that it wouldn’t do to share this analogy with the head, he said, “Prudence is a hardworking and dedicated young lady,” and Barnett nodded approvingly as he went on, “and she brings incredible enthusiasm to everything she does.”
“Well said, young O’Driscoll,” replied the head, “but I sense a ‘but’ coming. Is there a ‘but’ coming, young John?”
Every fibre of O’Driscoll was screaming to reply, “She’s barking!” but he knew this would not do, so he tried to think of a form of words that would express his reservations more diplomatically. “It’s just that she is attempting some very ambitious lessons from a limited experience in the classroom,” he said, “and she is reluctant to take advice. We all agree that the courage of one’s convictions is a positive attribute, but,” he went on, rather pleased with the words that were r
olling so fluently from his lips, “it should also be tempered with the wisdom to listen.”
“Wise words, young John, wise words,” said the head. “I want my teachers up in the cockpit flying their kites, not skulking around at the back like tail-end Charlies. But,” he went on with a jowly wobble, “they must also be wise enough to take evasive action when a squadron of Messerschmitts comes at them out of nowhere.” O’Driscoll couldn’t help feeling that the comparison between 5R and a Messerschmitt squadron an apt one, considering the blitzkrieg they had inflicted on the Key Stage Two corridor that morning, but forbore to share this thought with his Head and instead, simply nodded.
“Tell you what I’m going to do,” said the Head, lowering his voice. “It’s Thursday now. I’ll let young Prudence have some time off, give the girl a couple of days to get her head straight. Don’t want to dent her confidence, but it does seem as if she might be a bit... vulnerable to some of our more lively sprogs.” He paused to disentangle a small piece of gravy-encrusted matter from his right moustache, it had been cottage pie for lunch. “Then the three of us can sit down on Monday morning and work out a plan to get her teaching back topside. What do you say?”
O’Driscoll’s first instinct was to grab Mr. Barnet and dance a waltz of joy with him, but realizing this might be misinterpreted, he confined himself to agreeing emphatically with the Head’s decision. No Prudence for two whole days! If you included the weekend, that made four days! He left the Head’s office with a song in his heart, reflecting that perhaps there was a God after all and resolving that in future he would communicate with Him in a more respectful dialect than the one he had employed in the confessional.