“It was an honest misunderstanding, John,” she answered, “and one that was quickly resolved, so do not concern yourself unduly.”
“I heard someone saying that Father Kennedy was angry,” ventured O’Driscoll.
“Father Kennedy is a man of... fixed resolve” answered the nun, appearing to choose her words carefully, “and this great sense of purpose causes him to react with... passion, when unexpected events occur. For all that, he is a good man straining every sinew to do God’s work. Give him time,” she concluded with a smile, “and he’ll forget the whole thing.”
Considerably mollified by these words, O’Driscoll headed towards morning briefing, where any residual worries he may have had about the preceding day were swept away by the news of what had happened overnight in the Goodwin house. It was alleged that in the dead of night, Brett had, with malice aforethought, crept into Henri’s bedroom and deposited into the en suite bidet that was the Goodwin’s pride and joy, a turd of such formidable dimensions as to render even Reg speechless. While it was unclear whether the action had been a deliberate comment on the depths to which U.S.-Franco relations had sunk (the Goodwin’s belief) or an accidental product of the low voltage night time lighting, (Brett’s assertion) what could not be disputed owing to the physical evidence that was there for all to see, was that Brett. T. Donnelly had shat in the Goodwin’s bidet.
Duffy had already christened Brett’s act of rebellion a “dirty protest” inspired by events in the north of Ireland and was wondering whether the boy would be repatriated before he went fully “on the blanket.” As it was, Brett was now in Sister Bernadette’s office awaiting an interview with his father, while poor Henri, who had been the unfortunate discoverer of the offending stool, was considered too traumatized by the experience to attend lessons and was in Mr. Barnet’s office awaiting developments. Mrs. Goodwin had been asked to make a statement about the incident at briefing and although clearly distressed, she moved to the front of the room with a stoicism that St. Joan, approaching the pyre at Rouen, might have envied.
“I do not wish to speak of the unspeakable events of last night,” she began tautologically, gripping the lectern in front of her and struggling to control her emotions. “Suffice to say Reg and I have been inundated with support from our friends and colleagues. And the support from all those people who have given us their support will support us in the difficult days ahead. That is all I wish to say at this time.” She spent a moment or two accepting condolences and then, flanked on either side by secretaries from the school office, processed slowly and with dignity from the room.
After a suitable period of silence, the Head reminded staff that Father Kennedy was organizing another service at the church to say goodbye to the delegation from America and was looking for volunteers. O’Driscoll received this news with mixed feelings, conscious of the fact that his performance over the course of the previous three services had not been an unqualified success. After all, he had embossed a hundred hymn books with the name of an intimate female part during the first, caused his parish priest to be suspected of transvestism during the third and in-between, made an act of confession masquerading as Paul Gascoigne.
Not even his best friend would be able to say he had enhanced his reputation over the past three weeks but aware that one good performance might yet yank his career out of the fire, he duly volunteered his services. The head rounded-off proceedings by asking staff to check the wet break rota and the new supply teacher, whose name was apparently Clive and who, in O’Driscoll’s opinion, looked far too full of himself, announced that he had commandeered the school T.V. set for the morning.
Upon arriving at Mr. Barnet’s office to find out when the Head wished to see him about the Prudence situation, O’Driscoll found the anteroom occupied by Henri and Mrs. Wagstaffe, one of the secretaries.
“But I can go to the class now, I am ready for the lessons,” protested the French boy.
“No, you’ve had a nasty experience,” replied the secretary, “and Mr. Barnet said you needed something for the shock. He said he’ll be along in a minute to give you some tea and a sticky.”
Henri considered this prospect without relish. The proclivities of middle-aged Englishmen were a well-established fact in his own country - indeed in an effort to provide him with a tool kit for survival, his parents had briefed him in what some might have considered lurid detail on what they called Le Vice Anglais - and the more he analyzed the words he had just heard, the more they filled him with anxiety. He did not like tea - nasty horrible drink - and could not understand why any civilized people should choose to drink it, but it was the final part of the message that disturbed him most, for while he had no idea what a “sticky” was, the prospect of Mr. Barnet giving him one conjured up images so uncomfortable that he leapt from his chair and took off down the corridor like a startled hare. Mrs. Wagstaffe and O’Driscoll looked at each other in surprise for a moment, after which the teacher enquired as to the Head’s whereabouts and finding him otherwise engaged, returned to his own classroom.
At lunchtime, he nipped out to the nearby shopping precinct and returned with a pair of air-cushioned training shoes, two packets of organic muesli and several cartons of prune juice. He was determined to start a new chapter in his life and had resolved that henceforth each day would commence with an invigorating run followed by a hearty breakfast of muesli and prune juice, with perhaps some additional segments of fresh fruit on special occasions. In addition, he would cut out alcohol altogether, well not actually cut it out completely, but he would reduce it considerably to weekends and, of course, Thursday, because Thursday had always been the start of the weekend, so didn’t actually count as midweek, and then there was Sunday, and, of course, it went without saying that Sunday counted as the weekend. But apart from Thursday, Sunday and the weekend, he would cut alcohol ruthlessly and irrevocably out of his system and he would stop eating the kind of meals dispensed by fast food outlets in the small hours of the morning. He couldn’t reduce his smoking, because he had already given that up, but he promised himself he would never, absolutely never consider taking it up again.
In the state of self-righteous piety which often accompanies such endeavours, he made his way back to school for an afternoon that turned out to be as uneventful as the morning had been. Upon passing the office at the end of the day, he was handed a message from the Head cancelling their meeting, but indicating that he and Prudence could meet O’Driscoll in the lounge bar of The George at five o’clock, if that was convenient. Noticing his mystified expression, Mrs. Wagstaffe explained that the school site manager was leaving early that afternoon and the building would be locked up immediately after school. Mentally shrugging his shoulders, O’Driscoll reflected that if the Head wanted to hold a meeting in the pub, so be it as long as the old bastard put his hand into his pocket.
He took his place at the bar of The George at the appointed hour and bought himself an orange juice and lemonade, an unusual experience but one that in the present circumstances seemed wise. Warily sipping the concoction, he wondered how on Earth he was going to extricate himself from the job of being Prudence Pugh’s keeper, for that, in view of the behaviour she had exhibited during her time at Saint Catherine’s, was how he now saw his role. He was also hoping he might be able to glean some information from the Head about the leadership’s plans for the future so he could assess his own chances of being part of them. He had wanted to sound out Sister Bernadette about next year when he spoke to her earlier in the day, but something in her expression made him draw back from enquiring. A moment later, Mr. Barnet entered and two things were immediately apparent; firstly that he was alone, and secondly that he had, as O’Driscoll’s mother would have expressed it, “drink taken.”
“Ah, young O’Driscoll,” the Head sai
d as he approached. “No, don’t stand up, no ceremony here old chap. Sorry I’m a little late. Have you got a drink?” He looked at O’Driscoll’s glass in horror. “Orange juice! By the Lord Harry, we’ll soon put that right!” Turning to the barman, he said, “Large gin and tonic please, whatever my young friend would like, and one for yourself.” When they were seated at a table, Barnet with his gin and O’Driscoll with a pint of lager, the Head sat back, wrapped his whiskers round his glass, gave a sigh of satisfaction and started to speak. “You’ll have noticed I’m on my own,” he began and immediately stopped to refresh himself further. “Yes, thought you’d notice, didn’t think something like that would get past young O’Driscoll.”
He attempted to tap his nose knowingly, missed, gathered himself and continued. “Fact is, went to see Prudence’s father. You remember me telling you about my chum Douglas, fathers flew Spitfires in the war, thick and thin, unbreakable bond handed down to children, lifelong friendship resulting.” He took another long pull from his glass. “Fact is, Douglas asked me to come and see him because he’s a bit worried about the gel, head packed full of new-fangled ideas, he said. Talking a lot of rot about women’s cooperatives apparently, and then there was something about Peter Rabbit, couldn’t follow a word of it myself so no wonder he was confused.
Anyway, cut a long story short, when I got there I decided the best thing to do was for the three of us to go to lunch. Took ‘em to a nice little French place in Barnes and gave ‘em a rather a superior lunch, if I say so, m’self. Trouble is,” he lowered his voice confidentially, “not sure how much experience young Prudence has with taking a glass of wine with her lunch. She was all right with the sherry she had before we went in, then I gave her some Pinot Noir with the starter and a rather fine Shiraz with the guinea fowl. By the time we’d had a digestif and got back to Douglas’s, she was feeling a bit faint - took herself off to bed and we couldn’t raise her for love nor money.
“That’s the long and short of it, young O’Driscoll,” he concluded with an expansive shrug. “She’s not here. And because she’s not here,” he continued, having slaked his thirst with another draught from his glass, “can’t have the meeting. Can’t have a meeting to discuss someone’s teaching,” he went on, wagging an admonishing finger at O’Driscoll, “when the person whose teaching is to be discussed isn’t here. Simply can’t! Wouldn’t be right! Rotten show!” He raised his left hand with care, focusing with difficulty on a large Rolex, and O’Driscoll risked a swift glance at his own watch, wondering how on Earth he was going to extricate himself from the situation.
“Tell you what, O’Driscoll, let’s have one for the road. My shout. I’m in the chair.” He began to fumble in his pocket but O’Driscoll, feeling he couldn’t let the old soak get another round in so quickly after the last one, jumped up and went to the bar for replacements.
“Capital! Cheers! Bottoms up!” said the Head when O’Driscoll returned with the drinks and immediately took another lengthy swig from his glass. “Fact is,” he said, “haven’t any particular need to get home tonight.” He leaned towards O’Driscoll and lowered his voice. “Wife’s gone into hospital for a minor op. Undercarriage job!”
He took another pull from the rapidly diminishing glass of gin and, burping softly, went on, “...so no need to get back to base to face the music.” O’Driscoll, feeling that he had heard too much already, made for the toilets, and having washed his hands several times, returned to the lounge to find that Mr. Barnet had been to the bar again and got them both large gin and tonics. “Yes,” the Head was repeating as O’Driscoll sat down, “undercarriage job. They’re taking out the whole kit and caboodle. Dear wife’s a bit upset about the whole business, you know what the ladies are like for worrying. Not,” he went on, lowering his voice, “that there’s been any action of that kind for some time, so can’t think why she’s so agitated. No,” he continued, lowering his voice even further, “I have an address in Ladbroke Grove for all that gubbins. Very discreet!” He made another attempt to tap his nose knowingly, this time successfully making contact. “I’ll let you have it if you’d like to, you know, avail yourself of the...” he started to search through his pockets as O’Driscoll shook his head wildly and wondered again how on Earth he was going to uncouple himself from his inebriated leader.
Twice he tried to begin the process of leave taking, only to find, on each occasion, Mr. Barnet headed him off at the pass by producing fresh rounds of gin. It was by now six-thirty and the Head had passed through the expansive phase and was entering the maudlin one. “How did I end up in education?” he asked rhetorically as O’Driscoll, who hadn’t been listening to a word, reluctantly re-engaged his attention and tried to appear as if he knew what the old fool was talking about. “Fact is, should have joined the R.A.F. Father wanted me to, would have been proudest day of his life to see me wearing those wings on my shoulder. Trouble was,” he went on, leaning across the table and nearly overbalancing, “went up once in a Hercules transport as a cadet and found whole thing bloody terrifying. Got back to terra firma, promised self would never go topside again, and never have.
Had to say something to the mater and pater at home, couldn’t tell truth, my guv’nor would have died of shame, so made up story about having vocation for teaching.” Mr. Barnet’s eyes were growing moist and rheumy. “Ironic really, isn’t it?” he said, “Boko Barnet’s son afraid of flying!” A large tear began to form in his right eye as he went on. “Boko Barnet’s son frowsting in a funkhole on the ground! Not even a tail-end Charlie, skulking about at the back of the kite, that would have been bad enough! But a ground wallah! Boko Barnet’s son a ground wallah!”
His hand moved towards his right handlebar in that familiar gesture but this time bypassed it and absorbed the large teardrop that was running slowly down the side of his face. Terrified at what disclosures might result from the continuation for even a minute of this conversation, O’Driscoll suddenly remembered a sick relative that required visiting, and with an efficiency and sense of purpose that would have surprised his friends, contrived to get himself out of the pub and a confused but compliant Mr. Barnet into a taxi, all within a matter of minutes. He had hoped the meeting might provide him with some hard information about staffing plans for the following year, or at least offer him an insight into the thinking of the leadership team, but with the interview having left him none the wiser as to future plans, he made a weary journey home by bus, leaving his Cortina to face yet another lonely night in the school car park.
Finding he still had the bag containing his lunchtime purchases, he unpacked the items when he arrived home and put them away. The trainers went into the bottom of the wardrobe in his bedroom and took their place next to a metal-framed tennis racquet, a gift wrapped water bottle and sweatband, and a pair of cycling shorts. During the next few days, in the first flush of the healthy new fitness regime, a few portions of the muesli were consumed, but the prune juice sat alone and unlamented in the kitchen cupboard for several months until it was finally called into action as a mixer, with rum, when all other non-alcoholic beverages had run out.
Tuesday
O’Driscoll’s first thought upon awaking the next morning was that for once, he didn’t seem to be suffering from alcoholic poisoning, something he doubted his leader would be able to claim. That Mr. Barnett, who revered the memory of his father and lived and breathed in a world dedicated to the celebration of all things celestial, should turn out to be a sufferer from vertigo was richly ironic and a timely reminder that those who appeared to be navigating their way through life’s waters without a care in the world could sometimes be struggling against its treacherous currents.
The Head was present at briefing though, looking none the worse for the previous evening’s experience. “Morning, young O’Driscoll,” he said as they passed, and it was apparent from his demeanour that he either had no memory of the previous night’s ramblings, or had chosen to forg
et them. Of Prudence, there was no sign at briefing, and later, when O’Driscoll made his way to his classroom offering silent prayers that he would find the room empty, she was again conspicuous by her absence.
After an uneventful morning, he found himself sitting in the staff room listening to Mrs. Goodwin holding forth on the subject of the new supply teacher. “Clive, his name is - nice name, don’t you think. Anyway, he came to the office to get some photocopier paper and I said to myself if I was twenty years younger, and didn’t have Reg’s infection to dress, you could end up doing something you might regret, Mavis Goodwin!” She ran her fingers through her hair. “Smouldering! That’s the word they used in the Mills and Boon Medical Romance I was reading to describe this doctor who ends up winning the heroine’s heart. That Clive can take my temperature any time he likes.” There was some half-hearted laughter as she went on, “In fact, I don’t mind saying that I’d be prepared to faint on the spot if there was half a chance of him resuscitating me.”
“How is Reg’s...er... infection,” asked Duffy innocently.
“It’s funny you should ask that, because he’s been having a difficult time of it down there.” She lowered her voice. “It wasn’t so bad until he got a touch of the old Farmer Giles, but once that lot got established, things got more complicated, and now... to be honest, sometimes it’s hard to know where the piles end and the fungal infection begins. I’ll be standing there with the pile ointment in one hand and the Canisten in the other and by the time I’ve finished, it’s like a pepperoni pizza down there.”