The six o’clock tolling of the town hall clock found O’Driscoll in the back bar of The North Star with his hand cradling a pint of Stella as the discussion turned to the events of the preceding evening.
“That bloody Tracey knows how to dance,” said Micky, a smile of memory playing around his lips. “I thought she was going to take someone’s eye out at one point.”
“I didn’t really notice,” answered Rocky, “I was too busy listening to Melvyn Bragg here.” He gestured towards O’Driscoll.
“Yes, your views on the nineteenth century novel certainly caused a stir, John,” said Duffy. “Iconoclastic is probably the word that best describes them, wouldn’t you agree, Michael?”
“I would if I knew what it meant,” said Quinn. “If it means that he got right on that June Taylor’s tits, then I agree one hundred percent.”
“Refresh my memory on what exactly I said,” enquired O’Driscoll, deliberately keeping his voice light. “When you’re a brilliant iconoclast like what I am, it’s hard to remember all the individual pieces of brilliance.”
“Well,” said Duffy, settling back in the manner of someone who has a story to tell, “as you know, they were talking about women writers, George Eliot and all that, and then they got on to Jane Austen.”
“And that Taylor woman said she reckoned Jane Austen’s books were shit hot,” said Quinn.
“A vibrant but subtle depiction of the relationship between the sexes was what she actually said, but you have the general thrust of her argument, Michael,” said Duffy gravely. “And that was where Melvyn here came in. What was it that he actually said?”
“He said that Jane Austen’s works were overrated.”
“Yes, although weren’t the words ‘a load of old bollocks’ the ones he actually used?”
“Did I say those actual words?” asked O’Driscoll.
“Oh, yes,” answered Duffy, with a chuckle, “and you said a lot more besides! As far as I can remember you said the novels of Miss Austen were stereotypical and formulaic and most of them had similar plots, and it all came down to the fact that her female heroines were sexually frustrated.”
“Although the phrase you used was ‘desperate for it!’ said Rocky.
“Gagging for it!” corrected Quinn.
Duffy acknowledged this with a slight nod of the head. “As always, Michael, you have hit the nail on the head. ‘Gagging for it’ was indeed the phrase that was used.”
Yet, Duffy’s next words killed that hope stone dead. “Anyway, you went on to recommend a form of therapy the girls might have benefitted from, isn’t that right, Michael? What was the turn of phrase he used?”
“‘A good seeing to,’” replied Quinn. “He said any woman who was getting a regular portion would be highly unlikely to worry about whether someone spoke to her in a haughty manner or snubbed her at a dance.”
“Yes, he was quite eloquent on the subject,” went on Duffy.
“He was,” agreed Rocky. “He said Elizabeth Bennett could have put all her troubles behind by simply loosening her stays and heading down to the... what did he call it?”
“The tupping shed.”
“For a good seeing to.”
“With a strapping young farm labourer.”
“Called Amos.”
“Or Obadiah.”
“And that went for the other Bennett girls as well.”
“Apart from the youngest one.”
“The one who was getting shafted by a squaddie.”
O’Driscoll’s heart dropped further into his boots as he heard this. “And how was my theory received?” he asked, trying to keep his voice as light as possible.
“To say June Taylor was not amused would be putting it mildly,” answered Duffy. “But she got even more pissed off at your next suggestion?”
“Which was?”
“Only you didn’t use the words, ‘virile and well-endowed,’” said Rocky. “What was it he actually said, Mick?”
“’Hung like a donkey.’”
O’Driscoll’s horror was increasing incrementally with the unfolding of the story but he tried to keep his voice light as he asked, “And how was that received?”
“I’ve got to be honest with you, June Taylor didn’t look happy,” answered Duffy. “I’m not sure she trusted herself to speak.”
“She did say that looking at you, she could see how you might know a lot about sexual frustration,” remembered Rocky. “That got a laugh.”
The conversation ran on in this vein for a few more minutes, but the words did not register with O’Driscoll. He remembered now his fears about Karen copping off with Clive and his resolution not to be outdone in any sophisticated verbal sparring that might take place and wondered glumly if there was any social group he had not offended in the course of what had clearly been an incoherent, drunken diatribe. He could only hope and pray Karen had not been at hand to witness his disgrace.
His mood was only marginally improved by the intelligence that Micky, restored to his old ebullience by the pie-induced protein hit, had offered to perform his renowned striptease act in front of the assembled guests, and had only been prevented from doing so by the swift intervention of Duffy and Rocky, who had wrestled him to the floor with his modesty just about preserved. O’Driscoll ruefully congratulated himself on having at least one friend who was nearly as much of a twat as he was. He had, as far as he was aware, managed the considerable achievement of getting to the end of a school function without releasing any of his bodily fluids into the environment, for he had not, as far as he was aware, puked into any one’s bag and the only diarrhea he had generated had been verbal.
Friday
As O’Driscoll made his way to school the next morning, he consoled himself with the thought that, because it was a training day, at least there would be no kids around. The downside of this, however, was that staff would more than likely spend the day bored out of their skulls while an “expert” talked to them about curriculum planning. Or worse, they might be asked to get into small groups with a flipchart and “feed back” the results of their deliberations to the whole room. Or, horror of horrors, the course leaders might be creative types who would ask delegates to engage in roleplays designed to create an atmosphere of relaxed engagement, but which, because they involved people having to bark like dogs or walk like penguins, usually had the opposite effect.
Mr. Barnet opened proceedings by stating that decisions relating to the following year’s staffing were still under review but would be resolved “very shortly”, causing a wave of anxiety to ripple around the room. He went on to explain that the morning’s training would be delivered by a team from Ealing Council’s Inter Cultural Support Service who would be running a workshop entitled Multi Culturalism for the Next Millennium. The initiative was aimed at increasing awareness about issues relating t
o ethnicity in view of the diverse make-up of the borough’s population.
The Head went on to say that the subject matter dovetailed nicely with the nondenominational service Father Kennedy had organized for the following Sunday. The service would be the culmination of the visit by the party from the United States and would celebrate the life of Saint Catherine, giving the visitors the opportunity to increase their knowledge of the school’s patron, whilst enabling the U.K. audience to learn more about the work of the American pastor and civil rights leader, Martin Luther King Jr. Dr. King had been chosen by Father Kennedy and Sister Bernadette to demonstrate their sensitivity to multiculturalism, and the U.S. delegation had been asked to prepare a short presentation on his life. Although the Americans had taken on this task with apparent willingness, the choice had not met with universal approval. Mr. Donnelly had been overheard referring to Dr. King as a “philandering commie bastard” when compared to church leaders like Jerry Falwell and Jim Bakker, and the suggestion that neither of these gentlemen could escape censure on the philandering front, he had dismissed as left-wing propaganda.
Unaware of any dissent amongst the American delegation, the Head invited all staff to take part in the service and told them the P.T.A. had organized another discounted staff Shakespeare trip, this time to see Othello. After that, people trooped to the hall with varying degrees of reluctance and took their seats around the tables that had been set out. The training had been considered of such importance that office staff, as well as a smattering of other support staff, had been asked to attend.
Governors had been invited, which was why Father Kennedy could be seen taking his place at a table on the far side of the room, his craggy face straining with the unaccustomed effort of being polite. O’Driscoll had just sat down on the opposite side of the room, when to his annoyance, it was announced that in order to ensure each table contained a healthy mix of teachers, support staff and governors, a seating plan had been worked out in advance. Hoping against hope he would not find himself seated anywhere near the turbulent priest, O’Driscoll found that for once his prayers had been answered, only to realize with a sinking heart that he had been placed next to Mrs. Goodwin.
The first part of the day passed off without undue incident and at 10.30, staff made their way in the direction of hot refreshment or outside the building for a smoke. In the second session, the groups were asked to discuss terms or labels whose use might be wittingly or unwittingly disrespectful when applied to minority groups. Having grown up in a London where the Irish were routinely referred to as “thick paddies” or worse, O’Driscoll was aware of how language can be used to represent minorities in crude and insulting terms. No one of Irish extraction could fail to remember the “JAK” cartoons in the London Evening Standard, which represented Irish people of both sexes as simian figures in donkey jackets. It was racial stereotyping up there with anything Dr. Goebbels had produced and O’Driscoll, like many who shared his tradition, instinctively empathized with other minority groups living in the capital. It was, therefore, with a mixture of exasperation and amusement that, as he dragged his thoughts back to the present, he became aware of the familiar sound of Mrs. Goodwin cranking up her verbal weaponry as she prepared to launch another blitzkrieg on those around her.
“You see, what I can’t understand is how things can be fine one minute and then the next they’re offensive. When I was young, you never said black, the refined word to use was coloured. Then one day suddenly it was all turned on its head and coloured was out and black was in.” She shrugged her shoulders. “It’s the same when we talked about those poor little unfortunates who are neither one thing nor another. When I was a girl we called them half-breeds, which I suppose, in fairness, did sound a bit like something out of a western, so decently and fairly people started to use half caste instead so as not to cause offence. They got up in arms about that and now and we’re supposed to say mixed race. I can’t keep up with it all. The other day, to cap it all, I heard someone saying even mixed race was out and the new word was something called...” she frowned with the effort of trying to remember, “...I think it was jewel heritage. Don’t ask me what that’s supposed to mean, probably something to do with rubies from India!” She blew her nose with just the right amount of righteous indignation and, temporarily exhausted, sat back in her seat.
After a short pause, someone hesitantly suggested that they should look at the instructions which the course leaders had left on the table, and from there, the conversation turned to the task of finding words and phrases that describe ethnic minorities without causing offence. Mr. Li made the point that in China, all minorities were identified by an official title which referred to them and the autonomous region they inhabited, and that everyone got used to using this one designated title. One of the trainers visited their table at this point and suggested that they each try to write down suggestions for non-offensive ways of identifying minorities. The delegates worked in silence for a few minutes until Mrs. Goodwin, who was clearly working up yet another head of verbal steam, could contain herself no longer.
“I was talking about this with Reg last night,” she said suddenly. “Now don’t get me wrong. We’re very tolerant me and my Reg, very tolerant. But he couldn’t understand and neither can I, why we need training on what to call foreigners. I believe in calling a spade a...” she broke off hurriedly and cleared her throat before continuing, “...calling people the traditional names that everyone knows rather than mucking about with all this new language that confuses everyone. Now, take an expression like wog – nice friendly word that everyone used in the old days and nobody took offence. Reg says it’s one of those words where each letter stand for something. What do they call one of those words - an acriflex, or something like that? Anyway, Reg says the ‘g’ in wog stands for gentleman, you know, something, something, gentleman. It stands to reason, how can something be offensive that’s got gentleman in its title?”
She looked around the table and, taking the silence as confirmation her logic was unassailable, said, “Exactly! And, of course” she directed her final remark at a bewildered Mr. Li, “if I had thought for a minute that wog was an offensive term, I wouldn’t have used it, not with you in the room.” She smiled winningly at the elderly Chinaman and he, for want of anything else to do, smiled back.
There was hardly time after this to offer feedback on the vocabulary that delegates had come up with to describe minorities. O’Driscoll’s table had suggested non-European ethnic minorities, but he was curious to see what Mrs. Goodwin had written on her own paper, for judging by the expression on her face, she had been giving the matter serious consideration. As the delegates headed off to lunch, he glanced at her sheet to see that in answer to the question, Try to think of a positive collective term to describe people whose origins are in the developing world, she had initially opted for the term, ‘Darkies’ but had evidently had second thoughts for she had crossed that word out and replaced it with, ‘Commonwealths’.
It was with a profound sense of relief that O’Driscoll exited the hall at lunchtime, with the prospect of an hour mercifully free of the voice of Mavis Goodwin ahead of him. Upon returning after lunch, he found the groups had been mixed up again for the afternoon workshop. The delight with which he greeted the intelligence that he would not be at Mrs. Goodwin’s table was only matched by the gloom which descended upon him when it became clear that he would be in the same group as Father Kennedy. O’Driscoll murmured a greeting to the company as he took his place and the priest raised his great craggy head and grunted something unintelligible at him. A moment later, a waft of scent disturbed the air and O’Driscoll looked around to see that Karen was slipping into the seat directly to his left. His stomach performed its customary impression of a spin dryer but he tried to keep his voice light as he greeted her. As they waited for the session to begin, she lowered her voice and said with a smile, “Sounds like you got on the wrong side of June Taylo
r the other night.”
“Did I?”
“You could say that - she was not happy. I didn’t hear it myself, but you apparently cast aspersions on the personalities of Jane Austen’s female characters.”
“I might have suggested some alternative plotlines,” he answered.
She laughed. “That’s one way of putting it. I suppose I should be scandalized like June, but the look on her face was so comical when she told me what you’d said, and to be honest I can’t help finding all those Jane Austen books a bit earnest. Anyway, you’re a brave man to knock June Taylor’s heroine off her pedestal.”
“She’s a bit of a fan, then?”
“Didn’t you know? She once spent a whole night in the pub telling us about how the main characters in Sense and Sensibility represented the dichotomy between the two faces of woman, constantly fighting for supremacy. It made me feel quite schizophrenic, to be honest, and we only got her off the subject when Tracey pretended her drink had been spiked and about six of us volunteered to take her to the ladies to help her recover. There was only Miss Gillespie left and when we got back, June had her pinned against the wall talking about Marianne Dashwood’s passion for John Willoughby and how it represented female carnal desire in all its earthiness. I’ve never seen poor old Miss Gillespie so traumatized and the look of relief on her face when she saw us coming back from the bar...”
“You reckon I’ve blotted my copybook with June Taylor, then?”
“Big time! You’re making a bit of a habit of this plain-speaking business, aren’t you? Were tequila slammers involved, by any chance?”
He shook his head ruefully. “Whiskey, I think was the culprit this time. And lager. Oh, and there was that cider they had on special offer. In fact, I blame the cider for the more controversial of my comments - it’s inclined to loosen the tongue.”