A Month of Sundays Page 10
“Will the boys be staying at your house for the whole time they’re here?” asked someone from the back. Mrs. Goodwin was known to be unwilling to give up a role which gained her such prominence, and she and the Head could be seen exchanging looks. “I’m sorry but I’m not in a predicament to answer that question at the moment,” she said smoothly, before handing the audience back to Mr. Barnet. He announced that the two boys would be introduced to the rest of the pupils at school assembly that morning, and that the climax of their stay would be the visit of the governing body of Brett’s school to Saint Catherine’s at the end of the following week. “The chair of governors is actually Brett’s father,” went on Mr. Barnet, “so I’m sure we’ll all do our best to ensure that Brett’s experience is a positive one. There is talk of the exchange programme being expanded next year if this pilot is a success, which would give some of you an opportunity to visit the school in America. Mr. Donnelly is also chair of the foundation that would fund such a trip,” he finished with a twinkle of the eye and a tweak of the handlebar, “so I’m sure I don’t need to say any more.”
It was only as O’Driscoll headed off to his tutor room that he began to realize how bad his hangover was, and he promised himself that for one Friday night at least, he would resist the lure of the pub if only the fates would repay him beforehand by granting him an easy, trouble-free day. At that moment, as if in mocking answer, he heard his name being called in an excited voice and a moment later, Prudence bounced along the corridor and fell into step alongside him. “Good morning!” she said brightly. “And how are you today? I can’t wait for lessons to start so I can see those gorgeous children again. Shall I go straight to your classroom and wait for you there or would you like to talk about what we’re going to do right away?”
Without waiting for a reply and in the same breathless voice, she went on to say that she had been thinking about how a range of National Curriculum subjects could be addressed by focusing on a single topic and she wondered if he had considered the possibility of doing this through the Beatrix Potter stories which were so wonderful, weren’t they, and although she now agreed that wearing animal masks in class before introducing the furry creatures to the children might be a little premature, she felt sure once they had been exposed to the wonderful stories, they would be queuing up to ask questions and get in role themselves and was he familiar with the Beatrix Potter stories, well of course, everyone was because they were a kind of national institution and really the possibilities for using them to deliver a range of National Curriculum subjects were endless, weren’t they, there were the wanderings of Peter Rabbit and Benjamin Bunny that had obvious links to the Geography curriculum and there was the Tale of Samuel Whiskers which was clearly an allegory for good and evil that would fit into the R.E. syllabus and, of course, the story of the bushy long-haired gentleman who turned out to be a wolf was a perfect way to address stranger danger and meet the needs of the P.S.E. curriculum.
O’Driscoll felt like King Canute as he struggled in vain to repel the tsunami of small, furry creatures that was washing over him in wave after wave. Prudence stopped for a moment to take in air and he opened his mouth to speak but it was too late and an instant later she was off again as another torrent of words began to cascade from her mouth. She said she would be happy to take on any number of the roles but her favourite was Jemima Puddleduck who was such a lovely character, wasn’t she, and had he thought about which animal he would like to play, because in her opinion, he would be perfectly cast in the role of Johnny Town Mouse, not just because of his name but because she could tell from his complexion that he didn’t get enough fresh air and she’d be prepared to bet that if she asked him when the last time was he’d walked in a field and smelt the primroses, he wouldn’t be able to say and did he think they would be able to start the project right away or wait till the end of tutor time and had he noticed there was a funny garlicky petrol smell in the air and she hadn’t wanted to say anything but she had noticed it when they’d met and it seemed to be following them down the corridor.
Resisting the temptation to disembowel her on the spot, O’Driscoll reminded her as patiently as he could that her brief would remain a watching one until the following week, when she was to begin her own teaching, and that they could discuss her... interesting project at another time. He comforted himself with the thought that a lot could happen in a week - she might get a cold, she might be called away by a family matter, she might be murdered by a mad axe man! Realizing that his nerves were in danger of becoming completely shredded by a combination of last night’s alcohol and this morning’s exposure to Prudence, he took a deep breath, grimaced, swallowed an “OOST!” and contrived to get the class through the first couple of lessons without undue incident.
It was after morning break that the school assembled in the hall for the regular Friday assembly. Proceedings invariably started with prayers, led by Sister Bernadette, or if he was available, Father Kennedy. On this occasion, the priest was otherwise engaged so the tenor of the prayers focused more on the universal love of the almighty than on the searing pain of eternal damnation, which was a relief to all concerned, except perhaps, Miss Gillespie, who was one of those Catholics for whom the teaching that life was a vale of tears filled with suffering offered a kind of mournful satisfaction.
After prayers, Mr. Barnet took the floor to introduce the two exchange students. The imminent arrival of two such exotic flowers had aroused considerable interest among the student body and as the head began talking, necks craned along the rows as children sought a glimpse of the new arrivals.
“I’m sure you will all give a warm Saint Catherine’s welcome to our two exchange students,” he began as the two boys were ushered onto the stage. Henri was thin and bony with a pronounced Adam’s Apple and protruding ears. He wore the lugubrious expression of someone who expects the worst from life and has long ago resigned himself to his fate. The American boy, by contrast, gazed out across the hall with that air of ease that his countrymen seemed able to assume wherever they were. It was a look that suggested that anyone who wanted to mix it up with Brett T. Donnelly would be taking on more than they bargained for.
Making a mental note to keep his wits about him when it was his turn to teach the boys, O’Driscoll headed off to class to practise his lop-sided Colin Firth smile. By the end of the morning, it was making him drool slightly from one side of his mouth and when he tried it out on one of the dinner ladies at lunchtime, she jumped in the air, took two steps back and watched him suspiciously until he completed his purchases and left the line. Managing to keep Prudence at arm’s length for the remainder of the day, a feat which he achieved by sending her on repeated journeys to far-flung corners of the school to gather imaginary resources for nonexistent lessons, he duly presented himself in the staff room, only to be told that Karen had been delayed. She had apparently left a message postponing the meeting until five-thirty, adding that she would understand if any of her colleagues had prior commitments and wouldn’t be able to make it.
It was inevitable that Duffy should arrive at that moment and suggest a “swift half” as a pleasant way of whiling away the intervening time, and consequently, John O’Driscoll arrived back at school two hours later with half a gallon of lager sloshing about inside him and a fatuous smile plastered over his face. Having made a detour to the staff toilets and evacuated his bladder, he hurried towards the staffroom, glancing down at the front of his beige chinos as he reached the door. What he saw made him stop abruptly in his tracks, for so wayward must his post-urinary shaking have been that the crotch of his trousers was now crisscrossed with a latticework of wandering piss trails.
O’Driscoll was far from being the first person who would curse the unfortunate association of beer and beige chinos but even he knew that this early in the day, the results would not pass the most rudimentary inspection. Acting purely on instinct, he dropped into a crouch, entered the staffroom
like a turbo-charged Groucho Marx and hurled himself across the room into the soft seating area on the other side of the meeting table. Landing in a heap on one of the sofas and aware of the puzzled looks that his entrance had provoked, he sat up, crossed one piss-stained leg over the other and gazed across at his colleagues, wearing a smile so lop-sided that more than one of them wondered whether he had suffered a mild stroke.
“Hi John, thanks for coming,” said Karen with a bewitching smile and resumed her conversation with the group. “Father Kennedy has asked me to make sure everyone knows what they’re doing so I just wanted to run through the schedule. He did ask me to make sure that you... that ... er... everyone was aware how important it was that everything went smoothly this time.” The fact that it was impossible to tell from her manner whether or not she was aware of last Sunday’s cock-up and his part in it, made O’Driscoll love her even more and he resolved there and then that he would move heaven and earth to ensure that nothing should happen do disturb the harmony of this week’s service.
His mind drifted into a delicious reverie: a small but fanatical group of Red Brigade terrorists had taken Karen and her colleagues on the organizing committee hostage, and were holding the screaming crowd of parents and staff in a corner of the church, waving their guns and shouting incoherently. O’Driscoll had volunteered to take Karen’s place as a hostage and as the transfer was taking place and they crossed in the doorway, her tearful eyes met his and she stammered, “John, I can’t thank you enough...” A crooked smile playing about his lips, John O’Driscoll silenced her protests by placing a finger gently on her lips and strolled with languid grace and without a backward glance into the maelstrom and into the jaws of certain death.
They might even make a film out of it, and he brightened at the thought as he pictured the last scene with the O’Driscoll character, played by Colin Firth, expiring in the arms of the girl he loved, the final shot being a close-up of his hand as it unfolded to reveal a row of safely defused detonators. Reluctantly tearing himself away from this apocalyptic but rather pleasing image, he realized Karen was speaking and listened as she made a pretty speech thanking them all for coming and calling the meeting to a close.
With his bladder once again sending out urgent signals, he made another journey to the toilet and then hurried towards the school foyer so that he might get there ahead of Karen and have a chance of striking up a conversation with her when she did arrive. He grabbed some items from his pigeonhole and then took up a position just outside the main entrance, leaning negligently on the rail of the ramp that led from ground level up to the doors. Hearing footsteps which were unmistakably female clicking across the floor of the school building, he assumed an attitude of studied grace and began to carelessly flick through the items of post which he had grabbed.
As the footsteps approached, his stomach sucked itself involuntarily in and whether it was this action that caused the sudden loss his balance or whether it was down to the lager, before he knew it his arms were wind milling violently and a moment later, he found himself toppling slowly backwards over the rail and head first into the wheelie bin that lay behind it. Fortunately, the bin in question was filled with discarded cardboard rather than food waste, and having scrambled to his feet, O’Driscoll was debating whether to leap out and explain that he had been looking for material for the class recycling project when he heard Karen’s footsteps approaching and a moment later she had passed by and was gone. After a suitable interval, a tousled head liberally decorated with wood shavings appeared over the rim of the bin and gazed forlornly in the direction of the receding figure. A moment later the rest of John O’Driscoll joined it and, a cursory examination of his beige chinos having revealed that at least the urine stains were gone, he headed disconsolately in the direction of The North Star, cursing yet another missed opportunity.
Saturday
The pub near Cheltenham Racecourse was buzzing with anticipation and animated discussions were taking place in every corner, except for the one which Rocky, who had been attending a works do the previous evening, was occupying. He sat with his head in his hands, refusing all nourishment and occasionally muttering “Fucking Bushmills”, but if he expected his plight to elicit any sympathy from his companions, he was disappointed. Micky Quinn did offer to buy his friend a packet of pork scratchings to settle his stomach and recommended a local brand whose manufacturing process was said to be so organic so many of the pork rinds still had hairs attached to them when taken out of the bag.
This was enough to tip Rocky over the edge and he ran towards the toilets clutching his stomach and making convulsive retching noises. Upon making a shaky return to his seat, he found that a case conference had been convened and he had been prescribed a tonic consisting of a pint of strong lager topped up with double shot of neat vodka. When the glass was delivered to his table along with a firm injunction to “Drink your medicine,” he steeled himself and took a long shuddering draught before retiring once more to his corner.
By one o’clock, the party was feeling sufficiently bullish about the afternoon ahead to move across to the racecourse proper. Cheltenham was O’Driscoll’s favourite course and the prospect of standing there on a cold winter’s day listening to the myriad accents of old Ireland competing with the soft Cotswold burr of the locals never failed to lift the spirits. For O’Driscoll and Duffy, however, the great festival in March was off-limits because it never, NEVER, coincided with the school holidays. It was, in their eyes, a genuine infringement of their human rights, and the plight of those forever denied the opportunity to stand in the packed grandstand listening to the famous “Cheltenham roar” - a unique sound which seemed to O’Driscoll to be comprised in more or less equal parts of Guinness, greed and fear - was one they felt Amnesty International should direct its attention to instead of piddling round with massacres and torture and all that kind of stuff.
The first couple of races on the card were novice hurdles but the next two were competitive handicaps and there was much scurrying between bookmakers’ pitches in an effort to get the most advantageous prices, O’Driscoll being particularly proud afterwards of the 8-1 he got against Addington Boy when the starting price was 6-1. He was relaying this information to his friends with quiet pride when Faith interrupted him by saying, “But John, it lost, didn’t it?”
“I still got 8-1, though,” he replied.
Faith considered this for a moment. “Sorry, I may be incredibly stupid here, but if it lost, it doesn’t actually matter what price you got.”
“Yes, but I got 8-1,” answered O’Driscoll, determined that his perspicacity should not go unrecognized. “Micky backed it as well but he only got 13-2, and that lightweight of a boyfriend of yours actually came back with a docket showing 5-1. I honestly don’t know how he dared show his face!”
“So let me get this straight,” said Faith, warming to her theme. “Every time you lot go to the races, you hand over all your money to some git in a check suit, but as long as you’ve managed to get some completely pointless and notional advantage over your mates, that’s fine and you can all go home with your heads held high.”
“You don’t understand,” interjected Duffy.
“The only thing I understand is that the whole lot of you are even more bloody stupid than I thought you were, if that was possible,” replied Faith. “And now,” she said, turning to Sweeney and smiling sweetly, “having got that of my chest, I think it’s your shout.”
“Where my next pint,” said Duffy a couple of minutes later. Sweeney, who was by nature one of life’s gentlemen, was still on the periphery of the mass of bodies that was crowded at least four deep around the serving area so, with a snort, Duffy entered the fray and somehow burrowed his way through and under the mass of bodies to emerge at the centre of the scrum right in front of a barmaid. Even more remarkably, he contrived to make the reverse journey with at least six glasses in his hands and he then wa
ited until Sweeney arrived, laden with drinks and apologizing for his tardiness, before delivering the immortal put down, “What do you expect when you send a boy to do a man’s job?”
Betting notes were compared at the end of proceedings and sad reading they made - no winners, nothing placed, “not even a shout!” except for Rocky, who by one of those perverse quirks of fate, had made a remarkable recovery and backed three winners at decent prices. He was in one of those deeply annoying states of drunken self-satisfaction that his friends knew well, and they were good-natured enough not to kill him on the spot when he softly intoned the words, “Sixteen to one!” for the tenth or eleventh time. By the end of the evening, the remainder of the party had attained that same state of happy incoherence, after which O’Driscoll and Quinn somehow found themselves back at the O’Driscoll residence in the company of an Indian takeaway.
Sunday
After a hearty breakfast consisting of the previous night’s left-over meat vindaloo, O’Driscoll and Quinn made their way to Osterley Park to play Sunday morning football. To say that the quality of play in the Chiswick and District Sunday League (Division 3) fell short of the highest level would be to understate its ineptness. The matches took place on fields that were bumpy in the summer and muddy in the winter and the players who shambled about on their unkempt surfaces were the flotsam and jetsam of the West London football world - obese, uncoordinated, unfit, or a combination of all three.