A Month of Sundays Read online

  “Evening, young O’Driscoll,” said the Head. “Didn’t know you were coming tonight.”

  “It was a late decision,” answered John, and turned to introduce Micky. “This is my friend, Michael Quinn.”

  “Glad to meet you, young feller,” said the head, extending a large hand. “Are you chaps looking forward to the show?”

  “Rather!” replied Micky who, determined to play the part of a Shakespeare aficionado to the full, hitched his trousers up with a flourish so theatrical that Sir John Gielgud himself might have envied it.

  “You chaps coming to the bistro after the show for tea and stickies,” called out Mr. Barnet, adding, “my treat, of course.” Hastily pleading a prior engagement, O’Driscoll and Quinn hurried back to their seats just as the lights went down.

  It took no more than a couple of minutes for O’Driscoll to realize that Mr. Barnet was one of those annoying bastards whose sole purpose when visiting a theatre is to demonstrate his knowledge of the play being performed - the kind of bloke who, upon hearing an amusing piece of dialogue will laugh loudly and extravagantly, the laughter being itself a performance intended to showcase his familiarity with the text. Early in the performance, there is a scene where Cleopatra and her handmaidens discuss where they would like an extra inch on their man, and one of them says, “Not on his nose!” It was in truth a line that could have been delivered by Barbara Windsor or Kenneth Williams to a suggestive tuba accompaniment, and upon hearing it for the first time, O’Driscoll had wondered whether The Bard had had some premonition as to the prism through which future populations might view that particular play. It was nevertheless a line clearly intended to be funny, and as it approached, Mr. Barnet’s shoulders began to shake and his belly to wobble as he prepared himself for the laugh he was about to deliver.

  “Ah - ha - ha - ha - ha!” he enunciated at the precise moment the actress began to deliver the line.

  “Ah - ha - ha –ha!” he continued, shaking his head and wiping his eyes with a large spotted handkerchief.

  A couple of rows away, a loud “Oh - ho - ho - ho!” echoed across the auditorium and Mr. Barnett froze in his seat and then frowned. He scanned the room surreptitiously in search of his rival and there was a palpable sense of him squaring his metaphorical shoulders as he prepared to go into battle. For the remainder of the performance, O’Driscoll struggled to follow what was happening on the stage as he listened to the herculean struggle taking place between the two foes. A volley of Ah - ha - ha - ha’s would be fired off from Mr. Barnet’s seat, only to encounter in mid-air and travelling in the opposite direction, an artillery burst of Oh - ho - ho - ho’s.

  Mr. Barnet would sometimes vary his attack by firing off a salvo of snorts, but this would be immediately neutralized by the deployment of a defensive pattern of barks. Sometimes the “ha’s” would seem to have it in the bag, but then back would come the “ho’s,” as increasingly powerful weaponry was deployed on both sides. Before long, O’Driscoll’s head was spinning from its demented umpiring role and he was glad when the performance finished and they were able to move to the foyer, where Mr. Barnet continued to harrumph and chortle and shake his shoulders, the effect not unlike some great engine which continues to vibrate and clank long after its motor has been switched off.

  “Did you enjoy the performance,” O’Driscoll asked Mr. Li, for want of something to say.

  “Absolutely ripping, I thought,” answered Li. “A fellow could go a month of Sundays without seeing anything so top hole.”

  In truth, it had been a decent enough evening, reflected O’Driscoll. The only downside was if word got back to Karen that he had attended, word would equally get back that his companion, far from being a ravishing blonde, had in fact been a big fat, red-headed Irishman. Declining as gracefully as they could, Mr. Barnet’s repeated invitation to join them for “tea and stickies,” the two lads headed gratefully into the pub next door, where a few minutes later they were seated at a table attacking their second pints.

  By this time, Micky was facing a losing battle to get to Euston for his last train to Watford, whereas O’Driscoll’s flat was a simple journey on the N89 night bus. “You might as well crash at my place, Mick,” he said. “You practically live there anyway, and with the smell you left last time, the rats will be disappointed not to reacquaint themselves with you.”

  And so it was that several hours later, the flat echoed again to the sound of Quinn’s mellifluous snore, while O’Driscoll sat at the table in that twilight world between wakefulness and sleep. A video player lay under the small TV set that was perched uneasily on a small table in the corner and was playing one of the four videos that comprised O’Driscoll’s collection. On this particular occasion, the words and images that echoed around the room were very familiar, for when Santino Corleone opened the package that had just arrived at a heavily guarded compound in upstate New York, it was in fact the twenty-second time that year that he had done so.

  And when fat Clemenza told the puzzled mobster that the dead bloater yielded up by the parcel was an old Sicilian message suggesting that capo regime Luca Brazzi slept with the fishes, it was the twenty-second time that year that he had done so. And when Santino’s brother Michael removed the telephone receiver he was holding from his ear and dropped it back into its cradle, it was the twenty-second time that year that he had done so. As the portentous Godfather theme music battled for supremacy with the even more portentous Quinn snore, John O’Driscoll drifted into sleep and into another day.

  Tuesday

  “Morning, chaps,” said Mr. Barnet, giving his left moustache an exploratory twirl as he began briefing in the staff room. “I just wanted to remind you all about the exchange programme I mentioned last week. I’ll be talking about it in more detail during assembly, but the long and short of it is that next week we’ll be playing host to two Year Six pupils, one from France and the other from the U.S.A. Right, that’s it chaps, up and at ‘em! Oh, by the way, John, can I have a word with you in my office?”

  O’Driscoll followed his leader down the corridor with lagging footsteps and a heavy heart. He could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he had been invited into the Head’s office and never before had he been called into the august presence alone. He steeled himself for what was to come - it was probably going to be another bollocking about the Year Six mass, or worse, a warning to prepare himself for bad news about next year. He had held onto the hope that, because Mr. Barnet hadn’t been at the church, details of the blunder might not have gotten back to him, but obviously some twisted bastard - Mrs. Goodwin sprang to mind - had taken the opportunity to put in a bad word.

  Indulging himself in a brief fantasy where Mrs. Goodwin had been taken hostage by separatists wearing explosive belts and the entire school staff had a whip round to donate some detonators, O’Driscoll followed the Head into his office. He looked around as he sat on the proffered chair and saw the familiar collection of RAF inspired memorabilia, on the wall framed newspaper cuttings and photos and on the desk a couple of model aircraft and a paperweight that claimed to have been fashioned from the nacelle of a Bristol Beaufighter.

  “Now then, young feller, need to ask you a favour,” began Mr. Barnet, causing O’Driscoll to wonder anew at what was coming. The Head was not wearing the expression of someone about to dish out a bollocking, in fact if anything, he was looking slightly ill at ease.

  “It’s like this,” continued the Head, giving his left moustache a tweak, “We’re taking on a temporary teacher for the rest of the year to cover Doreen Clarke’s maternity, and I was looking for someone to act as a kind of mentor to her. You have a good way with the youngsters, stimulating classroom environment etc. but no insubordination in the ranks, just the type to show a newly-qualified teacher how to navigate through those treacherous waters we all face when we’re new to the profession. So how about it, will you take it on?
”

  O’Driscoll listened to this request with some surprise. Receiving plaudits from the school leadership was not something he was used to, especially after recent events, but it was true. He did have few problems managing behaviour in the classroom and it was pleasing to think that his good practice was being recognized. As to Mr. Barnet’s question, one didn’t turn down such a request from the Head and it simply remained to accept it in such a way as to bank as many brownie points as possible to set against future cock-ups.

  O’Driscoll sat back in his chair and crossed his legs in a manner suggestive of deep contemplation. With equal gravity, he folded one arm across his chest and rested the thumb and forefinger of the other on his chin. The image he was hoping to project was one where the seriousness of the task was understood, but equally there was a cold-eyed confidence in his own ability to carry it through. Studying American politics for his degree, he had read with admiration of the goal-oriented yet pragmatic operating style of the Kennedy White House and it was as if this steely eyed, can-do realism was now suddenly parachuted into West London. O’Driscoll slowly uncrossed his legs and reversed the configuration of arms, hands and chin, while continuing to rest a steady eye on the waiting Mr. Barnet.

  “Well sir, no man worth his salt turns down a mission... er... request from his chief,” he said gravely.

  “That’s the kind of thing I like to hear,” said Mr. Barnet, rubbing his hands. “Now, here’s something else I need to gen you up on,” he went on, transferring the tweaking action to his right moustache. “The temporary teacher in question is known to me on a personal basis, and that’s why I want someone right from the top drawer to look after her. Fact is, she’s the granddaughter of a good friend of my father’s. You’ll have heard of Binkie Pugh, of course?”

  O’Driscoll hadn’t but was reluctant to appear like the kind of White House staffer who hasn’t read the latest briefing paper, so his head performed an indeterminate rotating movement intended to buy itself some time.

  “Or rather to give him his proper moniker, D.H. Pugh, the distinguished Second World War flying ace,” went on Mr. Barnet with a smile, and O’Driscoll made a sound intended to indicate that, of course, now the gentleman in question had been identified by his correct title, no possible confusion remained.

  “Binkie and my guvnor served together in the R.A.F. during the last show, batted on some sticky wickets, don’t you know, and got themselves into some damned dicey predicaments. Anyway, to cut a long story short, lifelong friendship ensued and as a result, self and Binkie’s son Douglas brought up almost as brothers. Both my Pater and Binkie now flown life’s final mission, sitting up there right now with a couple of celestial G and Ts in their hands, I shouldn’t wonder, but, and here’s the thing, before they went topside, made Douglas and self-promise that we’d look out for each other - thick and thin, and all that. Well, the young lady coming as a supply teacher is Douglas’s daughter, so when the position came up and she was in the frame so to speak, couldn’t let old Douglas down.” Mr. Barnet paused for a moment and O’Driscoll filled the vacuum by nodding empathetically, as if the procurement of teaching positions for the offspring of dead air aces was a run of the mill experience for him.

  “Thing is,” went on the headmaster, lowering his voice confidentially, “might be better if it wasn’t widely known that the young lady was a friend of the family. You know what it’s like, no impropriety of course, but tongues wag in a place like this. I’ve told the young lady, Prudence is her name, by the way, to keep mum about myself and her father being chums, so that side of the show is all pukka.”

  With fingers now travelling in the direction of his left moustache, the Head continued, “So what do you say, young O’Driscoll, two paces forward if you’re willing to have a crack at the thing. Quite understand if you’d rather not, but dammit, I think you’re the man for the job.”

  Having finished with this rhetorical flourish, Mr. Barnet leaned back and waited for a reply. O’Driscoll sat forward in his chair and assumed an expression which he hoped conveyed an appreciation of the seriousness of the job, but also a clear-headed confidence in his ability to carry it out, the kind of expression that he imagined the daring young technocrats of the Kennedy administration had worn when instructed to create a range of exploding cigars that would bring the nascent regime of Fidel Castro to an inglorious end.

  “Well, young feller?” said the head, this time with a slight note of impatience in his voice, and O’Driscoll realized that he had once more allowed his mind to wander. Putting all the vigour he could muster into his voice, he replied firmly, “It would be an honour, Mr. Presi... Mr. Barnet. I’ll be glad to help in any way I can.”

  “That’s the spirit!” said the Head and was in the process of pumping his colleague’s hand when Mrs. Goodwin entered with some papers in her hand.

  “I’ve got the details of the exchange students, Mr. Barnet,” she began, but as she took in the scene, her nose began to quiver and her eyes darted back and forth between the two figures.

  “I hope I haven’t interrupted anything... important,” she said, the tip of her nose performing minute oscillations in search of enlightenment.

  “Not at all, Mrs. Goodwin, just discussing some points of the... er... curriculum,” replied the Head. “Ah, the exchange programme, let’s have a look. Don’t know whether you’re genned up on the business, young John,” he said expansively, “but we’re swapping a couple of students with our sister schools in France and the U.S.A. for a couple of weeks. We’ll be sending Margaret Marsh and Thomas Hughes,” he said, referring to two Year Six pupils whose saintliness was guaranteed to show Saint Catherine’s in a positive light, “and these are evidently details of the young shavers they’re sending us in exchange. Let’s have a look,” he put on a pair of reading glasses. “Right..., the French chappie is apparently called Henri Rives, aged ten, bit of a philosopher by the looks of this... now let’s have a look at our cousin from across the big pond... hmm... name of Brett Donnelly, eleven years-old, and a confident and outgoing young man, it says here. They’re a solid-looking brace, Mrs. Goodwin, have we sorted out a decent billet for them?”

  “Well, sir” said Mrs. Goodwin “I was going to suggest that, with me and my Reg having had experience of the hotel business, we might put them up in our own humble abode.”

  “Capital!” replied the Head. “A splendid idea, have ‘em where we can keep an eye on ‘em, eh? Please go ahead Mrs. Goodwin, and thank you for helping out - you are a treasure beyond rubies!” Mrs. Goodwin got up to leave, and O’Driscoll made to follow, but the Head called him back and waited until they were alone.

  “One final point. Prudence is a delightful young lady, but she is... how can I put it... not very wise in the ways of the world, full of youthful idealism and all that sort of thing. Also, she doesn’t have any classroom experience, apart from what she picked up during her teaching practice. To cut a long story short, she’s going to need careful nurturing. Can I rely on you, old chap?” Stifling an impulse to salute, O’Driscoll indicated his willingness to take on the task and, having agreed with the Head a suitable time to meet Prudence, made good his escape.

  It was pleasing to think his star might finally be in the ascendency, especially in view of the tough decisions that would shortly have to be made about teaching contracts, so O’Driscoll spent a happy lunch hour in the staff room drinking tea and listening in a desultory fashion to the conversation that was going on around him. Mrs. Goodwin was again holding forth and over the course of the lunchtime gave her opinion on the war in Bosnia (sad, but what else could you expect, really, from Bosnians), the sexual indiscretions of President Clinton (his poor wife, but you know what they say about ginger-haired men), the disloyalty to her in-laws of Princess Diana (if she was mine, I’d put her across my knee), and the rash of sleaze scandals in the Conservative Party (doesn’t surprise me in the least, you wouldn�
��t believe what we used to find in the rooms after they had their conferences). This last observation produced a stampede towards the door from those who remembered her previous comments about The Willows and its wash cycle requirements. Joining the exodus, O’Driscoll began the journey back to afternoon lessons, only to see ahead of him in the corridor a cluster of arguing boys surrounding the figure of Mr. Li.

  “They stole my Kit Kat!” a fat boy was wailing.

  “Did you purloin this boy’s chocolate?” Mr. Li was saying severely to two well-known Year Six miscreants, Joseph Harty and Anthony Price.

  “We found it, sir, found it on the floor, sir,” answered Price, and Harty nodded his agreement.

  “It appears this item of confectionary belongs to you,” said Mr. Li to the fat boy who took the bar and hurried off.

  Mr. Li looked gravely at the two remaining pupils. “This type of behaviour reflects badly on the school,” he began, “especially when it involves Year Six fellows. We do not tolerate the abstracting of comestibles here at Saint Catherine’s. Is that clear?”

  The two boys exchanged bewildered looks but other than that, seemed at a loss for a reply.

  “Do you understand,” went on Mr. Li, trying a different tack, “how serious a matter it is to be accused of snooping another fellow’s tuck?”

  The two boys looked at each other again, wearing panic stricken expressions as Mr. Li, who was growing increasingly angry at their apparent retreat into dumb insolence, thundered, “For the final time, have you been snooping another fellow’s tuck? Answer me!”

  “Can’t sir!” replied a visibly agitated Price.

  “Why not?” shouted Li.

  “Can’t answer you, sir!” howled Price. “Don’t know what you mean, sir!”

  “It’s quite simple...,” shrieked Mr. Li, patience now completely expired. O’Driscoll judged this to be an opportune moment to intervene before the situation got completely out of control.