Kate O’Riordan - The Boy in the Moon

‘Oy, you, Donovan. Put that in the bin there for me.’ Cotter sucked the rind into his mouth one more time, then wriggled it again. Brian opened one eye, holding on to the fleeting hope that maybe Cotter meant Edward this time. But the schoolteacher’s whiskey eyes were fixed on him. Edward snickered behind him – Cathal too – as Brian stood up with an inward sigh. He promised himself that he would puck shit out of them later in the yard.

Cotter did his usual trick, holding on to the rind for a second so that Brian’s fingers slid along the spittle before it was in his grip. Then Brian made a mistake: he turned his mouth down at the corners. He tried quickly to upturn it again, but he’d been caught.

‘Oh, now,’ Cotter said expansively, ‘oh, now, what have we here at all?’

Brian threw the rind into the bin and returned to his desk, but Cotter was in no mind to continue with the morning’s lessons anyhow, not with the hangover he had on him and now that he had some serious tormenting to do. Brian winced when he heard his name again.

‘Oy, Donovan. Up here, boy. That’s right … Stand here beside me and explain that little girly face you just did.’ Cotter did an exaggerated moue of disgust for the class, and they sniggered obligingly.

Brian picked them out one by one in his head as he gazed up at his teacher, rounding his eyes innocently. ‘I – I don’t know what you mean, sir.’ Just a little stutter for effect. Cotter liked stutters; mostly he laid off Edward for that reason. Stutters and stammers were suitably deferential, they showed a respectful hesitancy. All of Cotter’s children were hesitant, respectful and speech-impaired.

Brian weighed up the odds: on the one hand, slow crucifixion by whiskey withdrawal throughout the long day ahead of sums, catechism and English; on the other, instant gratification by means of extradition of torture into waiting repository of stupid boy who asked for it. Brian knew which one he would choose. He lowered his eyes humbly and awaited his fate. Cotter farted. That meant he was excited. Brian feared the worst. He looked up and followed Cotter’s sadistic gaze to the back of the classroom where it fell on the grinning, rocking figure of Padraig, the class half-wit. Brian groaned.

‘Oh, now,’ Cotter began, farting again. ‘Master Donovan, sir, you’re telling me that your lips did not … What way will I put it at all?’ He craned forward. ‘Ahh, twitch? Did they or did they not twwwitch when your, ahh, fingers encountered my, ahh, saliva?’

‘They never twitched, sir. I swear it – on my brother’s life, sir. I swear it.’ Brian had time for a thundery glance in Edward’s direction.

‘So you’re not a gedleen then?’

‘Oh, no, sir.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. I am. Because I won’t have gedleens in this classroom and so I won’t – except for the girls themselves, of course.’

The girls, including Brian’s twin sisters, twittered appreciatively. The veins stood out on Cotter’s nose; his eyes, of now indeterminate colour, filled with patriotic tears.

‘Because’ – he had to stop for a plaintive snort – ‘because, one of these weekends, any day now, I’ll be expecting you lads there to march by my side, to march like MEN, and what’ll we do, lads?’

‘We’ll take back the North, sir,’ resounded the chorus.

‘Aris!’ Cotter shrieked.

‘We’ll take back the North, sir.’

‘Spoken like men.’ Cotter dabbed his eyes. He reached under his desk flap and pulled out a Woodbine, fingers trembling poignantly as he struck the match. ‘A bit of spit won’t put us off now, will it, young Donovan?’

Brian shook his head. ‘No sir.’

‘You’ve a mind to share Padraig there’s victuals with him so, I’m taking it?’

‘’T’ wouldn’t be fair to him, sir, but I’ve a mind to do it if it – if it would help the North, sir.’ Brian’s mind cast desperately around for a way out. He couldn’t think fast enough. Maybe he should try a bit of cheek to incense Cotter into a strapping, but then he might end up taking the strap and the worst of all punishments anyway; there was no time, damn it, Cotter was farting with every draw on his cigarette which meant it was all over bar the shouting.

Brian turned his head. He gazed over the bowl-and-scissors haircuts, delighted to a lad that it was not them facing the worst of all possible fates: Victuals with Padraig. The same Padraig who came to school every morning resplendent in his one grey suit and navy blue tie, all of twenty-five if he was a day. But there was no place else to send him. So he came to school and rocked and beamed his way through every lesson, until Cotter rang the bell for break or victuals and then Padraig came into his own, unwrapping slices of lard, two Ginger Nut biscuits and a heel of white bread. This was washed down with a screwtop sauce bottle of milk, and that was the problem. Padraig never quite got the hang of his eating co-ordination. He licked his lard, stuffed the bread into his mouth, then shoved the bottle neck into the mixture – and chomped. While he chomped and sucked, he also beamed. Padraig was good-natured. He was compelled to smile or laugh through every meal, which meant that his food was compelled down his chin. When that happened, his tongue was compelled after the food which had escaped it, so he ate and drank and beamed and retrieved, all simultaneously. Brian’s heart sank. He knew what was expected of him. To the right, by the window beaded with slanting rain, Edward’s eyes shone with belief. Brian had no great desire to disappoint his younger brother, but he felt aggrieved. He had done nothing so heinous as to merit this, the worst of all possibles. Cotter’s eyes gleamed. He reached for and tolled the bell. Brian slouched to the back of the class and nudged Padraig sideways.

Padraig was already rifling through his small cardboard case for his lunch. He licked the slab of lard and offered it to Brian. Brian licked, then turned away. All heads craned back towards them. Padraig bit into his slice of bread. He chortled to himself happily. Nobody blinked as the bottle neck intruded into the hedonistic mess. Glug glug. A merry Padraig extruded the bottle, leaving a glutinous residue of lard and dough and milk encasing the top. Not a breath as Padraig extended the bottle toward Brian. Cotter released a resonant volley for Ireland from the forefront of the room. Brian held the bottle; he blinked rapidly; his hands trembled. He pursed his lips. He clamped them to the glass, shuddered for an instant, then drank with such fervour that the classroom erupted into cheers and roars of such approbation as to make Cotter keel sideways headlong into the bin harbouring his own beloved bacon rinds. He was so overcome by fervent love of his country that he called a halt to the rest of the day’s lessons, and pronounced that from that day forward, 19 April 1966 would be remembered as the beginning of the South’s incursion into the North’s silent but awaiting bay. Brian stood for his bows. He was twelve. And triumphant.

‘What are you laughing at, Dad?’

‘Oh nothing. Nothing.’

‘You must have been laughing at something,’ Sam persisted.

‘I’ve forgotten already.’

Sam grumbled to himself as Brian pulled into the service station. Julia was pretending to be asleep. He filled the tank and joined the motorway again.

‘Are we there?’ Sam asked.

‘Not yet.’

‘Mu-um …?’

‘Shh, she’s sleeping.’

‘How long more?’

‘Couple of hours. Go back to sleep.’

‘I wasn’t really asleep. I just had my eyes closed.’

‘Well, just close your eyes some more then.’

‘Let’s play something.’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know. I Spy maybe?’