Martin was delighted at the thought of a holiday in the country. His mother told him that he had been invited to stay at her old family farm with his cousins. She pointed out to him that because the city schools closed earlier than those in the country, his cousins would still be at classes for the first two weeks of the holiday. Knowing the farm well from the previous Easter holiday, this did not bother him.
He made plans to go fishing and hoped he would be allowed help with the cows and the hens. Recalling his last visit, he reminded himself to be careful to avoid the calves catching his fingers against the rim of the bucket while he fed them. Looking at his hands, he wondered if they had grown big enough to allow him to learn how to milk a cow. He hoped that the glasses he now wore would not be laughed at.
Martin was the youngest in his family by nine years. His three sisters often talked about the holidays they spent in Youghal. For the month of August, the whole family would move there with Granny. They always had a house looking out on the strand. They talked of days sunbathing and swimming and nights at Perks Amusement Arcade. As Martin was five years old when these holidays ceased, he had only the vaguest recollection of summer by the sea.
His sisters had reached a stage where they were more interested in summer camp or the Gaeltacht and his father decided there was no point in renting a summer house where only one child would spend time there. Instead, he had to content himself with occasional Sundays in Myrtleville or Fountainstown.
He borrowed a kit bag from his sister for his clothes and heeding his mother’s advice, put in his wellingtons. His skin prickled under the newness of his khaki shirt and short pants bought especially for the visit. He put his new Fair Isle sweater into the bag, as he only intended to use this on Sundays.
“Help tackle up Molly with me,” said his father.
He felt very important, helping fit the pony up into the tub trap. Initially, she needed encouragement from his father who shouted, “Hup there, Molly,” as he waved his whip in the air.
When they reached the countryside, she settled into a steady trot. Nearing the farm, he recognized the holy well with its pieces of rag tied to the bushes. They cantered down the hill into the gulley and past the dark lake. Then, turning sharply to the left, they passed through the gates and along the avenue lined with beech trees sighing in the soft breeze. Smells of brown bread and apple pie competed with silage as they pushed in the back door. Crickets chirped in the chimney breast. The battery radio crackled on the window sill in the kitchen. The radio was serviced by a makeshift aerial, composed of a cobweb of wires, strung up outside the house. The men were listening carefully to the weather forecast. As soon as this finished, the wireless was turned off and his uncle turned to his father and said, “How are things, Mikey?”
“Wisha, alright,” said his father.
“And Georgy, these days?”
“Difficult,” said his father. “I am lucky to get a nun’s kiss out of her.”
This remark was greeted by laughter. Martin’s face burned crimson but he concentrated his efforts winding the handle of the bellows wheel, sending sparks high into the chimney shaft. When his father left, he played beggar my neighbour with his cousins. The family knelt for the Rosary and after, his aunt said to him, “Martin, I am going to send you to school with the others in the morning.”
He was amazed.
“But I have no books with me and my school is finished. I am on holiday.”
“Well you can share your cousin’s school books. In any case, I have spoken to the school and you are expected. You will be in Mr. Brennan’s class.”
Brennan, an ex-Christian Brother, was short in temper and stature. When he came out of the order, he found it difficult to get employment. He suspected, rightly, that parish priests who managed schools were suspicious of a teacher who had taken off the collar. Unable to get a post in the city, he ended up, by necessity, teaching in this two-roomed school, in an area he considered a backwater. He felt trapped and frustrated. He despised his fellow teacher, Miss Townsend, for her timidity and lack of self-confidence. He was aggravated that the parents appeared to respect her more than him, as she came from local landed gentry. He knew that his physical and verbal violence in the classroom were becoming increasingly uncontrolled. Despite this, he was surprised when Miss Townsend said one day after school, “Softly, softly catchy monkey.”
“What do you mean?” he had said.
“Surely, there is no need to beat the children so much.”
His face had reddened but he replied defiantly, “If I have to beat it into those farmers’ sons, they will thank me for it in the end” and closing the conversation said rhetorically, “that will be that then?”
Not long after, the school manager, Fr. Savage, asked him to call after supper one night. He wondered if some parent had made a complaint. Surely, Miss Townsend would never have had the courage to discuss such matters with the priest.
The school teacher’s house adjoined that of the parish priest. Now ready, he pushed his way next door, through a gap in the trees, determined to keep calm. The Leylandii shook, spraying him with last night’s raindrops. The priest’s house was cold and musty. Savage motioned for him to sit in an old, worn leather, button-backed seat facing the fireplace. Some withered agapanthus sat in a plastic vase in the grate.
“How are you settling in?” said Savage.
“Well enough,” said Brennan warily.
“Those farmers’ children must be tough to teach, if they are anything like the parents,” said Savage. “You would be amazed how difficult it is to get proper dues out of them. If it wasn’t for reading the amounts they give from the altar, most of them would try to get away with giving me ten bob.”
Savage pulled on his pipe before laughing at this observation.
Brennan gave an uncertain smile.
“I would offer you tea only, the housekeeper goes at six,” said Savage. “Would you like to join me in a drop of the hard stuff?”
“I hardly ever touch it,” said Brennan “but, if you wish, I will have a tot.”
Savage walked to the sideboard, bending stiffly to the door due to the arthritis in his left hip.
“Did you ever hunt?” he asked.
“No, indeed, I have never been a fan of horses,” confessed Brennan.
“But you are keen on the greyhounds. I remembered we talked about that when you came for the interview.”
Brennan recalled the day well. After so many rebuffs, he had been relieved that nothing had been discussed about teaching that day. Once Savage found out that Brennan’s mother bred greyhounds, he discussed nothing else. Indeed, the fact that clinched Brennan his place was that his mother had bred the famous coursing hound, which had later been owned by the wife of Olympic hammer thrower, Dr. Pat O’Callaghan.
Brennan poured whiskey into two tumblers. “With water or straight?” he asked.
“Straight,” said Brennan.
Pouring an extra measure into his own glass, Savage handed a tumbler to Brennan and eased himself into his chair.
“I have four promising dogs in training,” said Savage. “I am aiming at the English Laurels. All of them have already run good times at the Cork dog track. It is an expensive business keeping dogs but not as bad as when I had the hunters.”
“I suppose so,” said Brennan.
“Well, down to brass tacks,” said Savage.
Brennan carefully sipped on his drink, wondering what was coming.
“There is a lad from the city coming to stay with his cousins and I told him that he could sit in on your class for the next few weeks.”
Brennan tried hard to hide his relief and surprise.
“I know the mother well. She is great for the occasional free-range eggs and a bag of spuds, so I told her that there would be no problem. Drink up there and have another,” said Savage.
“When will the lad start?” said Brennan.
“Tomorrow,” said Savage
Martin looked around him, that morning, at the stone-built school. The two classrooms had open fires, now unlit for the summer. Oilcloth maps were rolled up on the walls. Each room had a blackboard on a stand, with casters enabling it to be moved about.
“We have the privilege of a new boy today – would you honour us by telling us your name,” said Brennan, with mock deference.
“Martin, Sir.”
“Martin what?”
“Martin Kelleher.”
“That’s better,” said Brennan. “Sit at the back and pay attention; we have work to do.”
Scent of meadow sweet came on the warm breeze through the opened windows. A bull bellowed in the distance and dogs barked without enthusiasm in the heat. Martin began to daydream. Suddenly, he jumped up startled as Brennan hit him on the head with the tip of a long bamboo.
“Pay attention, city boy, we have our own ways here. I can reach any pupil in the class with this pole. Isn’t that right lads?”
“Yes,” chorused the children.
“I bet you haven’t sticks this long in the city, a bhuachaill, but we’ll learn you something when you are with us.”
The other children tittered uncertainly.
Brennan had started out the day suffering from a bad hangover. He now began to cheer up at the thought of having some sport out of the city boy.
“Now, Martin, enlighten us. What would you dig the ground with or is that too complicated a question?”
Martin rubbed his sore head.
“Come on, boy, we haven’t all day,” said Brennan.
“A shovel, Sir,” said Martin uncertainly.
“God preserve us; a shovel is it? No boy, a spade. Isn’t that right, lads?” he said, addressing the class.
“Yes, Sir,” they chorused like frightened parrots.
Martin felt sick.
“So, who can tell us the difference between a fork and a pike?”
“Me, Sir, me Sir,” chanted all the other children.
Martin sat quietly, hoping the attention had shifted from him.
“No, let Kelleher tell us,” said Brennan.
Martin stuttered, “You-you-you eat your d-d-dinner with a fork and d-d-dig with a pike.”
The class roared with laughter.
“Well, four eyes, you are not so clever now. You dig with a fork and toss hay with a pike.”
Unable to resist a final dig, he said, “Well Kelleher, we won’t embarrass you by hearing milk comes from a bottle.”
Martin knelt for the Rosary. His aunt added numerous prayers for friends, neighbours and the children in Limbo, adding, especially the black ones. When it was over, she called Martin and sat him on her knee.
“I am sorry, a bhuachaill; I heard Brennan took a rise out of you today. Stay here with me tomorrow. You can help with the calves and the hens. If you wake early enough, you can help John Joe tackle up the donkey and cart and go with him to the creamery.”
Bitterness enveloped Sean Brennan in his cold sitting room after school ended. Cigarette smoke rose from the ashtray filled with Sweet Afton butts. It swirled around the only decoration in the room, a framed copy of the Declaration of Independence. Outside, the sky was dark and there were distant thunder claps. The room was further darkened by the overgrown Cyprus outside the window, dripping with rain. His mood blackened further. Blast that priest, he thought, for not keeping those trees trimmed. As he poured his third glass of Bushmills, he had an unexpected feeling of remorse. ‘Was I too hard on that city boy today?’ he thought and, leaning forward, he said out loud, “Bad cess to the lot of them: isn’t his ilk that has me in this hole.”
He lit up another Sweet Afton and sat back in his chair. Looking up at the Declaration of Independence, he said out loud, “Was it for an existence like this that those men gave their lives?”