Whereas my junior school had been within easy walking distance of home, my new school, St Mary’s, was out in the suburbs of Crosby, which meant leaving the house an hour earlier and taking a bus. It also meant going to school on Saturday mornings, sacrifices, I thought, well worth it. My parents obviously did too, because they would have had to stump up for tuition fees, school uniform, PE kit and the rest, in the hope that a year later I’d pass the scholarship and their financial worries would be eased. It was a gamble they cheerfully accepted.
There were about sixty of us, all day boys (boarders having been repelled) in Everest House, a detached house of red sandstone within the main school grounds. One of the first things I noticed about the teachers was that they weren’t women. Messrs Keating and Cashell were strict but fair, enjoyed their work and were good teachers, each with a sense of humour. And then there was Brother Cummings. He would have been quite old by then, tall, thin, white-haired with eccentricity bordering on mild insanity. He used to smoke chalk, for instance. By that I don’t mean that he would put a stick of chalk in his mouth, light up and puff away contentedly. I mean that he would suck on the chalk as if it were a cigarette. I don’t know whether or not he inhaled, but it was a peculiar habit, not to mention the peculiar habit that he wore as an Irish Christian Brother, which was always covered in a fine white dust. Although he could be fierce, it was mainly pretence, and I think we were all quite fond of him.
He was certainly quite fond of me. We came in to school one Monday morning to discover that all the paths around our particular neck of the school grounds had been covered over with tiny pebbles and limestone chippings. ‘On no account,’ we were warned, ‘are you to grab handfuls of pebbles and throw them.’ Grab handfuls of pebbles and throw them? Hey, what a great idea. Why hadn’t we thought of that? At break time it rained loose chippings with the result that in less than five minutes the pathways were muddy tracks and the lawns were pebble-dashed.
Cummo stormed into the classroom: ‘Hands up all those boys who threw pebbles?’ Nobody put their hands up. As ever in situations like this I would feel guilty, even if innocent, and consumed with the need to confess. Why? To be a sacrificial lamb? To assuage the shame of those too cowardly to own up? To nobly take the rap on behalf of my compadres? Or simply to bring closure? For whatever reason, I put my hand up.
‘McGough, I’m surprised at you.’
‘I didn’t actually throw them, sir … I just picked a few up and, er … threw them back in the same place.’
‘In exactly the same place?’ ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Do you think I’m stupid, boy? You stand outside in the corridor and I’ll deal with you in a minute.’
So I waited outside the classroom. I had never seen the infamous strap at close quarters. I’d heard of it. I’d heard it. But I’d never been on the receiving end of it.
Clearly, it was make-or-break time (or possibly, make a break for it time? But three intense Hail Marys kept me bravely in check). One by one, the other sinners emerged until finally there were seven of us all lined up. Where was Potter, though? He who had cast the first stone? Well, he was a Protestant so maybe he didn’t have to own up. Without further ado, Brother Cummings weighed into the miscreants, arms flailing, strap slapping. Everybody got four, two on each hand, and then went back inside the classroom. I was the last in line and when the two of us were alone, he leaned forward and, tapping my nose gently with the strap, whispered, ‘I don’t think you’re as guilty as the rest of them, so let this be our little secret.’ He then brought the strap down hard on the side of his cassock four times, which to the tricotières listening inside the classroom sounded like the real thing. After that he gave me two, which sounded even more like the real thing. The boys looked at me with some awe as I swaggered jauntily back to my desk. ‘Six! And no tears. Phew, that McGough must be tougher than he looks.’
As well as raising my profile in the eyes of my peer group, Brother Cummings also taught me more than I needed to know about sex. He crept up behind me one morning in his soft Irish brogues and enquired as to whether I was troubled by thoughts.
‘Not that I know of, sir.’
‘You understand the kind of thoughts I mean?’
I turned my head slightly so that the light streaming in from the window brought a magical softness to my cheeks, producing an effect of childish innocence. ‘No, sir.’
Himself protested, ‘Is there anything you want to know about sex?’
There was no escape. My brain flicked through a series of possible questions. ‘Why all the fuss?’ ‘What’s wrong with watching dogs?’ ‘Why is the way to hell down the front of your pyjamas?’ until I remembered the first line of a schoolboy joke.
‘Where do babies come from?’ I stammered. He looked at me in silence for what seemed like a moment. Had I gone too far? I wondered. He took a long, unhurried drag on a piece of chalk and walked away.
The very next morning during break he took me to the stockroom. Part of his job was being in charge of selling books, pens and distributing ink, blackboard dusters and boxes of chalk to boys and masters. Boxes of chalk, yes, it must have been like putting Billy Bunter in charge of the tuck shop. He unlocked the door and pushed me gently inside: ‘The answer to your question is written down on a slip of paper and hidden under that box of coloured chalks over by the window. I want you to read it and think carefully about the meaning. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.’ With that he disappeared, first locking the door behind him.
I remember being more interested in the contents of the stockroom than the words of wisdom and eternal truth waiting to be revealed in the corner. So I played the flute on a pipette, tried on a First Fifteen rugby shirt and measured my head with a board compass. Eventually, remembering what I was in there for, I picked up the box and removed the note. It said simply: ‘The baby is a seed.’
As the bell rang for the end of break he unlocked the door and led me out into the corridor. ‘I don’t think you’ll be troubled any further by thoughts, now remember to say your prayers regularly and give me that piece of paper.’ I handed it over. He tore it into little pieces and I’m sure he put them into his mouth and swallowed them. But that could be my imagination playing tricks.