Bullfighting by Roddy Doyle Read Free Book Online
Authors: Roddy Doyle
the timetable, âOâWhatever it was. Miss.â We were hoping a nice bit of stuff would come walking in the door. But in marches your woman. Older than our maâs, as ugly as our daâs. With a box of chalk. Holding it up in the air, like a cup or something, a trophy. And she waits till thereâs absolute silence.
âWhat is this? she says, and she points at some poor cunt at the front. Me.
âA box of chalk, I say, and wait to be told Iâm wrong. ButâYes, she says.âIt is a box of chalk. And what type of chalk is it?
I look at the box.
âColoured, I say, and Iâm right again. Twice in a row, for the first time in my life. And the last.
âYes, she says.âIt is coloured chalk. And it is mine. She goes over to the desk. The teacherâs desk, like, the one at the front. She opens the drawer and in goes the chalk.
âI am Miss â whatever it is, she says.âAnd I am your geography teacher. We will meet three times a week. And three times a week I will open this drawer and I will find my chalk exactly as I left it. I have information to impart but I cannot do this to my satisfaction if I do not have my coloured chalk.
And then she says â youâve guessed it.âDo I make myself clear?
âYes, Miss, say the saps at the front, mise 1 here included.
âA stick of coloured chalk is the geography teacherâs essential tool, she says.âThe box contains ten sticks and it will contain ten sticks when we meet again on Wednesday.
âWed-nesdayâ, she called it. Some hope, the poor eejit. The other teachers took it, every fuckinâ stick. It was all gone by lunchtime.
Anyway, she took a stick of ordinary white off the tray at the bottom of the blackboard, and then she wrote my very educated mother, down the board instead of across, and the names of the planets that the words stood for beside them. And Iâve remembered it ever since, and nothing else. Precious little. The only other thing I remember clearly is the Latin teacher. I did Latin, believe it or not. And I remember none of it. But I do remember him. He went around the room every morning, putting his hand down our jumpers to make sure we were wearing vests. A Christian Brother he was, and I can remember his name. But Iâll keep it to myself. Yeah, I remember him, alright. Every morning, right through the winter. Feeling my chest. Leaving his hand there forever. Freezing. Rough palms â old cuts gone hard, years of swinging a hurley. That was my only experience of abuse. His hand. Heâs still alive as well. So Iâm told. I should report him, I suppose. Only, (a) I donât think I could handle the humiliation, and (b) Iâd hate anyone to know that I used to wear a vest. And itâs harmless enough when you hear about some of the other things that went on. And he did it to all of us; he wasnât just picking on me.
But no, I canât remember a word of Latin. And Iâm not blaming the Brother, mind. Not at all. Iâve no French either, barely a word. Maths, history â tiny bits, only. 1916. 1798. Black â47. Irish? Ah, goodnight. OÃche mhaith . 2 I can hardly help the kids with their homework and the eldest left me behind years ago. No, the only thing I remember, consciously remember, is that thing, my very educated mother. But she was a clown, the teacher. We ate the poor woman after we got the hang of her.
âIs there life on Uranus, Miss?
âNo, indeed.
She was fierce enough that first day, with her box of chalk. Scary. Worthy of a bit of respect. But then, I suppose it was when she said about the chalk being her essential tool, we realised then she was just a mad olâ bitch and we made her life a misery.
But. It has to be said. She taught me the only thing I remember. And itâs not just that I remember it now and again, when I hear one of the words, say, âmotherâ or âveryâ, or
âWhat is this? she says, and she points at some poor cunt at the front. Me.
âA box of chalk, I say, and wait to be told Iâm wrong. ButâYes, she says.âIt is a box of chalk. And what type of chalk is it?
I look at the box.
âColoured, I say, and Iâm right again. Twice in a row, for the first time in my life. And the last.
âYes, she says.âIt is coloured chalk. And it is mine. She goes over to the desk. The teacherâs desk, like, the one at the front. She opens the drawer and in goes the chalk.
âI am Miss â whatever it is, she says.âAnd I am your geography teacher. We will meet three times a week. And three times a week I will open this drawer and I will find my chalk exactly as I left it. I have information to impart but I cannot do this to my satisfaction if I do not have my coloured chalk.
And then she says â youâve guessed it.âDo I make myself clear?
âYes, Miss, say the saps at the front, mise 1 here included.
âA stick of coloured chalk is the geography teacherâs essential tool, she says.âThe box contains ten sticks and it will contain ten sticks when we meet again on Wednesday.
âWed-nesdayâ, she called it. Some hope, the poor eejit. The other teachers took it, every fuckinâ stick. It was all gone by lunchtime.
Anyway, she took a stick of ordinary white off the tray at the bottom of the blackboard, and then she wrote my very educated mother, down the board instead of across, and the names of the planets that the words stood for beside them. And Iâve remembered it ever since, and nothing else. Precious little. The only other thing I remember clearly is the Latin teacher. I did Latin, believe it or not. And I remember none of it. But I do remember him. He went around the room every morning, putting his hand down our jumpers to make sure we were wearing vests. A Christian Brother he was, and I can remember his name. But Iâll keep it to myself. Yeah, I remember him, alright. Every morning, right through the winter. Feeling my chest. Leaving his hand there forever. Freezing. Rough palms â old cuts gone hard, years of swinging a hurley. That was my only experience of abuse. His hand. Heâs still alive as well. So Iâm told. I should report him, I suppose. Only, (a) I donât think I could handle the humiliation, and (b) Iâd hate anyone to know that I used to wear a vest. And itâs harmless enough when you hear about some of the other things that went on. And he did it to all of us; he wasnât just picking on me.
But no, I canât remember a word of Latin. And Iâm not blaming the Brother, mind. Not at all. Iâve no French either, barely a word. Maths, history â tiny bits, only. 1916. 1798. Black â47. Irish? Ah, goodnight. OÃche mhaith . 2 I can hardly help the kids with their homework and the eldest left me behind years ago. No, the only thing I remember, consciously remember, is that thing, my very educated mother. But she was a clown, the teacher. We ate the poor woman after we got the hang of her.
âIs there life on Uranus, Miss?
âNo, indeed.
She was fierce enough that first day, with her box of chalk. Scary. Worthy of a bit of respect. But then, I suppose it was when she said about the chalk being her essential tool, we realised then she was just a mad olâ bitch and we made her life a misery.
But. It has to be said. She taught me the only thing I remember. And itâs not just that I remember it now and again, when I hear one of the words, say, âmotherâ or âveryâ, or
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