Becoming Billy Dare by Kirsty Murray Read Free Book Online Page A

understand, Father. But the other boys also told me that it has never been won by a boy in first year. That it's usually the senior boys who take the prize.’
    Father O'Keefe sat back in his chair and looked out the window at the mist.
    â€˜This is true. But on the strength of this work, I think you should attempt it. And I think perhaps you and I should spend a little more time together, working on your grammar.’
    Paddy tried not to grin from ear to ear.
    That afternoon, as he worked on the poem, he imagined how good it would be to win the medal and take it home to the Burren in the summer. Honor had written that the one thing that might rouse Mam from her illness was to know that Paddy was becoming the scholar she had always dreamt he would be.
    Every spare moment he could find, Paddy sat in the library or in the study hall, working on the poem. Until the last minute before they turned the lights down, Paddy would sit on his bed, reading his way through the thick Latin grammar books, working his way through all the extra exercises that Father O'Keefe had set him. As the dark settled, Paddy found light shining out of the pages of the books. The words swam behind his eyes even when he lay in bed at night.
    On Palm Sunday, the boys shuffled in for mass. Thin winter sunlight cut through the high stained-glass windows of the chapel. Paddy knew that tomorrow the Prefect of Studies would announce the winner of the poetry prize. He got down on his knees and prayed as hard as he could, pouring his heart into a prayer that God would allow him to win. In his imagination, he played out the scene when he burst into the kitchen at home with the silver medal in his hand and saw the look of pleasure on his mother's face when he gave it to her. She would be well again because the happiness brought with him would heal her. When he prayed with the thought of his mam before him there were no clouds in his mind. God could see into his heart and knew that Paddy wanted the prize only for his mam.
    The next morning, at Monday assembly, Father Gerard stood up before the whole school and read out the names of the entrants for the poetry prize. He spoke at length about the traditions of St Columcille's and why this prize was of special significance. Paddy watched his mouth moving and could hardly hear what he was saying. He just wanted the announcement to be over. To know if he'd won or if all that work had been a waste of time.
    â€˜This year, the poetry prize is awarded to the youngest student ever to receive it, Master Patrick Delaney.’
    Paddy felt as if he was dreaming. Some of the junior boys were reaching over and patting him on the back and shoulders, but he sat frozen to the pew. Suddenly, Fitzgerald pushed Paddy to his feet.
    â€˜Go on, they're waiting.’
    The Prefect of Studies pinned the silver medal on Paddy's breast pocket and then shook his hand. Paddy ran his hand over the medal, feeling the freshly engraved inscription. It was cold and smooth to touch.
    On Maundy Thursday, even though the mass was so bleak and the altar boys worked to strip the chapel of all its ornaments, Paddy's heart sang. He tried to feel the grief of Christ's suffering on this terrible day, the day before he was crucified, but all he could focus on was the pleasure his mother would get when she received his letter telling her of the prize.
    The next morning was Good Friday. Paddy was sent to see the Rector, Father Gerard. Father O'Keefe was there as well, his face very solemn as he opened the door to the Rector's office. The room was flooded with spring sunshine and outside on the lawn, the first daffodils shone gold against the green. Paddy raised one hand for a moment to shield his eyes from the bright rush of light after the gloomy hallway.
    â€˜Patrick, I have very sad news for you,’ said the Rector. ‘But I want you to know that if you lay your suffering before Jesus, he can heal any pain you feel.’
    Paddy wanted him to