My Buried Life by Doreen Finn Read Free Book Online Page B

new season. It is shiny and new and I stuff it into my bag. Leaves are gathering along the footpaths, waiting to be scattered by children and crunched underfoot. If I were still writing I would love this day. New York in autumn is the best place to be. Manhattan empties itself of summer tourists, the chill on the morning air is a sharp sting after the sullen heat of August, and every photographer, painter and writer in the city is out trying to capture the colours, the scents, the flavours of the new season. I have all the words in my head, it’s getting them down on paper that is the problem. I can compose poetry in my mind, twisting cadences and blank verse into double helices, winding metaphors into knots, but once I try to pin the phrases down in ink, they vanish.
    I’m afraid even to pick up my pen.

    The school is quiet, a rushed sort of silence that descends after the maelstrom of morning break. The door swings shut behind me. I almost expect to see mice scuttling across the worn maple floor, tiny feet sounding cacophonous in the empty silence. Nothing. A statue of Mary takes centre stage in the entrance hall, her hand raised. All the fingers are missing. Beside her, Jesus has two fingers remaining on his hand, a peace sign for all who pass by. Charts for match fixtures, chess club results and league tables for every kind of sport are pinned to the walls. Science competition results, woodwork contest rules. And the names! All the names, all those Daniels and Stephens, the Pauls and the Peters, spilling off the lists on the walls, filling the corridors with testosterone and the barely contained noise that I know pulses behind the closed classroom doors. The maleness of the establishment threatens to explode the building at its seams.
    Mr Collins is seated behind his desk. If the school is male, he is its alpha. His own trophies line row after row of shelving, framed newspaper clippings jostle each other for space on the crowded walls, and a heavily autographed rugby ball resides in a glass case behind his head. I squint to read it, but I have no sporting references whatsoever, so I give up before I’ve made out one name. I imagine the man in a tight scrum in a bar, downing post-match pints and ruminating on points missed, bad referees, someone’s hamstring injury.
    We talk inconsequentially about New York, the weather, Ireland’s chances in the rugby this season. I lie sincerely and convincingly, keeping my appalling ignorance of sport hidden from view. When we eventually meander into talk of the job, Mr Collins pushes his sleeves back and leans towards me.
    ‘It’s only till Christmas, but at this stage I’d hire anyone. Those bloody parents are killing me.’ The same parents he stands with on sidelines, no doubt.
    I slide my CV across the desk towards him. He waves his hand in its general direction but does not open it. His glance falls briefly on the cover page but returns to me immediately. A mug at his elbow has ‘The Boss’ picked out in red letters. A plate bears traces of biscuits recently consumed.
    ‘So?’ Mr Collins’ expectation is almost luminous. His sleeves are like skins, keeping his sausage arms restrained. His neck is squeezed by his shirt collar. Never trust a man whose neck is wider than his head, my brother used to say.
    I rest my hands on my lap. ‘Why not?’ Why not indeed. I need money, I must be occupied to keep me away from drinking, I must move forward. It’s only till Christmas. Possibility lifts its head, expands inside my chest.
    ‘Excellent, Eva. Excellent. I’m delighted to have you on the team.’ He winks. ‘The lads’ll be delighted too.’ He half-rises from his desk and extends his sporty hand. We shake. I am compelled to smile at him. He is so very sincere in his need.
    I will start on Monday. Three days to gather myself. Three days. It’s nothing. I must not be nervous. It’s nothing that I can’t do, guide boys through Jane Austen and Shakespeare.
    As I turn