The Brothers' Lot by Kevin Holohan Read Free Book Online Page B

you’re a farty little bollix,” answered Lynch.
    “What time is it?” asked Scully.
    “Twenty-five past,” answered McDonagh. “What’s next?” asked Lynch.
    “French, with Laverty,” interjected Finbar, who was walking out behind them.
    Scully turned and stared coldly at him. He shook his head and turned away again. Finbar was not worth a confrontation.

8
    B awn jourz mayzsewerz!” drawled Mr. Laverty as the boys bundled in the door. “Veuwz ets arreevayz trays tard. Poor kwoh?” His best qualification for being a French teacher seemed to be that he cycled a lot and his wife was French. He spoke the language with his own drawling nasal Dublin accent, pronouncing all the letters in a way that one is not really supposed to do. As far as anyone in the school was concerned, that was the way French was spoken. Of course, the Brothers would have much preferred that the language be taught with a nice Galway or Kerry accent, but they had to take what they could get.
    “Brother Kennedy kept us back,” ventured McDonagh, guessing at what Mr. Laverty was talking at them about.
    “Oh, did he now?”
    The boys nodded.
    “Sit down.”
    The boys moved to their seats.
    “Hey yew?”
    Finbar stopped in his tracks and turned around.
    “Me, sir?”
    “Yeah, yew, sur. Commont sappellaayze vouze?”
    “Je m’appelle Finbar Sullivan, monsieur professeur.”
    Even Mr. Laverty could not fail to notice that out of this exchange Finbar sounded more like the one capable of speaking French. “Right, Meester Sullivan. Sit down then,” he said sharply and eyed Finbar suspiciously.
    Mr. Laverty stood awkwardly in front of the class. It was useless for him to even attempt to cut an imposing figure. He had a big chalk stain on his nose and wore the jacket and pants of two different cheap blue pinstriped suits. Both were tatty and ingrained with years of chalk dust and shiny grime. He distributed the French books from the cupboard and had the boys sign for them.
    “Right, now, you’re going to write a short essay entitled ‘Mon ay tay,’ my summer.” He looked at the clock. “Youse have thirty minutes.”
    With that he sat back at the desk and started to write in some important-looking papers. He was filling out a job application for Southwell, the Jesuit school. It was something at least, something to attempt to quell the lung-hardening sense of dejection and purposelessness that took over the moment he set foot in Werburgh Street. It only got worse when he found himself standing in front of these reluctant faces with no interest in Maupassant beyond, at best, writing English translations between the lines.
    “Sir, sir, sir!” implored McDonagh.
    Mr. Laverty glanced up wearily. “What is it, McDonagh?”
    “How do you say ‘The woman from the dole with the broken briefcase came to see me da’?”
    “Use something else simpler,” sighed Mr. Laverty.
    McDonagh nodded enthusiastically and then drew an exaggerated look of puzzlement across his face.
    “What is it now, McDonagh?”
    “How do you say ‘woman,’ sir?”
    “Get outside the door, McDonagh.”
    That was sometimes Mr. Laverty’s thing. If he was feeling sporting, he didn’t actually send you to Brother Loughlin. He just put you outside the door, and if you happened to get caught then you got a hiding. It was a game of roulette and gave the boys, Mr. Laverty felt, a fair chance and took all responsibility away from him. McDonagh closed the door softly behind him and pushed himself into the alcove where coats were supposed to hang.
    Mr. Laverty opened the door. “Out against the wall where I can see you,” he hissed into the reverberating emptiness of the corridor. McDonagh reluctantly moved to the other side of the corridor where he knew he would be visible from either end, thus increasing his chances of being caught. “Ye pays yer money and ye takes yer chances,” observed Mr. Laverty and returned to his class.
    The hands on the clock crawled round