Next morning he goes in early to get to the photocopier; he’s in the staffroom, collating pictures of pre-war rugby teams, when the Automator comes in. Crossing swiftly to the armchair where Tom sits reading the sports section of the Irish Times, ‘Quick word?’ he says.
Tom looks up blankly. ‘Sure, Greg, do you want to go…?’ He motions at the door.
‘Actually, perhaps you won’t mind me sharing this with the others,’ the Automator replies, taking from his jacket an envelope emblazoned with the Paraclete crest. It is from the Congregation’s headquarters in Rome; the letter inside, which the Automator reads aloud, announces that Tom has been selected to teach in Mary Immaculate School, Mauritius. Tom lets out a whoop; the Automator, laughing, claps him on the back.
It takes a moment for Howard to understand that what he is witnessing is an act, put on for the benefit of the onlookers. He is struck by how convincing they are – Tom flushed and starry-eyed, the Automator with a paternal arm over his shoulder, nothing veiled or calculating detectable in their expressions. It’s as if, for them, their lie has already replaced the truth; and now, while he watches, that lie crystallizes outwards, inscribes itself in reality with the help of his unwitting peers, as they crowd around to pump Tom’s hand.
‘So you’re leaving us…’
‘Yeah, it was a hard decision, but…’
‘I’d say it nearly killed you. Mauritius, no less!’
‘You won’t have to put up with this shite over there.’ ‘Ricky’ Ross, the economics teacher, gestures humorously at the lugubrious Irish weather outside.
‘No, though it has its own problems, of course…’
‘And what about us? How will Seabrook go on without you?’
‘What about the Ferry? They’ll have to close down!’
‘We didn’t even know you were thinking of leaving.’ Misses Birchall and McSorley are quite overcome. ‘You never told us, you bold boy.’
‘Yeah, well, it was all a bit out of the blue. Greg told me this position had come up, and I decided to go for it. Seabrook’s where my heart is, obviously, but, you know…’
‘Tom felt like they needed him more over there,’ the Automator contributes judiciously. ‘They haven’t got it easy, those poor kids.’
‘Will you be teaching or coaching?’ Pat Farrell asks.
‘A bit of teaching, English and whatever else they’ll let me near. But mostly I’ll be training the rugby team. They’ve a decent enough programme out there – is it Father McGowran set it up, Greg?’
‘That’s right, Tom. Father Mike’s been doing some really Trojan work, getting that school into shape. But he can’t do it all on his own. And God knows he can’t kick a rugby ball to save his life!’
They laugh. Then delicately, Ó Dálaigh, ‘So, back on the rugby pitch, eh?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’
‘Been a while, all the same.’
‘It’s time,’ Tom says, and gives them that disarming, lopsided smile. ‘Got to face up to the past eventually, don’t you?’
‘You do. You do.’ This sentiment pleases his congratulators. Howard feels like his head is about to explode: he makes for the door, but gets entangled in the crowd and finds himself redirected towards Tom. Up close, the coach seems taller than before, virile, vital, as if his ruptured spine had miraculously healed itself; his blameless eyes fall serenely on Howard, who by comparison feels like a ghost, can almost hear his bones rattle as he shakes Tom’s hand. ‘Congratulations,’ he says mechanically.
‘Thanks, Howard. Thanks.’ In that heartfelt, manly grasp, Howard is suddenly overcome by nausea. He springs away to the toilet and throws up weak tea.
Walking down to the Annexe later on, he is buttonholed by Farley. ‘Heard the news?’ Farley asks, matching step with him.
‘About Tom, you mean?’
‘He’s got the right idea,’ Farley says. ‘I’ve been thinking about doing something like that lately.’
Howard feels like a piece of driftwood afloat on some tempestuous sea of irony. ‘Go to Mauritius?’
‘Go somewhere they might actually need me. Somewhere I could make a difference. I don’t think I’d have to travel that far.’
Howard has been avoiding Farley lately, but from a distance he’s seen a change come over his friend, a morbid, directionless anger. ‘They need you here, Farley. Everyone needs a good teacher, rich or poor.’
‘These kids don’t,’ Farley says. ‘Why would they? They’re set up for life, and they know it.’
‘It’s not their fault their parents have money.’
‘Of course it’s not their fault. Nothing is anybody’s fault,’ Farley replies, deadpan. ‘It’s not just the boys, Howard. It’s this whole place, the hypocrisy of it.’
As if on cue, Father Green sails by – affecting not to see them, keeping his gaze fixed on some imaginary point over their heads, like a missionary posted to the last days of Sodom, determined to ignore the temporal murk.
‘Walking around as if nothing ever happened,’ Farley says darkly. ‘It’s sick.’
‘We don’t know that he had anything to do with it.’
‘We can join the dots, can’t we?’
Someone keeps writing pedo in Tippex on the priest’s office door. Every morning Noddy scrapes it off, and then by lunchtime it’s back again.
‘The sooner this school gets the fucking priests out of the picture, the better,’ Farley says. ‘Greg may be a cretin and a fascist, but at least he doesn’t pretend to be anything else. He doesn’t act like he’s got some superior moral insight. Just good old-fashioned greed.’
‘Father Green’s done a lot of good things,’ Howard says weakly. ‘If you’re talking about making a difference. He’s probably the only one in the whole school who actually has.’
‘A power trip, that’s all that is. Junkies and down-and-outs are the only people he can still feel superior to. Though it’s better he’s hanging around them than the kids.’ He emits a curt, bitter laugh, then stops and shakes his head. ‘It’s not right, Howard. It’s just not right.’
In his classroom Howard leans heavily on the lectern as the students slouch in. Ruprecht is next to last, making his bloated way like an ailing dowager. He waits for them to settle as much as they’re going to, then gathers himself together. ‘I have something special to show you today,’ he says. There is a general snigger. He takes the uniform from the bag.
‘This belonged to an Irish soldier who actually fought in the First World War,’ he says. ‘His name was William Molloy and he attended this very school – in fact he was Juster’s, he was Daniel Juster’s great-grandfather.’ The name feels wrong, alien in his mouth, and it produces no effect on the boys; they look on disinterestedly, as they might at an uninspired street-performer while waiting for their bus.
‘He would have volunteered in 1914, as Lord Kitchener…’
A tittering can be heard at the back of the room; something amusing is evidently occurring outside the window. Howard breaks off, turns to see Carl Cullen stumbling across the car park towards the school.
‘He’s forgotten he’s suspended,’ someone remarks gleefully. ‘It’s the second time this week.’
‘He’s off his head,’ someone else observes.
Even from this distance, Carl’s eyes are visibly scrambled, and in his stagger Howard, for one freezing instant, foresees something awful… but he isn’t wearing a jacket, nor has he a bag, so it’s difficult to see where he might conceal a firearm; anyway, Howard tells himself, that kind of thing only happens in America, not here, at least not yet… Now a teacher emerges from the school to intercept him. ‘Slattery,’ someone says.