‘Well, which is it, lad, for goodness’ sake?’
At the top of his voice the boy announces that he has quit the swimming team.
‘You quit it?’ Father Foley repeats. This fellow takes the biscuit! When did anyone ever get anywhere by quitting, pray? Did the Romans quit, halfway through their empire? Did Our Lord quit, on his way up Calvary with the Cross? Clearly it is time that someone took a firm hand with this young man. ‘Well, the first thing we need to do is unquit you,’ he says, and raising his voice over the anticipated caterwaul of protest, ‘no buts! It’s time that we stopped this rot.’
Well! If the boy doesn’t jump right out of his chair and start shouting at Father Foley! A long stream of speech, by the looks of it not short on emotion, bellowed at the very top of his lungs. In all his days as a professional educator, Father Foley has never seen the like! But by golly, he knows how to shout too! He’s not going to be hectored in his own office! Getting to his feet he yells over him, ‘It’s for your own good! It’s for your own good, so sit down this instant and stop… stop… crying.’ Because a positive flood is now coursing down the boy’s cheeks and flying onto the desk and carpet! ‘Sit down, sit down!’
At last the boy obeys, still leaking tears. Dear, dear, is this the pass they have come to? One might expect this kind of display over in St Brigid’s, but from a Seabrook man? Father Foley swivels his chair, massaging his temples, intermittently peeping over in the hope that the boy has stopped.
‘Daniel, let me be perfectly blunt,’ he says, when the worst of it appears to be past. ‘The Acting Principal has some serious reservations regarding your future at this school. The fact is that not every boy is cut out for Seabrook, and it benefits neither school nor student to persist with a relationship that is simply not meant to be.’ This shuts him up all right: the very tears seem to freeze on his cheeks. ‘Now, before making a decision, dragging parents into it and whatnot, the Acting Principal has asked for my thoughts on the matter. My report to him will have a bearing on any decision he makes.’ The sonorous weight of those words – report, bearing, decision, adult words, the words of a man of responsibility – please him, and he continues with a renewed sense of purpose. ‘It seems to me that you have a lot of promise, if these marks are anything to go by. I feel that if you can conquer these demons of yours, you may yet have something to contribute to Seabrook life. However, I cannot in good conscience recommend you unless I see some evidence that you are at least attempting to get back on track.’
He picks up the pen again, twiddling it through his fingers as the boy recommences his silent crying. ‘This business of leaving the swimming team – I can’t say it speaks in your favour. At the same time, I am not sure that as a sport swimming gives quite the dose of team spirit that you need. Also, the chlorinated water, I have found, plays havoc with the ears. If you are determined to swim so be it, but my preference would be that you give rugby another try. Have a think about it over the weekend and we can discuss it on Monday. Perhaps I will have a word with Mr Roche and see what he thinks. In the meantime, we need to show your Acting Principal that you’re willing to make an effort. I know Father Green is looking for volunteers for his hampers.’ In fact Jerome is so starved for volunteers that he’s been making noises in the Residence about the priests joining in! ‘I suggest you speak to him without delay. Spending some time with the less fortunate may bring home to you just how good you have it here in Seabrook.’
The boy considers this while staring at his shoes. Then, raising his head, he looks for what seems like a long time at the priest with reddened eyes; and then he says – what is it he says? Father Foley can’t quite make it out. But the sense is clear.
‘You’re welcome,’ Father Foley says.
The boy remains a moment stiffly where he is; then leaves his chair, and the office, closing the door noiselessly behind him.
Noiselessly: it takes a moment for this to intrude on Father Foley’s thoughts. That door used to make the most infuriating squeal. He was constantly after that shirker of a janitor to come and oil the hinges. Now he rises from his desk and potters over to it. Open: close. Open: close. Not a peep. Hmm. He must have attended to it while Father Foley was away having his treatment. Open: close.
Returning to his seat, Father Foley folds his hands behind his head, leans back and spends a number of minutes surveying in satisfaction the silenced door.
‘Volunteering?’ Alone with him in the classroom the priest seems to buzz with some antic energy – as though, while he stands there quite still, he has four phantom limbs flailing invisibly around him, a spectral spider.
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Well, of course I’m always happy to have a fresh pair of hands – yes, indeed…’ The tinkling politeness belied by the black burning eyes, like smouldering holes in space. ‘Many hands make light work, don’t they…’
Skippy hovers without replying, like a prisoner awaiting his sentence.
‘Excellent, excellent… well, I’m planning a run this weekend, as it happens, so why don’t you come to the office, let me see, after school tomorrow, shall we say at 4.30?’
After school tomorrow is when he’s meeting Lori!
But packing hampers can’t take all night, can it?
Anyway, what choice does he have.
‘Yes, Father.’
He turns to go, but is called back. ‘Is everything all right, Mr Juster?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘You look like you have been… crying.’
‘No, Father.’
‘No?’ The skewering eyes. ‘Well then.’ His hand lifts to ruffle Skippy’s hair, the dead fingers like a mummy’s or something stuffed. ‘Carry on, Mr Juster, carry on.’
He bustles back to the blackboard; Skippy leaves him humming to himself, scrubbing at the ghostly traces of French verbs and nouns as if they were stains on his soul.
After lunch in the Ref they go to Ed’s with Ruprecht. He has found no volunteers for Operation Falcon, and is resigned to recovering the pod on his own.
‘Will you go in the fire escape like last time?’
Ruprecht shakes his head. ‘Too risky,’ he says, with a mouth full of doughnut. ‘The pod could be anywhere by now. What I need is a cover story that’ll not only get me inside, but also let me walk around without arousing suspicion.’
Brows are furrowed. ‘Why don’t you pretend you’re an exterminator?’ Geoff suggests. ‘Tell the nuns you’re an exterminator on the trail of a mouse. That way you could go around the whole school, and you’d be by yourself because the nuns’d be scared of mice.’
‘Isn’t he on the small side for being an exterminator?’ Niall points out.
‘He could be a midget exterminator,’ Geoff says.
‘Where am I going to find a midget exterminator costume?’ Ruprecht says.
Geoff concedes that this might prove difficult.
‘How about a midget TV repairman?’ Mario suggests.
‘Or a midget plumber?’
‘I’d like to get away from the whole midget thing,’ Ruprecht says.
‘The answer is obvious: vibrator salesman,’ Mario says. ‘Not only will the nuns let you in, but I bet you sell your whole stock.’
‘Hey, Skip, what did Cloth-Ears want to talk to you about?’ Dennis says.
‘Nothing. Careers stuff. It was pretty pointless.’
‘Oh, you’re so lying,’ Dennis says.
Skippy looks up with a start.
Dennis leans over the table, flickering his fingers in a web. ‘He wants to take you away from Father Green, doesn’t he? He wants you all to himself…’