The Dead School (2 page)

One night after it had begun to dawn on him at last the way things really were, Malachy lay on his bed thinking back on that long-ago happy days with them coming proudly up the aisle, saying I
love you and marry me and all that. He was sad thinking it. Of course he was. I mean, there would have been something wrong with him if he wasn’t. But he was getting sensible enough now to
know that if someone didn’t love someone else, well there wasn’t really an awful lot you could do about it. His father’s face told him that. If you needed convincing, all you had
to do was take one look at his face when he thought you weren’t looking. You’d know then all right. Especially with that old shining eye of his.

Cissie hadn’t set out to hurt his father. He knew that she wasn’t going to do that. Not after having walked up the aisle with him and told him she loved him, which she definitely had
once upon a time. No, it was nothing like that. All that had happened was that love had died. It had gone away and wouldn’t be back. Love was in the grave and that was that, like it or lump
it. Sure it was sad. Nobody was denying that. Indeed, from where Malachy was lying, it was just about the saddest thing you could get.

But I mean – what were you supposed to do? Slope about the place muttering to yourself, ‘Love is in the grave and I don’t know what to do. What am I going to do? Oh please,
God, what am I going to do now that love is in the grave?’

That would look good. That would look good all right when you were going past the harbour and Alec and the lads were standing there waiting for you. He could just imagine it. The cigarette
flicking past his face and Alec shouting, ‘Hey! Dudgeon! Get over here to fuck out of that! What’s this I hear about you and this love in the grave business? What are you on about? Are
you out of your fucking mind or what? Are you out of your mind? Do you want us to get a hold of you and fuck you into the harbour? Is that what you want? Is that what you want? Do you hear me? Do
you hear me, Dudgeon! Because if it is, that’s what you’ll get! That is what you’ll get! Do you hear me! Do you! Do you, you fat little humpy little cunt!’

But of course he did. Of course Malachy heard him. He heard him loud and clear. Alec didn’t have to worry about that. As a matter of fact, he wouldn’t have to worry about anything
from now on. From now on, everything would be a-OK and anytime they saw him he would make sure to have his head down and a shy little smile on his face that said to them there will be no more
trouble from me ever again and if there is I deserve everything I get. He reckoned that would sort things out. That was what they wanted. That would keep them happy. ‘That’s more like
it,’ they’d say. ‘No more of this love in the grave bullshit. No more fancy shit-talk in this town! From you or anyone, Dudgeon! You just remember that!’

It was a trick of course. But he wasn’t going to tell them that. Yes, now that Malachy was growing up fast, he decided that he had better learn some tricks. And this was one of them.
‘I wouldn’t think about love in the grave if it was the last thing on earth,’ his face would say as he went shuffling past. Which was the joke of course because that was just
about the only thing he was thinking about now.

One night he found himself standing by a graveside with the word ‘love’ carved into the granite of the tombstone. He was just standing there, weeping away, when suddenly the earth
broke open and his mother and father came bursting up out of it to the sound of organ music. His father was wearing his wedding suit and his mother her wedding veil and dress. They both hugged him
and nearly broke his back in the process. ‘We love you,’ they said. It was just about one of the most beautiful things that had happened in a long time. Then he woke up,
unfortunately.

There was always a good bit of a laugh to be had down in the hotel. Malachy and Packie would come in and as soon as the door opened, someone would shout, ‘Ah, the bold
Packie! Good man yourself there, Packie – what are you having?’ Everyone liked it when he came in and sat down beside them at the bar for then they could talk away and chat about the
old times and how it used to be around the town, and have a great laugh altogether when Packie went to the toilet. Best of all was that they were somehow under the impression that Malachy
didn’t notice any of this. No sooner would Packie be up off his stool than they’d be off, ‘I hear they were at it in the boathouse again last night’ and ‘Fair fucks to
the cowman – he’s the man knows what they want!’ and so on. Then, not a word as soon as they saw him making his way back to the bar. After that there would be great crack
altogether. Singing and dancing and yarn-telling and the whole lot. Somebody’d say, ‘Packie – how about you give us a song there? What about “Wee Cup Of Tay”?’
As soon as they said that, he’d be off, thanks to the couple of bottles of Guinness of course, hitting the air little thumps as he sang and everybody clapping as they sang along with him:

‘A wee cup of tay is right!’ they’d say and somebody’d mumble behind their hand, ‘Plenty of tay to be had in Dudgeon’s – if your name
is Jemmy Brady anyhow!’

But sure poor auld Packie didn’t hear that. Not at all. He was far too busy singing and having his Guinness and a bit of a laugh and a song.

Which was why one night when they were on their way home from the hotel, Packie put his arm around Malachy and said, with that old tear shining in his eye, ‘Son – if I die, promise
me one thing. You’ll never forget that I was once on this earth.’ Malachy said that no he wouldn’t forget until the day he died. He wasn’t sure at that particular time if
what Packie said was intended as a warning but later on he came to the conclusion that it probably was.

Not that anything happened for quite some time. No, everything went on pretty much as normal – Cissie saying I love you to Packie when everyone knew it had been kicked into the clay long
ago and poor old Packie smiling and saying I love you too.

Yes, that was the way it was back in those good old days. Roy Orbison in the charts, The Comancheros in the cinema, a dog off to space and every night stupid old Malachy Bubblehead blubbering
away to himself like a halfwit, all because love was in its grave and there was nothing he could do about it.

There was no doubt it was a sad state of affairs. But you couldn’t let it get you down. You had to look on the bright side. And then of course – there were always Sunday mornings to
look forward to, weren’t there?

Sunday mornings – you just could not beat them. If there was one morning in the week young Malachy loved, it was that old Sunday morning. School was over, the Saturday
night scrub in the zinc bath was history and there was nothing now only the protestants across the way singing ‘The Lord is My Shepherd’ and every bell in the town ringing out to call
the devout to their respective places of worship. Sunday morning was the best morning of the week, the best by a long shot. And Malachy wasn’t the only one who loved it either. Another great
fan of the Sunday Morning was Packie Dudgeon, who whistled a little tune as he made inroads into his white beard of foam in front of the shaving mirror and said, ‘Man, Malachy, if
there’s one morning in the week I love, it’s Sunday morning! Sunday morning every time!’ He grinned when he said that, then wiped the razor with a towel and went on whistling his
tune. Malachy was as busy as a beaver too, brushing his jacket and knotting his tie and combing his hair. Then it was on to the polishing of the shoes and as usual he had to keep at them until you
could see your face in them. ‘I want to be able to see that old phizzog of yours in them!’ Cissie would say. ‘And if I can’t, don’t think I wouldn’t make you go
and do them all over again for I would – and make no mistake about it!’ But she needn’t have worried. She didn’t have to worry in the slightest for he was polishing away to
beat the band and by the time he was finished, they were like mirrors the pair of them. Then it was off out to the scullery with her, rattling pans and breaking eggs and doing God knows what as she
got the breakfast ready. The smell of rashers would make your mouth water. Was it any wonder they loved Sunday mornings? Bacon sizzling and eggs spitting and Cissie slicing away at her cakes of
soda bread and making sure that you were going to have the breakfast of a lifetime. And so you would, once you were back from chapel.

But now it was time to get going, yes now it was time to hit the high road and off up the hill to say your prayers to Jesus. Packie squirted a bit of aftershave on himself and called into the
kitchen, ‘Are you right there, Malachy me son – I daresay it’s near time we were making tracks. We don’t want to keep The Man Above waiting now, do we?’ ‘Indeed
we do not,’ replied Malachy, and, fixing his nutmeg-knot tie just one last time, headed off out the front door, hand in hand with the one and only Packie Dudgeon, his father. Cissie
didn’t bother coming with them because she had already gone to early Mass as she always did. ‘To make sure I have a good big breakfast ready and waiting for my two wee men when they get
home!’ as she said. Boy, did Packie like that! On the way up the street, he rubbed his hands and turned to Malachy as he said, ‘What do you say, son? Isn’t she a good one? Now
when all’s said and done you have to hand it to her. There’s not many women in this town would have a breakfast like that waiting for you when you come home. There’s times I think
I’m not going to be able for the half of it, do you know that! Enough to feed a blooming army, she says! Am I right, son?’

Malachy said that he was. No, he said he
sure
was, for he knew only too well from past experience just how hard it was to get through all the stuff she heaped on your plate. There were
times when he was only able for quarter of it! Not that he was complaining of course! He most certainly was not! It would be a long time before you would ever hear a word of complaint out of Packie
or Malachy Dudgeon about Cissie Dudgeon’s breakfasts!

And so here they were on Sunday morning, strolling through the bright and colourful streets of the town with the warm breeze blowing and Michael O’Hehir the football commentator sweeping
out of every window, getting so excited that you thought he was going to lose his mind.
‘Yes! He’s going through! Thirty yards out! Twenty yards out! Ten yards out! Oh my God!
It’s high! Yes it’s high and it’s – over the bar
!’ Half the time you thought he was going to burst into tears or just go completely mad shouting ‘Oh Jesus!
Oh, fuck! Oh, no! Oh, please, God, no!’ But he just kept on going, shouting out through every window in the town until he got hoarse. Malachy’s father loved that – the sound of
Michael O’Hehir’s voice on a Sunday morning. ‘You always know it’s a Sunday morning when you hear Michael,’ he said and smiled warmly as he squeezed Malachy’s
hand.

They always met plenty of people on the way up to the chapel. There was always someone to shout, ‘There you are, Packie!’ or ‘Good man, young Malachy!’ or
‘That’s a grand day now, thank God!’ Packie always made a point of acknowledging every greeting saying, ‘There you are now, Matt!’ and ‘A lovely day surely,
Francie, thank God!’ tipping his cap or touching his forehead with his index finger.

Whether or not his father was the holiest man in the town, Malachy couldn’t have said for sure, but one thing was certain, what with the way his lips were fluttering like the wings of a
mad butterfly and the huge gleaming beads of sweat that were appearing on his forehead as he prayed to Mary the Mother of God and St Joseph and St Patrick and St Michael and every saint who had
ever lived to do something for him, if he wasn’t Holy Man number one, he was certainly trying hard.

When the praying was all over, off they went back down the town again and into the shop to get the papers. Packie was a great man for the papers. ‘Man, but I love the papers!’
he’d say. ‘There’s great reading in them altogether!’ Then it was across the road and into the hotel where up onto the counter the bottle of Guinness would appear and
someone would say, ‘Well, Packie – who do you think will win the match?’ Then Packie would scratch his chin for a while. ‘Do you know what it is – I’d say
Cork!’ ‘Now you’re talking, Packie!’ they’d say. ‘And of course you’re the man’d know!’

They’d smile when they said that and ask him did he want another drink. It was good sitting there with him. For a long time they’d sit there together and Malachy would try his best
not to think about what was behind his father’s eyes. But somehow he always seemed to see that day, when the sun was splitting the stones and there were flowers and confetti and the organ was
playing glorious, holy music and Malachy’s mother was saying to his father ‘I love you’ instead of ‘I used to love Packie Dudgeon but I don’t any more. I don’t
any more and I don’t know why. If only there was some way I could stop this happening but I can’t. I’m going to hurt you, Packie. I’m going to hurt you and there’s
nothing I can do. Oh, Packie – where have they gone? Where have they gone, those days? When you held my hand along the seafront, when you took me in the boat out to the island where we
thought we’d live for ever. I don’t want to do it, Packie! I don’t want it to happen! Why can’t I love you the way I used to? Tell me, Packie – please tell
me!’

There wouldn’t have been much point in asking Malachy’s father that question for how was he supposed to know? All he could do was sit there nursing his Guinness and stare at
something far away and try to stop the shine that was coming into his eye. Which even Sunday morning couldn’t stop, no matter how good it was. It probably would have done Packie no harm at
all if Malachy had gently tugged his sleeve and whispered, ‘I love you,’ or something like that. But, with all his thinking about love in the grave, it had got to the stage now that he
wouldn’t have been able to say so if he tried. He was too afraid that the minute he opened his mouth the words would wither up and die there on the spot. And he wasn’t going to let that
happen – oh, no. It might have happened to Packie but it wasn’t going to happen to him. Not to Malachy Dudgeon. No, sir. Not in a million years.