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Non-Fiction
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| Oh Brother | |
| By hutmaster | ||||||||||||||||
| 07 August 2007 | ||||||||||||||||
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School daze! This old cleric left an impression on all who met him. He had a way of swishing into class. One moment we were an unruly rabble, full of last night's TV and swapping marbles; then he came, and we silenced like a Mass congregation hearing the Introit bell. 'Right, boys. Today we move to long division. Kevin, bring me a green, a red and some white chalk.' We knew, and he definitely did, that Kevin was colour blind. Out he came from the little store room with blue, white and yellow chalks. We dutifully laughed and he rolled his eyes and gently scuffed Kevin's head before retrieving the correct colours. His blackboard scrapes were swift and elegant. For ten minutes he exampled the process. We copied each stroke, each crossing out and carry. 'Any questions?' One or two of the brave, or stupid, asked him to repeat the exercise. I had grasped the formula and felt confident in my ability. He repeated the complicated series and wrote some practice sums. 'Find answers, boys. Write them in your jotters and I will take a look.' The slanting sun highlighted motes of dust. Tongues protruded and the silence of learning settled on us like light. In twin desks the slow followed the bright and the gorgeous sound of pencils slid across virgin paper. He glided through the room quiet as a ghost, a clean fingernail tapping at the page until errors were realised and corrected. 'That's very good. You all seem to have got that. Now we'll do some examples on the board.' His eloquent hand posted a test question. He turned to appoint victims. He paced the aisles. We focussed on the board. His slow steps, up and down, worried some, excited others. A show of hands would have ensured a correct answer, but he preferred to taunt us with a pretence of randomness. 'Charles', he commanded, his thin back to the class ' Your answers are all correct. Take us through this quagmire of numbers.' Charlie? His place was at the back. When we did anything he was issued with a fistful of crayons and told to draw. Poor Charlie, he couldn't do this. He had copied the answers. We knew it, and so did he. 'Please, Brother...' Charlie gasped, his eyes beseeching us to help. 'Come out, Charles. You seem to have grasped the intricacies of long division more easily than I expected. Please illustrate your new... capacity... to the class.' Brother John's little Christian eyes lighted on the petrified boy, but seemed focussed inward, on some private landscape of torment.
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