All names have been changed to protect the smelly.
I was sitting on a cold, stone step whispering puerile commiserations to my good friend, Chemical O'Reilly.
He'd called unexpectedly to our door about five o'clock that November
night. The angry, red imprint of an adult hand pulsed along the left
side of his dirt streaked face. Yet another wound in the guerilla war
between him and his Dad.
"I thought he was trying to strangle Mum, again. So I jumped on his
back and bit his fat ear," he rubbed his glowing fizzer and smiled
unconvincingly as he recounted the latest skirmish.
The sage advice I tendered was that he and his Mum should move the
fifty yards from his end of the street to ours. Up here, I assured him.
domestic violence was reserved for the occasional Saturday night
reminder- and sure where was the harm in that?
Having given you Patrick O'Reilly's nickname I suppose I should acquaint you with its' genesis.
When Chemical and I were a-rearing, domestic plumbing had not
progressed much beyond the convenience of a single indoor tap.
Consequently, the logistics of bathing were formidable. Forward
planning was essential if the rudiments of personal hygiene were to be
observed. Every Saturday, summer and winter, the range fire was banked
up, and water was boiled in a bewildering, and dangerous, array of
cauldrons, kettles and pots. If the weather was bad the tin bath
lodged on its back yard hook was trundled indoors - otherwise, it was
al fresco. Open air arrangements didn't bother me, but forced my
sisters into straits of misery. So much so that I doubt if bathing has
ever been a pleasure for them since.
As the only boy I argued that the uniqueness of my position should
accord me the privilege of first use. I was a walking repository of
scabs and stains; a glowing kaleidoscope of mysterious seepages, flaky
bits and raw scratchings. I'm sure that my youngest sister emerged less
clean, definitely less healthy, than when she entered the scummy
mixture. The remainder of the week saw us perform perfunctory ablutions
in a jawbox in the draughty scullery. By midweek I always seemed to
have acquired a faint, but distinct, hum.
Patrick's Mum was less assiduous than mine, and, with six kids, I
suspect even our level of hygiene was beyond them. It is no slight on
Patrick to say that, throughout our boyhood, he emanated a ripe odour
which preceded him into any room, and left a ghostly echo of his
presence when he exited.
Bearing in mind Patrick's aromatic demeanour, we move now to the
stuffy confines of a schoolroom, with thirty something boys
anticipating Christmas holidays.
Swishing between the rows of silent boys, a black robed Brother
reads the gory tale of some martyred saint. He halts the story to sniff
the air above the pungent Patrick, then considers it his Christian duty
to bring to the attention of the class, Patrick's relaxed attitude to
soap and water. A waste of time. None amongst us was the epitome of
cleanliness but all were aware that Patrick stank.
" It is no good," declaimed the perfumed Brother, "to imply
cleanliness by plastering dirty hair with corporation hair oil."(That's
H2O to the uninitiated.)
"Smothering your garments in your mother's cheap perfume only
succeeds in disguising one vile odour with another, thereby creating a
third, which combines with its' begetters to create a veritable river
of stink, an olfactory assault to rival that of my childhood neighbour,
Mr Wreakin, whose nasal capabilities were annulled by the proximity of
the fifty pigs which infested the hovel he referred to as home. While I
doubt, boy, if you share your abode with swine, I aver that there is
consanguinity."
He paused. Then added, "Probably on your father's side."
At this point he forced Patrick to rise from his uncomfortable seat
to an uncomfortable standing position by his preferred method; pulling
upwards on the small hairs at the side of Patrick's temple.
"No. Something more......chemical, O'Reilly, would be necessary to
eliminate the miasma of putrescence emanating from your vicinity. Take
a seat by the window, if you please, and if our cretinous caretaker
wakes from his stupor and follows his bulbous nose to investigate the
stench, you may tell him you are awaiting a thuriferous angel to
deliver you from the valley of graveolence to some fragrant meadows
whose existence you believe in but have yet to find. The poor fool will
understand not a word, but the mention of angels and valleys will at
least populate his inebrious hallucinations with less gruesome denizens
than the hideous creatures I suspect are his usual companions."
And how, you may ask, do I recall the conversation of this
Christian educator so long after the event? I'll tell you. We rehearsed
it - word for word. For, God help us, we loved his raving. We collected
them like others collected matchboxes or marbles. At least once a week
some trifling incident would provoke a tumult of words. Usually, this
prolixity was occasioned by a negative event; a forgotten homework, a
tiny spark of rebellion in any of us. It might be birdsong, or a
pattern of shadows, but daily he would start, and a flow of eloquence
would cascade over us, leaving us breathless in wonder. In these verbal
raptures he sailed, adrift on adjectival swells with only a ration of
language to sustain him. The fluency of his tirades was a joy to us. We
loved to practice his delivery, his histrionics, but especially the
words.
All the way home, as we dilly-dallied, we recited this latest
addition to the canon. We rolled them in our mouths, tasting them,
delivering them as precisely as actors, carving each sharp syllable
into the granite of memory. His cutting wit was lost on us, but by the
time we parted Chemical was Chemical, and would be from that day on.
So, there we were on our front step. I was mightily impressed that
my friend had shed not a single tear, despite the testament to fatherly
love throbbing on his small face. We were discussing possible
punishments for his Dad; like making him stand next to Brother Joseph
during prayers, (for his breath would stop a train), when a sorrowful
shriek smote the misty night air.
My boyish guilt was unleashed. Had my mother discovered the
rigor-mortised frog I'd been saving in my school trousers, or the
uncomplimentary words scored in vivid red across my English homework.
From the far end of the street we spied Chemical's Mum haring up
at full speed. Poor Chemical. He paled, expecting to see his Dad in hot
pursuit, enraged afresh at some imagined insult to his manly virtues.
Instead, my Mum came tearing out of our house. The two women met in the
middle of the road and commenced a woeful caterwauling. Our mutual
embarrassment quickly subsided, to be replaced by curiosity. What had
happened?
For what seemed an age the two women hugged one another in an
ecstasy of grief. Slowly their fierce tears gave way to huge, sighing
sobs. Then, to our chagrin, they turned their tear streaked faces to
us. Instinctively, we rose in preparation for flight. Too late. The two
women clawed their respective sons to them in a smothering embrace of
warm, soft arms. From somewhere within her ample cleavage I heard
Chemical's muffled plea for his Mum to, "give over."
By now it seemed the whole neighbourhood was outdoors, and we learned that a man called Kennedy had been shot.
Chemical and I sneaked into our house during all the confusion. We knew this was a momentous night.
To mark the occasion I gave him the withered frog I'd been saving. |
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Written by hutmaster (134 comments posted) 2nd January 2008 | Sorry. This is in the wrong category and I don't know how to change it.
hm |
Written by Fledermaus (3470 comments posted) 2nd January 2008 | Go to 'view my existing work', click the title and you can change it.
I heard people of a certain age all knew where they were when Kennedy was assassinated. Probably just like how my generation will probably never forget where they were on september the 11th 2001.
An interesting view of the 1960s. I can understand very well why you liked the priest's eloquence. There is a certain dry humour behind it. He reminds me of Harry Potter's professor Snape. | Category changed
Written by hutmaster (134 comments posted) 2nd January 2008 | Thanks Fled. Someone had already corrected my mistake - thank you for that.
This is about 80% invented and 20% true. There was such a teacher - an old Brother who loved the sound of his own voice and whom, I suspect, learned at least one new word per day just to practice on us - his captive audience. Thanks for the read and the comment.
hm |
Written by Phil (6951 comments posted) 3rd January 2008 | Thoroughly good read. The skill of the writing made it effortless to follow. Well structured, well paced, well judged. One of the best pieces on here for some time.
Excellent.
Phil. |
Written by hutmaster (134 comments posted) 4th January 2008 | As usual Phil, I thank you for the read and comments. I liked this when I wrote it and thought that others might enjoy it too, but seems to have been given a miss by most. I have no problem with that - different strokes for different folks I guess.
However I am pleased that you took time to read and comment, very much appreciated and thank you.
hm |
Written by Bottleblondesurfer (3555 comments posted) 4th January 2008 | I really enjoyed this. It was a great bit of character building, in fact a really vivid little vignette and the verbose teacher stood out too. I like your style of writing, I admit this sort of thing chimes with me.
I wasn't quite how kennedy's death fitted into the story. I thought the story was about O'Riley, maybe if you had put in a bit the significance of occasions at the beginning it would have all tied togther. That said it was a very professional bit of writing
jane |
Written by hutmaster (134 comments posted) 4th January 2008 | Kennedy's assassination was just my rather clumsy attempt at setting this to a precise time, Jane. I am pleased it chimed with you cos, as I mentioned to Phil, I enjoyed writing it.
'Professional bit of writing' - I wish. I enjoy some scribbling as a hobby and send very little of it anywhere.
I am genuinely pleased that you found this to your liking and want to thank you for the encouraging review
hm |
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