It Could Never Happen Here, page 21
When the bell went for lunch on Friday afternoon, the sixth-class students leapt from their desks, grabbed their school gaberdines and lined up by the door; it was the one time of day they did what they were supposed to without Frank having to ask, or more often beg. He removed his own coat from where it hung behind his desk. He was on yard duty today.
‘Okay, okay, nice and quietly, please,’ he called, as the students hopped from one foot to the other, waiting to be set free. Things would be better after lunch, he told himself; they’d settle down once they’d burnt off some energy. ‘James,’ he said to the child at the top of the line, ‘you’re going to lead everyone out, all right?’
The tall boy grew taller as he absorbed the temporary responsibility.
A wave of laughter rose behind him and Frank turned, embarrassed to find himself willing it to be aimed at another student, rather than him.
Before he could ask what was so amusing – something he always tried to do in an equally amused voice that suggested he was already in on the joke, so they couldn’t turn it on him – Ethan Morton was raising a hand.
‘Teacher, what’s a ped-oh?’
The sniggering students, mainly boys, laughed louder.
‘It’s not a ped-oh, you dope,’ said one of them. ‘It’s a pee-do.’
Ethan didn’t look any more enlightened. ‘What’s a pedo?’
‘That’s not a suitable discussion for right now,’ said Frank, the words catching in his throat. ‘Right now, we’re going out to the yard.’
‘Is it a bad word?’ asked another student.
‘A pedo is someone who fancies children, isn’t it, Teacher?’
At the start of the year, he would have engaged them in conversation. But he had learned that the students weren’t always asking innocent questions. Often, they were messing with him. He searched the line for the usual suspects, but none of them were laughing. Even Woody was expressionless.
‘It’s short for paedophile,’ said Amelia Franklin. ‘That’s in the dictionary. It’s the same as pedo.’
‘I don’t want to hear the word again, please,’ said Frank. The one time of day he felt any semblance of control over the class and it was slipping through his fingers. ‘If you want to know the definition, ask your parents, or check your dictionaries. But I don’t want the word used again in this classroom.’
Frank refused to let his mind wander. The students were just testing him, as they always did. The prank calls had subsided – that had been a coincidence too. He made a mental note to phone the parents of the boys who had asked. It was generally best if such things were explained at home. He glanced down the line to Woody, but the boy was messing with the zip on his coat.
‘But, Teacher, you’re the one using the word.’
He ignored this nonsensical statement and went to open the door. They were forever last out at break-times, often for reasons like this. The more effort Frank made, the worse they seemed to get.
‘Yeah, Teacher,’ said someone else. ‘If you don’t like the word, then why is it written on the back of your coat?’
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Ella Belle 12.13 p.m.
WhatsApp says you haven’t read any of these?? U ok? Don’t be nervous about today! He’s your dad and you’ve got the moral high ground! I. Love. You. X
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Lorna Farrell was just contorting herself into the Half Moon Pose, when Fiona came jogging into the studio. She bowed her apologies to Paul, the hot yoga instructor, and Paul smiled as he bowed in return.
‘You’re late,’ whispered Lorna, who was never late for anything. Today, as with most days, she had helped to lay out the yoga mats. She joined her hands together above her head and stretched to the left.
Fiona took the free mat beside her and began to warm up. ‘Thought I’d give you a few minutes before I came in and stole Hot Paul’s attention.’
Lorna ignored this comment. He was called Hot Paul because he instructed his class in a room heated to above 40 degrees, and because he was attractive. But she had Bill. Who was a councillor. And nothing was hotter than power. When Lorna’s gaze followed Paul around the room, it was only in search of praise.
‘You never turned up last night,’ she whispered, as the class stretched out their arms and lowered themselves onto their hunkers. ‘I saved you a mat and everything.’
‘I told you I mightn’t make it.’
‘Yes, I know. But you never said for sure, or why. Had you a date?’
‘Of sorts.’
Paul passed them now. ‘Good, Lorna. Very good.’
She beamed.
He straightened Fiona’s arms slightly and moved on.
‘Did it go well?’ she asked, feeling more generous now. ‘Who was it with?’
Fiona tipped her nose as she brought her arms out straight in front of her.
Lorna glanced at her friend, causing her own Awkward Pose to sway. ‘Since when are you shy about that stuff? Usually you’re singing it from the rooftops.’ She gasped, coming down from her tippytoes with a thud. ‘Was it Butcher?’
Fiona made a face.
‘The banker from London?’
‘That’s long over.’
‘Maybe it didn’t go well, and that’s why you don’t want to tell me,’ said Lorna, as they crossed all their limbs down into the Eagle Pose.
‘Of course it went well,’ shot back Fiona. ‘I’m just saying it wasn’t the banker.’
Lorna made an ‘Mm-hmm’ sound as she struggled to hold the final step of the pose. It was like vertical twister.
And then, because she could not stand to have her allure questioned, Fiona added: ‘If you must know, I’ve traded him in for a much younger model.’
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Ella Belle 12.48 p.m.
Are you pissed off with me? Is it about yesterday morning? I’m sorry if I didn’t come across as supportive of your decision. I think it’s great you’re visiting your dad. I think you’re great. Please write back.
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A girl in the front row raised her hand, giving Nuala Patterson a moment’s hope that this wouldn’t be a drawn-out, painful process.
But alas, the girl had not put her hand up to confess.
‘Maybe that word was already there when Teacher bought the coat, but he didn’t notice because the shop didn’t have one of those mirrors where you can see your back?’
‘Thank you, Shona, but Mr Cafferty is perfectly capable of looking in mirrors.’
This drew giggles from the rest of the class and Nuala chanced a glance at Frank Cafferty, who was sitting quietly at his desk, arms wrapped tightly around himself.
Despite her foreboding presence at the top of the room, there was a giddy energy in the class. The children snuck furtive glances at each other and grinned. Ciara Murphy turned her head to the side and nodded vigorously at Ethan Morton. It was, she recognised, an impression of Mr Cafferty.
These were not students who respected their teacher. How had she not noticed? She was slipping this year, and Glass Lake standards were going down with her. Pedo. It was such a nasty word, and not one she often heard students use, even in hushed voices. This story was already as good as going around the parent WhatsApp groups and there would be those who, for no reason but their own enjoyment, would speculate on whether there was something to the accusation. It was the sort of rumour that could kill a career. She felt a deep swell of sympathy for the man, and a hard flash of anger at the students sitting before her.
‘That’s enough,’ she shouted, relieving Ethan Morton of his effort to stem the giggles. Ethan, Ciara and every other student looked at her. ‘That is absolutely enough. In Glass Lake, we show respect to our teachers and to each other. We do not laugh at anyone. Do you understand?’
The room was silent.
‘I have all day,’ she said, by which she meant she had forty minutes before the final bell went and she was legally required to send them home. ‘And I can wait as long as you can. We’ll stay here all night if we have to.’
The suggestion was so ludicrous, she was surprised nobody laughed.
Her eyes roamed the room, looking for a guilty face. A small movement caught her attention. Woody Whitehead was shaking his head at Maeve Maguire, who was seated beside him.
‘Maeve?’ she said, as the girl gave a start. ‘Have you anything to tell me?’
‘No, Principal Patterson.’
Another flicker of action, and her gaze moved to the desk right in front of her.
‘Amelia? How about you?’
‘No, Principal Patterson,’ said the pretty girl, as her neighbour smiled.
‘What’s so funny now, Ciara?’
The child stopped giggling and looked straight ahead.
Nuala paced in front of the whiteboard as the students sat staring at their desks or out the window or into space. In her twenty-two years at the helm, Nuala had dealt with countless incidents of bullying and many horrible words scrawled across bags and coats and even shoes, but none of those items had ever belonged to a teacher. Had Mr Cafferty been too nice? Too soft?
Time passed and nobody spoke. So settled in the silence were the children that when Ethan Morton knocked a pen on to the ground, several of them jumped.
Nuala decided to go for broke. ‘As I’m sure you know, we have CCTV cameras in this classroom.’ She pointed to the ceiling. The students turned to look at the high-tech sprinkler that hung a foot from the fire alarm. ‘And if I do not get a confession in the next five minutes, we will be checking that, and I can guarantee you the punishment will be much more severe.’
Again, they exchanged glances. There was less smirking this time. Several of them looked worried. Perhaps this was a story worth rolling out more generally, like the threat of Santa’s omnipresent elves.
The students shifted in their seats and murmurs of a disagreement rose from Woody and Maeve.
‘Maeve?’ said Nuala. ‘Something to say?’
The girl’s voice quivered. But it was Woody who finally spoke.
‘Say that again, Woody? I didn’t hear you.’
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Ella Belle 1.55 p.m.
I know you’re probably in there now, but I’d really like to talk to you. Maybe it’s a problem with your phone. If not, can you ring me back when you get a chance? XXX
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Lorna was trying to figure out what sort of coffee would feel like a treat but not completely undo all the good work done during hot yoga. She burnt off an estimated 500 calories during a session and did six sessions a week. She needed to lose 42,000 calories in order to drop a dress size before December. She tried to hold these numbers in her head while she counted backwards to when she first bought a ‘bundle’ of Hot Paul classes.
‘I only drink Americanos,’ said Fiona, who’d already ordered hers. ‘If I don’t know what the other stuff tastes like, then I can’t lust after it.’
Lorna found it impossible to do maths and maintain a conversation, so she ordered the same. She would console herself with a generous dollop of full-fat milk.
‘Is that the woman Beverley used to work with?’ she half-whispered, as they collected their beverages from the end of the counter.
Fiona followed her gaze to the window seat. ‘It is. Tamara Watson. You know I found her a house? Nice woman. Let’s go and say hello.’
Lorna wanted to talk to Fiona alone, to grill her about this new mystery man. She was being uncharacteristically coy. But before she could object, they were heading towards the small circular table where the woman was reading a magazine and enjoying one of the Strand’s legendary flapjacks. This cheered Lorna up slightly. Perhaps she’d offer them a piece.
‘Tamara? Hi.’
She looked up from her magazine. ‘Fiona! How are you? I’ve been meaning to call you.’
‘Tamara Watson, this is Lorna Farrell. Lorna, this is Tamara.’
‘We met briefly at the parents’ night, hi. I love your dress,’ said Lorna, who liked to start every new acquaintance with a compliment.
‘Thank you,’ replied Tamara, sitting up straight and closing over the magazine. She had an enviable figure. The breasts of a twenty-year-old.
If Lorna got to know her better, she’d ask who did her work.
‘Fiona, I wanted to thank you for recommending that handyman. Arlo? I find flat-pack furniture more painful than childbirth, but he put my bookcases together in record time yesterday evening. He even managed to get a few extra shelves up. He’s amazing.’
Lorna did not agree with hiring Arlo Whitehead. She was with Beverley on this entirely and would never let the lad set foot in her house. Charlie Whitehead was the reason the Roches had moved away, which was the reason Cooney GAA had been relegated at the quarter finals. As far as any right-minded resident was concerned, hiring a Whitehead was a betrayal of the town.
‘I wanted him to do my son’s desk too, but he’d another job to get to – at nine on a Thursday night,’ Tamara continued. ‘He must be in demand.’
Bill did, very occasionally, get Arlo to do jobs in the garden, but that was entirely different; he never came inside.
‘That was me, I’m afraid,’ said Fiona. ‘I took him away from you.’
‘Last night?’
Fiona nodded, dipping her chin slightly as she brought her coffee cup up.
‘Well, it’s fine,’ said Tamara. ‘He was busy today too, but he’s coming back to finish the job next week.’
It took Lorna a moment, but eventually she caught up.
‘Wait. Last night?’ She turned to Fiona. ‘Last night when you should have been at yoga? I thought you said you didn’t make it because—’ Her friend’s eyes were trained on the white lid of her disposable cup. ‘Oh my God. Oh. My. God! Is Arlo Whitehead the younger man?’
Fiona shook her head as she pulled her fingers across her mouth. ‘My lips are sealed.’
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Ella Belle 2.45 p.m.
Okay, I’m kind of worried now. I’m going to try you on email
28
••••••
Arlo had been sitting outside the prison for forty minutes. His visitor timeslot was for 3 p.m. If he didn’t get out of the van soon, he was going to miss it. He looked in the rear-view mirror and told himself to take three slow breaths. Things must have been bad because even Leo was trying to help.
Inhale … Exhale … Inhale … Exhale …
Where did you learn that?
Just shut up and breathe.
This vat of guilt sat on the bed of his stomach and every time he tried to identify its origin – neglect of Woody? Betrayal of Ella? Betrayal of his father? – another possibility popped into his head.
His phone beeped.
Four missed calls, eight new messages, and now, an email notification.
He unlocked his phone, careful not to click into WhatsApp. Until he figured out how to explain himself, he couldn’t let Ella know he had read them.
Is this the first email I’ve sent you since school? Weird. I think there’s something up with your phone. Or at least I’m hoping that’s the problem. I can’t get through to you.
Is everything okay? Have you seen your dad yet?
Even if you’re annoyed at me over something, will you just get in touch to say you’re okay? It’s stupid I know, but I’m worried.
So, get in touch – by phone or email or like messenger owl. Whatever!
El x
The vat threatened to overflow.
Arlo needed to explain to Ella, in person, what had happened with Fiona Murphy. He was supposed to call to her last night, but for some reason he couldn’t do it. He’d gone straight home and had a long shower. She kissed him. He hadn’t started anything; he hadn’t done anything wrong. He didn’t even like her! He had taken her hand first, but that was different, he hadn’t done it in a … in a sexual way. Maybe Fiona thought he had? He’d been trying to save Woody. But the way she teased him, the way she smiled … Had it been his fault?
He couldn’t bring himself to respond to Ella, to make casual chitchat, until he’d explained what had happened. He needed to be honest with her; it didn’t feel good otherwise. He would go straight from the prison to her house. She’d understand why he hadn’t replied then, and hopefully she’d admire him for not being a fraud.
It was five to three now. He had to get out of the van.
Out on the tarmac, he checked the pits of his shirt for sweat stains and fixed the tie that he’d last worn to Mike Roche’s funeral. He followed the signs out of the car park, turning left to the visitors’ entrance of the modern, white building. He pushed his way through the glass doors into a waiting area and presented himself at the reception desk. The guard took his details, checked his driver’s licence, and gave him a sheet of paper. He asked him to empty his pockets and pointed him towards a locker where he could leave his phone and keys. He made a joke about young lads not liking to be parted from their phones, but Arlo had never been happier to see the thing go. He placed his boots into a plastic tray and walked quickly through the full-body scanner. He was given a once-over with a hand-held device, and then again with another. ‘It’s like the airport,’ he said nervously.
One of them smiled. ‘It’s looking for drugs.’
Around the next corner was a big dog that sniffed at his trousers and boots. And even though he knew he wasn’t carrying any drugs, had never carried any drugs, he could feel the sweat forming on his brow.
A different guard led him down a tiled corridor, past cameras and thick doors. It had the same smell as his secondary school, that peculiar mix of must and chemical cleaners. The guard stopped at a small desk and pushed open a heavy cream door.
‘Here we are now, the family room.’
