Skippy Dies (12 page)

‘Of course you will!’ Zephyr’s voice crackles enthusiastically; Halley winces, hearing echoes of her own past efforts at sisterly
bucking-up.

She goes to the window to let the smoke out. Across the street she sees her neighbour’s two golden retrievers bounce anticipatorily
about their front garden; a moment later her neighbour’s car pulls up. He unlatches the gate, bends to bury his face in their
blond flyaway fur; his wife opens the door to greet him, new baby in her arms, pretty daughter peeping out from behind her.
The dogs leap around like this is the greatest thing that’s ever happened. Everyone looks so happy.

Standing there unseen, Halley thinks of the way that Howard braces himself when he comes through the door these days, the
cloaked expression of weariness as he asks about her day. He is bored: he is in the grip of some massive boredom. Does it
emanate from her? Is she leaking boredom into his life, like a radiating atom, the dull, decaying isotope of a lover? She
recalls her parents, how they’d morphed with the decades of recession from the hippie fellow-travellers who’d given her and
Zephyr their absurd names into dyspeptic fiftysomethings, walling themselves in with investments as they waited for the sky
to fall. She wonders if that’s all that lies ahead, an incremental process of distancing, from the world and from each other.
Maybe that was why her parents fought; maybe the fights were misguided attempts to find a way back, to recover the why of
things that they had lost.

She waits for the sound of Howard’s car and resolves that tonight she will make herself airy, lightsome, that tonight they
will not fight. But already she can feel the anger surge upward through her, bubbling out of her core, because already she
can
see him coming in, asking her how she is, trying not to be bored as she tells him; trying to keep himself interested, as if
this is a project he’s set for his class – trying to be good, trying to make himself love her.

‘Howard? You busy, Howard?’

‘Well, actually, I was just about to –’

‘I won’t keep you. Just walk with me a moment, little matter I want to discuss with you. How is everything, Howard? How’s…
is it Sally?’

‘Halley,’ Howard glances forlornly at the exit as the Automator leads him away in the opposite direction.

‘Halley, of course. You made an honest woman of her yet? I’m joking, obviously. No pressure from this end. It’s the twenty-first
century, school’s not going to judge you for your personal living arrangements. How about work, Howard, how’s that end of
things? Into your third year of it now, probably got it pretty well taped at this stage, am I right?’

‘Well –’

‘Fascinating subject, History. Know what I like about it? It’s all written down right there in front of you. Not like Science,
where they turn everything on its head every two years. Up is now down. Black is now white. Bananas, that we’ve been saying
are good for you, actually give you cancer. History won’t do that. All done and dusted. Case closed. Might not be quite what
it used to be, in terms of kids moving to Media Studies, Computer Studies, subjects with more obvious relevance to today.
And what is it they say, history teaches us that history teaches us nothing? Makes you wonder what the point of history teachers
is, doesn’t it? Ha ha! That’s not my view, though, Howard, don’t look so alarmed. No, as far as I’m concerned, only a fool
would write history off, and history teachers like yourself, barring some really major unforeseen circumstances, will always
be key members of our faculty here at Seabrook.’

‘Great,’ Howard says. Talking with the Automator has been likened to trying to read a ticker-tape parade; the margin for confusion
is not helped by the high velocity at which the Acting Principal is presently moving, forcing Howard into an ignominious trot.

‘History, Howard, that’s what this school was built on, as well as your more obvious foundations, of course – clay, rock,
what have you.’ He stops abruptly, so that Howard very nearly crashes into him. ‘Howard, take a look around you. What do you
see?’

Dazedly, Howard does as he is told. They are standing in Our Lady’s Hall. There is the Virgin with the starry halo; there
are the rugby photographs, the noticeboards, the fluorescent lights. Try as he might, he can perceive nothing out of the ordinary,
and at last is forced to answer feebly, ‘Our Lady’s… Hall?’

‘Exactly,’ the Automator says approvingly.

Howard is ashamed to feel a glow of pride.

‘Know when this hall was built? Silly question, you’re the history man, of course you do. Eighteen sixty-five, two years after
the school was founded. Another question, Howard. Does this corridor say
excellence
to you? Does it say,
Ireland’s top secondary school for boys
?’

Howard takes another look at the hall. The blue-and-white tiles are scuffed and dull, the grubby walls pocked and crumbling,
the window-sashes rotted and knotted with generations of cobwebs. On a winter’s day, it could double for a Victorian orphanage.
‘Well…’ he begins, then realizes the Automator has turned on his heel and is power-walking back the way they came. He scurries
after him; as he strides, the Automator continues his address, interspersing it with loud directives for the benefit of passing
students – ‘Haircut! No running! Are those white socks?’ – more or less indiscriminately, like a Tannoy in some totalitarian
state.

‘Once upon a time, Howard, that building was state of the art. Envy of every school in the country. Nowadays it’s an anachronism.
Damp classrooms, inadequate light, poor heating. As for the Tower, to call it a death-trap would be paying it a compliment.
Times change, that’s the overall point I’m trying to make
here. Times change, and you can’t rest on your laurels. Teaching’s a premium service these days. Parents don’t just hand over
their children and let you do what you like. They’re looking over your shoulder all the time, and if they suspect they’re
not getting full value for money, they’ll whip little Johnny out of here and plonk him into Clongowes before you can say Brian
O’Driscoll.’ They have come back through the Annexe, the modern wing of the school, and up the stairs, and are paused now
at the open door of the Principal’s office, occupied until recently by Father Furlong. ‘Come on in for a minute, Howard.’
The Automator waves him through. ‘You’ll have to excuse the mess, we’re just doing a little rearranging.’

‘So I see…’ Cardboard boxes cover the floor of the old priest’s sanctum sanctorum, some filled with Father Furlong’s possessions,
late of these shelves, others with the Automator’s, transported up from his Dean’s office in the old building. ‘Does this
mean…?’

‘’Fraid so, Howard, ‘fraid so,’ the Automator sighs. ‘Try to keep it under your hat for now, but the prognosis isn’t good.’

Desmond Furlong’s heart attack in September had taken everyone by surprise. A diminutive, parchment-yellow man, he had cultivated
an air of rarefaction that teetered on the brink of actual incorporeality, as if at any moment he might evaporate into a cloud
of pure knowledge; physical ailments had always seemed decidedly beneath him. But now he lies in hospital, mortally ill; and
while his orrery still rests on the grand cherrywood desk, his photograph still hangs on the office wall (smiling mirthlessly,
like a king who has wearied of his crown) and his iridescent fish still shimmer through the gloom of the aquarium on the dresser,
his many bookcases today are empty, save for dust and a single stress-busting executive toy like a hastily planted flag.

‘It’s tough,’ the Automator says, placing a consolatory hand on Howard’s shoulder and gazing meditatively into a crate full
of Post-its, then stepping aside as a woman staggers in bearing a fresh batch of boxes, which she deposits heavily by the
wastepaper basket.

‘Hello, Trudy,’ Howard says.

‘Hello, Howard,’ Trudy replies. Trudy Costigan is the Automator’s wife, a compact blonde who in her St Brigid’s days was voted
Best-Looking Girl and Girl Most Likely To, and who shows traces still of her former splendour amid the ravages incurred by
the demands of her husband and the five children he has fathered by her (all boys, one a year, as though there is no time
to spare – as though, his more paranoid observers whisper, he is raising some sort of
army
). Since his appointment to Acting Principal, she has also served as the Automator’s unofficial PA, organizing his diary,
arranging meetings, answering the phone. She drops things a lot and blushes when he speaks to her, like a secretary fostering
a secret crush on her boss; he in turn treats her like a well-meaning but cerebrally ungifted pupil, hustling her, harrying,
snapping his fingers.

‘It’s tough,’ he repeats now, directing Howard into a high-backed African chair, another of the sparse group of survivors
from the
ancien régime
, then sitting down on the other side of the desk and making a steeple of his fingers, as Trudy briskly removes from a box
and arranges around him a bonsai tree, a pen-set and a framed photograph of their boys in rugby strip. ‘But we can’t let it
get us down. That’s not what the Old Man’d want. Got to keep moving forward.’ He leans back in his chair, nodding to himself
rhythmically.

A strangely solicitous silence fills the room, which Howard has the growing impression he is expected to fill. ‘Any word on
who might take over?’ he obliges.

‘Well, it hasn’t been discussed in any kind of detail yet. Naturally what we’re hoping is that he’ll make a full recovery
and get right back in the driving seat. But if he doesn’t…’ The Automator sighs. ‘If he doesn’t, the fear is there simply
may not be a Paraclete to fill the position. Numbers are down. The order is ageing. There just aren’t enough priests to go
around.’ He lifts the photograph of his children and studies it intently. ‘Lay principal would be a sea change, no question
about it. Divisive. Paracletes are going to
want one of their own in charge, even if they have to ship him in from Timbuktu. Some of the faculty too, the old guard. But
they may not have that option.’ His glance slips sidelong from the photograph to Howard. ‘What about you, Howard? How would
you feel about a principal drawn from the ranks? Is that something you could see yourself supporting? Hypothetically?’

Behind him Howard can sense Trudy holding her breath; it dawns on him that the Automator’s esoteric remarks regarding the
teaching of History earlier were blandishments, or possibly threats, intended to win Howard’s backing in some upcoming, non-hypothetical
clash. ‘I’d be in favour of it,’ he returns, in a strained voice.

‘Thought you would,’ says the Automator with satisfaction, replacing the photograph. ‘Said to myself, Howard’s part of the
new generation. He wants what’s best for the school. That’s the attitude I like to see in my staff, my fellow staff I mean.’
He swivels round in his chair, addressing the mournful picture of the Old Man. ‘Yes, it’ll be a sad day when the Holy Paraclete
Fathers hand over the reins. At the same time, it’s not totally impossible there could be benefits. Country’s not what it
used to be, Howard. We’re not just some little Third World backwater any more. These kids coming through now have the confidence
to get up there on the world stage and duke it out with the best of them. Our role is to give them the best possible training
to do that. And we must ask ourselves, is a clergyman in his sixties or seventies absolutely the right man for that job?’
Emerging from behind the desk and manoeuvring round his wife as if she were another of the cardboard boxes, he begins to pace
militaristically about the room, so that Howard has to jog his chair round to face him. ‘Don’t get me wrong. The Paraclete
Fathers are extraordinary men, great educators. But they’re
spiritual
men, first and foremost. Their minds are on loftier matters than the here and now. In a competitive market economy – to be
perfectly frank, Howard, you’ve got to wonder whether some of our older priests are even aware what that
is
. And that puts us in a dangerous position,
because we’re competing with Blackrock, Gonzaga, King’s Hospital, any number of top secondary schools. We’ve got to have a
strategy. We’ve got to be ready to move with the times. Change is not a dirty word. Neither for that matter is profit. Profit
is what enables change, positive change that helps everyone, such as for example demolishing the 1865 building and constructing
an entirely new twenty-first-century wing in its place.’

‘The Costigan wing!’ pipes up Trudy.

‘Yes, well –’ the Automator tugs his ear ‘– I don’t know what it would be called. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to
it. My point is, we’ve got to start playing to our strengths, and there’s one strength we have that’s stronger than every
other school. Know what that is?’

‘Um…’

‘Exactly, Howard. History. This is the oldest Catholic boys’ school in the country. That gives the name of Seabrook College
a certain resonance. Seabrook
means
something. It stands for a particular set of values, values like heart and discipline. A marketing man might say that what
we have here is a product with a strong brand identity.’ He leans against the denuded bookcase, wags his finger at Howard
pedagogically. ‘Brands, Howard. Brands rule the world today. People like them. They trust them. And yet, branding is something
that this administration has neglected. I’ll give you an example. This year is the school’s 140th anniversary. Perfect opportunity
to raise a hooha, get people’s attention. Instead it’s barely been registered.’

‘Maybe they’re waiting for the 150th,’ Howard says.

‘What?’

‘I mean, maybe they want to wait till the 150th anniversary to raise a hoo-ha. You know, as most people would regard it as
a bigger deal.’

‘The 150th’s ten years away, Howard. Can’t afford to sit around ten years, not in this game. Anyway, 140 years is just as
big a deal as 150. Numerical difference, that’s all. Point is, this is a significant opportunity for brand reinforcement and
we’ve almost missed the boat on it. Almost but not completely. We still have
the Christmas concert. What I’m thinking is, this year we turn it into a special 140th-anniversary spectacular. Make a real
fuss over it. Media coverage, maybe even a live broadcast.’