Skippy Dies: A Novel

‘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.’

‘Sounds great,’ Howard agrees dutifully.

‘Doesn’t it? And what I want to do is include some kind of historical overview of the school. Put it in the programme notes, even incorporate it into the show somehow. “140 Years of Triumph”, “Victory through the Ages”, something like that. With, you know, amusing anecdotes from yesteryear, first use of an electric light switch, so forth. People like that sort of thing, Howard, gives them a feeling of oneness with the past.’

‘Sounds great,’ Howard repeats.

‘Great! So you’ll do it?’

‘What? Me?’

‘Outstanding – Trudy, make a note that Howard’s agreed to be our “brand historian” for the concert.’ Restoring himself to his position at the desk, the Automator straightens a sheaf of papers summatively. ‘Well, thanks for stopping by, Howard, I – oh,’ as Trudy leans in and whisperingly points to something on her clipboard. ‘One other thing, Howard. You have a Juster in your second-year class, a Daniel Juster?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Wanted to sound you out about him. He was involved in an incident today in Father Green’s French class, an incident of vomiting.’

‘I heard something about that.’

‘Who is this kid, Howard? Priest asks him a question, he vomits all over the place?’

‘He’s – well, he’s…’ Howard deliberates, summoning Juster’s from an image of thirty bored faces.

‘Apparently he likes to call himself “Slippy”. What’s that about? He a slippery customer, that it?’

‘Actually I think it’s “Skippy”.’

‘ “Skippy”!’ the Automator says derisively. ‘Well, that makes even less sense!’

‘I believe it comes from the, uh, television kangaroo?’

‘Kangaroo?’ the Automator repeats.

‘Yes, you see the boy, ah, Juster, has these buck teeth, and when he speaks he sometimes makes a noise which some of the boys find similar to the noise the kangaroo makes. When it’s talking to humans.’

The Automator is looking at him like he’s speaking in tongues. ‘Okay, Howard. Let’s leave the kangaroos for the minute. What’s his story? Ever had any trouble with him?’

‘No, generally he’s an excellent student. Why? You don’t think he got sick deliberately?’

‘Don’t think anything, Howard. Just want to make sure we’ve got the angles covered. Juster’s rooming with Ruprecht Van Doren. I don’t need to tell you he’s one of our top students. Single-handedly raises the grade average for the year by about six per cent. We don’t want anything happening to him, mixing with the wrong element, what have you.’

‘I don’t think you have anything to worry about as far as Juster’s concerned. Maybe he’s a bit of a dreamer, but…’

‘Dreaming’s not something we encourage here either, Howard. Reality, that’s what we’re all about. Reality; objective, empirical truths. That’s what’s on the exam papers. You go into an exam hall, they don’t want to know what crazy mess of nonsense you dreamed last night. They want hard facts.’

‘I meant,’ Howard struggles, ‘I don’t think he’s any kind of a subversive. If that’s what you’re worried about.’

The Automator relents. ‘You’re probably right, Howard. Probably just ate a bad burger. Still, no point taking chances. That’s why I’d like you to have a word with him.’

‘Me?’ Howard’s heart sinks for the second time in five minutes.

‘Ordinarily, I’d send him for a session with the guidance counsellor, but Father Foley’s out this week having his ears drained. It sounds like you’ve got a pretty good handle on him, and I know the boys relate to you –’

‘I don’t think they do,’ Howard interjects quickly.

‘Of course they do. Young man like you, they see you as someone they can confide in, sort of a big brother figure. It doesn’t have to be anything formal. Just a quick chat. Take his temperature. If he’s got some sort of issue, set him straight. Probably nothing. Still, best to make sure. Vomiting in the classroom is definitely not something we want catching on. Time and a place for vomiting, and the classroom is not it. Think you could teach a class, Howard, with kids vomiting everywhere?’

‘No,’ Howard admits sullenly. ‘Though the way I hear it, it’s Father Green you should be talking to, not Juster.’

‘Mmm.’ The Automator withdraws into his thoughts a moment, spinning a fountain pen through his fingers. ‘Things can get a little close to the knuckle in Jerome’s classes, it’s true.’ Again he pauses, the chair creaking as he shifts his weight backwards; addressing himself to the portrait of his predecessor, he says, ‘To be frank, Howard, could be the best thing for everyone if the Paracletes started taking more of a back seat. No disrespect to any of them, but the truth is that in educational terms they’re outmoded technology. And having them around makes the parents anxious. Not their fault, of course. But pick up a newspaper, every day you see some new horror story, and mud sticks, that’s the tragedy of it.’

It’s true: for ten years or more, a relentless stream of scandals – secret mistresses, embezzlement and, to a degree still almost incomprehensible, child abuse – has eroded the power the Church once wielded over the country almost to nothing. The Paraclete Fathers remain one of the few orders to remain untouched by disgrace – in fact, thanks to their role in one of the top private schools at a time of spectacular wealth creation and even more spectacular conspicuous consumption, they have retained a certain cachet. Nonetheless, once-simple things, such as dropping a child home from choir practice, have been thoroughly removed from the priests’ gift.

‘Flipside of a strong brand is that you have to protect it,’ the Automator says, swivelling back to Howard. ‘You have to be vigilant against ideas or values that are contrary to what the brand is about. This is a precarious time for Seabrook, Howard. That’s why I want to be certain everyone’s singing from the same hymn sheet. We need to make sure, now more than ever, that everything we do, down to the last detail, is being done the Seabrook way.’

‘Okay,’ Howard stammers.

‘Look forward to hearing your feedback on our friend, Howard. And I’m glad we had this little talk. If things pan out the way I think they will, I’m seeing big things for you here.’

‘Thanks,’ Howard says, getting to his feet. He wonders if he’s supposed to shake hands; but the Automator has already directed his attention elsewhere.

‘Bye, Howard,’ Trudy looks up at him for one demure moment as he trudges out of the office, and makes a tick on her clipboard.