Foreign Affairs (3 page)

‘What are you doing out of your seat, Rachel Stapleton?’ He always called her by her full name at school.

‘Nnn . . . nothing, Sir,’ she stammered. Rachel had to call her father Sir at school.

‘Why is your copybook lying in the middle of the floor?’ the Master demanded. There was a collective intake of breath. Out of the corner of her eye, Rachel could see Patrick slowly
drawing his finger from one side of his throat to the other in a slitting gesture and making horrible faces. Her heart began to pound. Her father glaring at her and demanding an explanation and
Patrick McKeown prepared to slit her throat and God knows what else.

‘I’m waiting, Miss,’ the Master said sternly, his blue eyes like flints.

‘I . . . I let it fall.’ Her voice was no more than a whisper.

‘I can’t hear you.’ Her father folded his arms as the rest of the class waited in delicious trepidation. Would he give her the stick? Would he make her stand in the corner? And
if he did, would she tell on Patrick McKeown? There’d be wigs on the green then. They sat enjoying every minute of the drama.

‘I said I let it fall, Sir.’ Rachel’s voice had a wobble in it and to her horror she could feel tears at the back of her eyes.

‘Stand in the corner for being out of your chair, Rachel Stapleton, and the rest of you get ready to give me the answers to your sums,’ the Master instructed, glaring at Rachel as
she went over to the corner by the door. He was very annoyed with her, she knew, and he would not speak to her for the rest of the day. He would go home and tell her mother that their daughter was
a disobedient child and how could he expect the rest of the school to obey him if his own daughter wouldn’t?

Plop . . . plop plop plop. Big tears fell on to her shiny patent shoes as she stood with her back to the rest of the class and heard them calling out the answers to their sums, Patrick
McKeown’s voice the loudest of them all. She had been so looking forward to today. To the party. To the bell going early because they were having a half-day. To running home to her mother
with the news that they were off school until the first of September. It was going to be one of her happy days and now it was ruined.

She heard her father say, ‘Very good, Room 4, now tidy up your bags, I’m letting you off twenty minutes early because Miss O’Connor is not in. Walk quietly, now,’ he
warned, ‘or I’ll change my mind. Rachel Stapleton, stay in the corner please until you hear the bell go.’ There was silence until he left the room and then a frantic scrabbling as
bags were packed at speed, the sooner to get out of the schoolhouse. Rachel stood with her back to them. At least the ordeal would soon be over and she didn’t mind waiting in the corner on
her own. Patrick McKeown and his pals would be gone by the time she got out of school.

A sharp stabbing pain in her bottom made Rachel yelp in pain.

‘Shut up, ya stupid cow, that’s just so ya don’t forget me,’ Patrick McKeown hissed as he brandished his compass at her. Just for good measure he stabbed her with it once
more and then he was gone, followed by the rest of them, leaving her crying, in the hollow emptiness of the big classroom. Rachel hated Patrick McKeown with all her might and many was the night she
went to bed and planned delicious revenge upon him. But much as Rachel hated her vicious classmate, she hated her father far more.

Theresa Stapleton shook the flour off her hands and placed the apple crumble in the oven. She smiled to herself. Apple crumble was Ronan and Rachel’s favourite dessert
and they’d relish it. She put the kettle on to boil, made herself a cup of tea and drank it standing at the sink looking out into the garden. It really was a beautiful day, she thought. One
of the best so far this summer. A perfect day to be starting your school holidays. Maybe she’d pack up a picnic for tea and the three of them would go off down a country lane and find a nice
field with a shady tree to sit under. She wouldn’t even bother to bring the paper, Theresa decided as she glanced at the headlines. She wanted to forget about the troubles of the world.
Although it was good to see that President Johnson had signed a Civil Rights Act, containing the most sweeping civil rights law in the history of the US. Her eyes slid down the columns. There was
trouble in Algeria, an army leader rebelling against Ben Bella’s rule.

Enough! she decided. She didn’t want to read bad news today. She wasn’t in the humour for it. Usually Theresa was an avid reader of her husband’s
Irish Times
, mentally
doing the Crosaire while he was at school. She wouldn’t dream of putting down the answers. William would have a fit. It was his habit to sit with his crossword in the evening after the Rosary
and spend a pleasant hour or so stimulating his brain. He needed it, he often told her, after putting in six hours with the young hooligans he had to teach. This amused his wife although she never
let on. The children of the village of Rathbarry and its surrounding areas could in no way be considered hooligans. If he had to teach in some of the tough schools up in Dublin he might have
something to moan about. He had a cushy number as headmaster of the village school, a promotion he’d got three years ago.

You’d think from the way he carried on that he was teaching in the Bronx, Theresa reflected, sipping her tea. William loved to make out that he had a hard life instead of counting his
blessings and enjoying all the free time he had. But William was not one to enjoy himself, she thought glumly. He was very strict with the children and authoritarian towards her. He wore his title
of headmaster with great pride and dignity and was very much a ‘presence’ in the village. Unfortunately, like the Queen, who is royal twenty-four hours a day, so too was William a
headmaster twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. It was extremely wearing. Although Theresa was looking forward to having her children off school for the summer holidays, she couldn’t
say the prospect of having William under her feet all day made her dizzy with delight. Well she didn’t care. This summer was going to be the best ever for Ronan and Rachel. They were good
kids, they deserved a bit of fun out of life. So today she was going to get things off to a good start with a picnic. She was going to take them to Bray a couple of times to go to the amusement
arcades and to hell with William if he didn’t approve. Just because his mother had been very strict and he had no fun growing up as a child was no reason why his children should suffer the
same fate.

William Stapleton watched through the grimy windows of Room 6, as his daughter trudged across the school yard, head down, hands stuffed into her pockets. He shook his head and
gave an annoyed ‘tsk.’ What kind of a way was that to walk? He’d have to tell Theresa to get on to Rachel about her posture. You couldn’t slouch your way through life. It
didn’t make a good impression. He was sorry he’d had to be strict with her earlier on but he couldn’t let her away with disobedience.

He had specifically told Room 4 they were not to leave their seats and what did he find upon walking in to check up on them but his own daughter out of her seat. He
had
to punish her.
He couldn’t be seen to make a favourite out of his own child. Her classmates would be very resentful if he did. It was very difficult being a parent and headmaster to two children in the
school. His son Ronan had once accused him of
picking
on him if you don’t mind. He’d got a clip in his ear for his impudence and Theresa hadn’t spoken to William for a
week, accusing him of being too harsh.

Theresa was far too soft on the children, he mused as he closed the window with a resounding bang. She would have them destroyed if he let her do half the things she wanted to do for them.
Children had to be ruled with a firm hand. Some of the brats he had to teach were brats because they were allowed to do what they liked and go where they wanted. Well Rachel and Ronan would thank
him in years to come. They might not appreciate the discipline now but when they were married with children of their own, they’d see that it was no easy task to rear a child.

This summer they could both put in a bit of extra study, especially Rachel. That Miss O’Connor wasn’t the world’s greatest teacher as far as he could see, far too fond of
letting her class do drawings and act out little plays. Too much nature study and not enough arithmetic and grammar and Gaeilge. A few hours’ tuition by him would benefit his daughter
enormously and Master Ronan could sit in for it as well, he was much too casual in his approach to his studies.

Well this summer there’d be plenty of chores and some extra studying and at least they wouldn’t come out with that dreadful whinge, ‘I’m bored.’ There was no place
in
his
house for that sort of thing. William wiped off the blackboard with vigour and a sense of great self-satisfaction.

‘What’s wrong, love? You seem terribly down in the dumps and imagine being down in the dumps on the first day of the holidays,’ Rachel heard her mother say as
she let herself in through the back door. There was a lovely smell coming from the oven and she began to feel a little better now that she was safe at home in her own kitchen with her mother
smiling at her.

‘It’s just a bit warm,’ Rachel fibbed, wanting and yet not wanting to burden her mother with her woes.

‘Well take off that old pinafore now, you won’t have to wear it for eight whole weeks!’ Her mother smiled, ruffling Rachel’s fair curly hair. ‘I have your shorts
and a T-shirt for you up on the bed so go and get washed and put your other stuff in the dirty clothes basket for me. Then after lunch I was thinking that you and me and Ronan might go for a
picnic. It’s such a lovely day and it would be a nice start to the holliers.’

In spite of herself Rachel’s spirits began to lift. A picnic with her mother and Ronan. No school for eight weeks. With any luck she mightn’t even see Patrick McKeown for the rest of
the summer. Maybe things weren’t so bad after all. Of course her father would be home later and no doubt he’d have something to say about her bad behaviour, but at least she’d
have the picnic to look forward to after it.

‘Stop daydreaming, Rachel, and run up and get changed.’ Her mother gave her a gentle nudge.

‘I’m going, Mammy.’

Upstairs in her yellow and cream under-the-eaves bedroom, Rachel flung off her hated navy pinafore. Her mint-green shorts and a green and white striped T-shirt lay neatly on her patchwork quilt.
Her Nana Nolan had made the quilt two years ago for her sixth birthday and Rachel loved it. It was full of different-coloured squares edged with navy and yellow trim and it gave the little room a
homely rustic look. Rachel was sure her bedroom looked like Laura’s in
Little House on the Prairie
. One of her favourite books. Rachel loved to wrap herself in her quilt when the
wind was howling down the chimney in winter and pretend that she was in the little cabin on the prairie and that they were being snowed in by the blizzards. In the privacy of her bedroom, Rachel
became a different person. Sometimes she was Laura, sometimes she was a Fifth Former at St Clare’s, like her heroines from the Enid Blyton books that she got from the library every week and
that she had to hide from her father because he didn’t approve of Enid Blyton. Sometimes she was Jo out of
Little Women
. She would wrap herself in her quilt and tie string around her
middle and have a gorgeous long robe just like they had in the olden days. Rachel admired Jo enormously. She was so brave and determined and kind to a fault. Rachel envied her the love of her
father. She had felt a huge lump in her throat when she read about her heroine cutting off her hair and selling it to make some money for her poor sick father. Rachel would
never
cut off
her hair to make money for
her
father. He could die for all she cared. Sometimes she wrapped herself in her quilt robe and put one of her father’s big white handkerchiefs on her head
and pretended she was the Blessed Virgin Mary appearing at Fatima. Her dolls were a rapt audience, sitting in a row at the end of the bed, and the Blessed Virgin always had a special message for
Patrick McKeown. ‘You must tell him to mend his ways or the fires of hell will consume his immortal soul.’ The thought of Patrick McKeown and his soul being consumed by the fires of
hell cheered Rachel up enormously.

Mary Foley, the girl from down the road who sometimes played with her and who sat three rows behind her at school, thought Rachel’s bedroom was the nicest bedroom she had ever been in and
envied her hugely. Mary had to share a bedroom with two sisters and a baby brother. There wasn’t any room to play the great games that Rachel could play. It was a nice room, Rachel decided as
she untied the straps of her shoes and took off her socks. As well as her quilt-covered bed, she had a small oak wardrobe and a dressing-table. It had three mirrors that you could move backwards
and forwards and, although parts of it were chipped and stained, Rachel was able to view herself from any angle. Which was very satisfying when you were dressing up.

When she was sick enough for her father to think she could stay home from school, her mother would light a fire if it was winter. Rachel would watch the flames crackling and flickering, casting
great dancing shadows on the walls, and feel very safe and sound. Patrick McKeown and his cronies couldn’t get at her in her little haven. She sometimes longed to develop some dreadful
illness that would keep her bedridden until her schooldays were over. It was something she prayed to God for when things were very bad. So far, He had not obliged.

It was just as well she hadn’t any serious illness today though, she decided as she stuck her head out the window, otherwise she wouldn’t be able to go on the picnic. And anyway it
wouldn’t be very nice to have to spend the summer holidays in bed. It was beautiful outside. The main street was bathed in sunlight. She could see a heat haze shimmering around the church
spire at the end of the street. Flynn’s grocery shop, across the road, had a big canopy over the entrance to protect from the heat. Martin Ryan, the butcher, had one too, with a big red
stripe that could be seen a mile away from the top of Barry’s Hill. Beside them was Morrissey’s newsagents and sweet shop, where Hilda, her classmate, was allowed to use the
cash-register. In the summer, Mr Morrissey opened up the little lean-to beside the shop. In it he stocked souvenirs of every kind, for any tourists who might pass through the village. Leprechauns,
mugs with shamrocks, tea towels with
A Taste of Ireland
written on them. There was all sorts there and it gave the village an air of excitement when the lean-to was opened.