The Physics Theatre was full, the seats rising in stairs to the back, and the waiting crowd shouting and beginning to grow restless when a white-coated attendant entered with some apparatus for an experiment. The restlessness became directed at the little attendant. He was loudly cheered down to the table, feet were stamped, the theatre close to a football match when the lecturer red with fury appeared.
In a second dead silence fell.
“I won’t tolerate hooliganism in my class now or at any other time,” the lecturer, small with glasses, thundered, and there wasn’t even a stirring of feet.
It was strange, the sudden deadly silence in place of the shouting, and his fury too big in some way for the small man with the glasses, several of the students who were dumb now could have taken him in their hands and thrown him out the window.
“I’ll tolerate no hooliganism in my class,” the small lecturer who would teach physics through Irish and who’d told them in the previous class that he’d found no difficulty in following lectures in Germany once he’d got over the initial newness of the language, and he saw no reason why they shouldn’t be able to do the same through Irish, shouted again from the table, and it suddenly seemed too comic, the huge hooliganism too big in his mouth, and the students roaring a minute ago, quiet as mice before him, and you made the mistake of smiling.
“Get out you,” he pointed.
Whoever was next you stood.
“No. Not you. The gentleman on your left.”
It couldn’t be, you were suddenly bewildered, but stood expecting it to be someone else.
“What’s your name?”
The room swam, you were hardly able to answer, there was sense of bewildering unreality, everyone must be looking at you. You’d been quiet, but why had you to cursed smile.
“Get out. I won’t take hooliganism in my class now or at any other time.”
Awkwardly you got out of the bench, the others standing to make way, and you were alone on the wooden steps of the passage without strength to climb, sense of that mass to your left staring at you, and the shock and shame. You wanted to weep when you’d got through the door, it had happened too quick to comprehend, the shock was too sudden, and you stood dazed on the quadrangle in the rain.
“The pompous little fucker and hooliganism filling his mouth,” but why had this cursed shame and misfortune to fall on you before any of the others. On the wet tarmacadam you went at snail’s pace towards the archway, trying to go over what had happened, and the crippling flush of shame when you did, over and over as you went on towards the archway.
“Is there something wrong?” an older student approached in the archway.
“He threw me out of the Physics class,” it was relief to tell.
“Was it Brady?”
“Yes.”
“He always does that at the beginning of every year, what did he fire you for?”
“There was a racket when he came in and I smiled or something after the rest were stopped. I hadn’t been doing a thing before,” you were hardly able to get it out, but you had fierce need.
“Did he ask your name?”
“He did. Does that make any difference?”
“You’ll have to apologize to him and ask him to allow you back.”
“And is it serious?”
“Brady always fires someone at the start of the year.”
“Does he let them back?”
“He does. The only thing you’d want to watch is that he doesn’t fire you again. If he happened to get his knife in you, you might as well clear out.”
“When could you apologize?”
“Before or after some class. If I were you I’d leave it till tomorrow though. He’ll let you back all right. He proves himself like this every year.”
You went down the tarmacadam, Brady’s cursed class in progress to your right, cut under the drips of the green oaks along University Road. The tar shone in the rain. The town faced you, smoke mixed in the rain above the houses. You’d to make up your mind. Either to go and apologize to Brady and face three years cramming here or go to Dublin to the job. It wasn’t Brady drove you, you’d go and crawl for him if it was worth it, only a fool stood up, you could go and crawl and savage him after if you got the chance and wanted still. But maybe it was the fall of the dice, you were meant to go, and if anything happened here there was no one to turn to, not Mahoney. It was better to go and it’d be better to do it at once and tell Mahoney.
In the post office near Moon’s Corner you wasted several telegram forms till you were finally satisfied with,
WANT TO TAKE E.S.B. AND LEAVE UNI., WILL WAIT FOR YOUR CONSENT
They said at the counter that he’d have it in about two hours.
30
MAHONEY CAME THE NEXT MORNING, FULL OF A SENSE OF drama. There was an important decision to be made. He’d play in it to the last.
“You want to leave?”
“I do.”
“Well, we’ll have to think about it, a rash decision now could cause your whole life to regret it. We’ll have to discuss it, get advice about it, only fools rush rashly.”
The suitcase was in your father’s hand, it was weird or strange walking with him in Eyre Square, this older man might as well not be father at all, and children were chanting Eena meena-mina-mo, Catch a nigger by the toe, outside the green railings.
“I thought you wanted to be a doctor?”
“No. The course is too long. The Scholarship only lasts four years, the fees are too high. It’d be impossible on the Scholarship.”
“That’s to be considered alright,” a lot of the swagger disappeared, it was no longer a play, it might involve forking out money.
“With the E.S.B., I’d be earning money straight away,” you’d learned long ago the kind of reasons to present, no use giving your own reasons, but reasons closest to where it touched Mahoney.
“We’ll have to take everything into consideration. After I got the telegram I dressed up and went in to see Brother Benedict. He said that under no circumstances should I allow you leave. He said you had a brilliant career in front of you at the University, and that you’d rot in an office. That’s one opinion. What we’ll have to do is thrash the whole thing out, and come to the best decision, so that there be no regrets after.”
He was impatient of any interruption, he gesticulated violently as well as raising his voice to drown the one attempt you made to say that you’d already decided. You’d take the E.S.B. and it’d be your own decision.
“But what we’ll have to get first is something to eat. An empty bag can’t stand never mind think. After we see to the inner man we’ll see what way the road lies.”
Over the meal in the restaurant he aired it.
“This lad of mine wants to leave the University and go to the E.S.B. It has me worried. It’s hard to know what way to advise.”
“A steady job has a lot to be said for it. He might waste years at the University and not do as good at the heel of the hunt. Drinking and dancing is what some of them I see are best qualified for on leaving here,” a little man in a tweed suit, spectacles on his nose, who was in the Good’s Store of the railway station, voiced.
“The E.S.B. is the same as a government job, it can’t go down. He’d have a pay straight away, an increment every year, his chances for promotion, and a pension. In no time he’d be able to settle down and have his own little home,” was Mrs. Ridge’s contribution.
“I don’t agree with that, he’s young, he’s plenty of time to worry about security. At his age he should take a chance. It’s the only interesting thing to do,” a young policeman, who was obviously dissatisfied with his own position, contradicted.