THE IDEALIST I don’t know how it is about education, but it never seemed to do anything for me but get me into trouble. Adventure stories weren’t so bad, but as a kid I was very serious and preferred realism to romance. School stories were what I liked best, and, judged by our standards, these were romantic enough for anyone. The schools were English, so I suppose you couldn’t expect anything else. They were always called “the venerable pile,” and there was usually a ghost in them; they were built in a square that was called “the quad,” and, according to the pictures, they were all clock-towers, spires, and pinnacles, like the lunatic asylum with us. The fellows in the stories were all good climbers, and got in and out of school at night on ropes made of knotted sheets. They dressed queerly; they wore long trousers, short, black jackets, and top hats. Whenever they did anything wrong they were given “lines” in Latin. When it was a bad case, they were flogged and never showed any sign of pain; only the bad fellows, and they always said: “Ow! Ow!” Most of them were grand chaps who always stuck together and were great at football and cricket. They never told lies and wouldn’t talk to anyone who did. If they were caught out and asked a point-blank question, they always told the truth, unless someone else was with them, and then even if they were to be expelled for it they wouldn’t give his name, even if he was a thief, which, as a matter of fact, he frequently was. It was surprising in such good schools, with fathers who never gave less than five quid, the number of thieves there were. The fellows in our school hardly ever stole, though they only got a penny a week, and sometimes not even that, as when their fathers were on the booze and their mothers had to go to the pawn. I worked hard at the football and cricket, though of course we never had a proper football and the cricket we played was with a hurley stick against a wicket chalked on some wall. The officers in the barrack played proper cricket, and on summer evenings I used to go and watch them, like one of the souls in Purgatory watching the joys of Paradise. Even so, I couldn’t help being disgusted at the bad way things were run in our school. Our “venerable pile” was a redbrick building without tower or pinnacle a fellow could climb, and no ghost at all: we had no team, so a fellow, no matter how hard he worked, could never play for the school, and, instead of giving you “lines,” Latin or any other sort, Murderer Moloney either lifted you by the ears or bashed you with a cane. When he got tired of bashing you on the hands he bashed you on the legs. But these were only superficial things. What was really wrong was ourselves. The fellows sucked up to the masters and told them all that went on. If they were caught out in anything they tried to put the blame on someone else, even if it meant telling lies. When they were caned they snivelled and said it wasn’t fair; drew back their hands as if they were terrified, so that the cane caught only the tips of their fingers, and then screamed and stood on one leg, shaking out their fingers in the hope of getting it counted as one. Finally they roared that their wrist was broken and crawled back to their desks with their hands squeezed under their armpits, howling. I mean you couldn’t help feeling ashamed, imagining what chaps from a decent school would think if they saw it. My own way to school led me past the barrack gate. In those peaceful days sentries never minded you going past the guardroom to have a look at the chaps drilling in the barrack square; if you came at dinnertime they even called you in and gave you plumduff and tea. Naturally, with such temptations I was often late. The only excuse, short of a letter from your mother, was to say you were at early Mass. The Murderer would never know whether you were or not, and if he did anything to you you could easily get him into trouble with the parish priest. Even as kids we knew who the real boss of the school was. But after I started reading those confounded school stories I was never happy about saying I had been to Mass. It was a lie, and I knew that the chaps in the stories would have died sooner than tell it. They were all round me like invisible presences, and I hated to do anything which I felt they might disapprove of. One morning I came in very late and rather frightened. “What kept you till this hour, Delaney?” Murderer Moloney asked, looking at the clock. I wanted to say I had been at Mass, but I couldn’t. The invisible presences were all about me. “I was delayed at the barrack, sir,” I replied in panic. There was a faint titter from the class, and Moloney raised his brows in mild surprise. He was a big powerful man with fair hair and blue eyes and a manner that at times was deceptively mild. “Oh, indeed,” he said, politely enough. “And what delayed you?” “I was watching the soldiers drilling, sir,” I said. The class tittered again. This was a new line entirely for them. “Oh,” Moloney said casually, “I never knew you were such a military man. Hold out your hand!” Compared with the laughter the slaps were nothing, and besides, I had the example of the invisible presences to sustain me. I did not flinch. I returned to my desk slowly and quietly without snivelling or squeezing my hands, and the Murderer looked after me, raising his brows again as though to indicate that this was a new line for him, too. But the others gaped and whispered as if I were some strange animal. At playtime they gathered about me, full of curiosity and excitement. “Delaney, why did you say that about the barrack?” “Because ’twas true,” I replied firmly. “I wasn’t going to tell him a lie.” “What lie?” “That I was at Mass.” “Then couldn’t you say you had to go on a message?” “That would be a lie too.” “Cripes, Delaney,” they said, “you’d better mind yourself. The Murderer is in an awful wax. He’ll massacre you.” I knew that. I knew only too well that the Murderer’s professional pride had been deeply wounded, and for the rest of the day I was on my best behaviour. But my best wasn’t enough, for I underrated the Murderer’s guile. Though he pretended to be reading, he was watching me the whole time. “Delaney,” he said at last without raising his head from the book, “was that you talking?” “’Twas, sir,” I replied in consternation. The whole class laughed. They couldn’t believe but that I was deliberately trailing my coat, and, of course, the laugh must have convinced him that I was. I suppose if people do tell you lies all day and every day, it soon becomes a sort of perquisite which you resent being deprived of. “Oh,” he said, throwing down his book, “we’ll soon stop that.” This time it was a tougher job, because he was really on his mettle. But so was I. I knew this was the testing-point for me, and if only I could keep my head I should provide a model for the whole class. When I had got through the ordeal without moving a muscle, and returned to my desk with my hands by my sides, the invisible presences gave me a great clap. But the visible ones were nearly as annoyed as the Murderer himself. After school half a dozen of them followed me down the school yard. “Go on!” they shouted truculently. “Shaping as usual!” “I was not shaping.” “You were shaping. You’re always showing off. Trying to pretend he didn’t hurt you—a blooming crybaby like you!” “I wasn’t trying to pretend,” I shouted, even then resisting the temptation to nurse my bruised hands. “Only decent fellows don’t cry over every little pain like kids.” “Go on!” they bawled after me. “You ould idiot!” And, as I went down the school lane, still trying to keep what the stories called “a stiff upper lip,” and consoling myself with the thought that my torment was over until next morning, I heard their mocking voices after me. “Loony Larry! Yah, Loony Larry!” I realized that if I was to keep on terms with the invisible presences I should have to watch my step at school. So I did, all through that year. But one day an awful thing happened. I was coming in from the yard, and in the porch outside our schoolroom I saw a fellow called Gorman taking something from a coat on the rack. I always described Gorman to myself as “the black sheep of the school.” He was a fellow I disliked and feared; a handsome, sulky, spoiled, and sneering lout. I paid no attention to him because I had escaped for a few moments into my dream-world in which fathers never gave less than fivers and the honour of the school was always saved by some quiet, unassuming fellow like myself—“a dark horse,” as the stories called him. “Who are you looking at?” Gorman asked threateningly. “I wasn’t looking at anyone,” I replied with an indignant start. “I was only getting a pencil out of my coat,” he added, clenching his fists. “Nobody said you weren’t,” I replied, thinking that this was a very queer subject to start a row about. “You’d better not, either,” he snarled. “You can mind your own business.” “You mind yours!” I retorted, purely for the purpose of saving face. “I never spoke to you at all.” And that, so far as I was concerned, was the end of it. But after playtime the Murderer, looking exceptionally serious, stood before the class, balancing a pencil in both hands. “Everyone who left the classroom this morning, stand out!” he called. Then he lowered his head and looked at us from under his brows. “Mind now, I said everyone!” I stood out with the others, including Gorman. We were all very puzzled. “Did you take anything from a coat on the rack this morning?” the Murderer asked, laying a heavy, hairy paw on Gorman’s shoulder and staring menacingly into his eyes. “Me, sir?” Gorman exclaimed innocently. “No, sir.” “Did you see anyone else doing it?” “No, sir.” “You?” he asked another lad, but even before he reached me at all I realized why Gorman had told the lie and wondered frantically what I should do. “You?” he asked me, and his big red face was close to mine, his blue eyes were only a few inches away, and the smell of his toilet soap was in my nostrils. My panic made me say the wrong thing as though I had planned it. “T didn’t take anything, sir,” I said in a low voice. “Did you see someone else do it?” he asked, raising his brows and showing quite plainly that he had noticed my evasion. “Have you a tongue in your head?” he shouted suddenly, and the whole class, electrified, stared at me. “You?” he added curtly to the next boy as though he had lost interest in me. “No, sir.” “Back to your desks, the rest of you!” he ordered. “Delaney, you stay here.” He waited till everyone was seated again before going on. “Turn out your pockets.” I did, and a half-stifled giggle rose, which the Murderer quelled with a thunderous glance. Even for a small boy I had pockets that were museums in themselves: the purpose of half the things I brought to light I couldn’t have explained myself. They were antiques, prehistoric and unlabelled. Among them was a school story borrowed the previous evening from a queer fellow who chewed paper as if it were gum. The Murderer reached out for it, and holding it at arm’s length, shook it out with an expression of deepening disgust as he noticed the nibbled corners and margins. “Oh,” he said disdainfully, “so this is how you waste your time! What do you do with this rubbish—eat it?” “’Tisn’t mine, sir,” I said against the laugh that sprang up. “I borrowed it.” “Is that what you did with the money?” he asked quickly, his fat head on one side. “Money?” I repeated in confusion. “What money?” “The shilling that was stolen from Flanagan’s overcoat this morning.” (Flanagan was a little hunchback whose people coddled him; no one else in the school would have possessed that much money.) “I never took Flanagan’s shilling,” I said, beginning to cry, “and you have no right to say I did.” “I have the right to say you’re the most impudent and defiant puppy in the school,” he replied, his voice hoarse with rage, “and I wouldn’t put it past you. What else can anyone expect and you reading this dirty, rotten, filthy rubbish?” And he tore my school story in halves and flung them to the furthest corner of the classroom. “Dirty, filthy, English rubbish! Now, hold out your hand.” This time the invisible presences deserted me. Hearing themselves described in these contemptuous terms, they fled. The Murderer went mad in the way people do whenever they’re up against something they don’t understand. Even the other fellows were shocked, and, heaven knows, they had little sympathy with me. “You should put the police on him,” they advised me later in the playground. “He lifted the cane over his shoulder. He could get the gaol for that.” “But why didn’t you say you didn’t see anyone?” asked the eldest, a fellow called Spillane. “Because I did,” I said, beginning to sob all over again at the memory of my wrongs. “I saw Gorman.” “Gorman?” Spillane echoed incredulously. “Was it Gorman took Flanagan’s money? And why didn’t you say so?” “Because it wouldn’t be right,” I sobbed. “Why wouldn’t it be right?” “Because Gorman should have told the truth himself,” I said. “And if this was a proper school he’d be sent to Coventry.” “He’d be sent where?” “Coventry. No one would ever speak to him again.” “But why would Gorman tell the truth if he took the money?” Spillane asked as you’d speak to a baby. “Jay, Delaney,” he added pityingly, “you’re getting madder and madder. Now, look at what you’re after bringing on yourself!” Suddenly Gorman came lumbering up, red and angry. “Delaney,” he shouted threateningly, “did you say I took Flanagan’s money?” Gorman, though I of course didn’t realize it, was as much at sea as Moloney and the rest. Seeing me take all that punishment rather than give him away, he concluded that I must be more afraid of him than of Moloney, and that the proper thing to do was to make me more so. He couldn’t have come at a time when I cared less for him. I didn’t even bother to reply but lashed out with all my strength at his brutal face. This was the last thing he expected. He screamed, and his hand came away from his face, all blood. Then he threw off his satchel and came at me, but at the same moment a door opened behind us and a lame teacher called Murphy emerged. We all ran like mad and the fight was forgotten. It didn’t remain forgotten, though. Next morning after prayers the Murderer scowled at me. “Delaney, were you fighting in the yard after school yesterday?” For a second or two I didn’t reply. I couldn’t help feeling that it wasn’t worth it. But before the invisible presences fled forever, I made another effort. “I was, sir,” I said, and this time there wasn’t even a titter. I was out of my mind. The whole class knew it and was awe-stricken. “Who were you fighting?” “I’d sooner not say, sir,” I replied, hysteria beginning to well up in me. It was all very well for the invisible presences, but they hadn’t to deal with the Murderer. “Who was he fighting with?” he asked lightly, resting his hands on the desk and studying the ceiling. “Gorman, sir,” replied three or four voices—as easy as that! “Did Gorman hit him first?” “No, sir. He hit Gorman first.” “Stand out,” he said, taking up the cane. “Now,” he added, going up to Gorman, “you take this and hit him. And make sure you hit him hard,” he went on, giving Gorman’s arm an encouraging squeeze. “He thinks he’s a great fellow. You show him now what we think of him.” Gorman came towards me with a broad grin. He thought it a great joke. The class thought it a great joke. They began to roar with laughter. Even the Murderer permitted himself a modest grin at his own cleverness. “Hold out your hand,” he said to me. I didn’t. I began to feel trapped and a little crazy. “Hold out your hand, I say,” he shouted, beginning to lose his temper. “I will not,” I shouted back, losing all control of myself. “You what?” he cried incredulously, dashing at me round the classroom with his hand raised as though to strike me. “What’s that you said, you dirty little thief?” “I’m not a thief, I’m not a thief,” I screamed. “And if he comes near me I’ll kick the shins off him. You have no right to give him that cane, and you have no right to call me a thief either. If you do it again, I’ll go down to the police and then we’ll see who the thief is.” “You refused to answer my questions,” he roared, and if I had been in my right mind I should have known he had suddenly taken fright; probably the word “police” had frightened him. “No,” I said through my sobs, “and I won’t answer them now either. I’m not a spy.” “Oh,” he retorted with a sarcastic sniff, “so that’s what you call a spy, Mr. Delaney?” “Yes, and that’s what they all are, all the fellows here—dirty spies!—but I’m not going to be a spy for you. You can do your own spying.” “That’s enough now, that’s enough!” he said, raising his fat hand almost beseechingly. “There’s no need to lose control of yourself, my dear young fellow, and there’s no need whatever to screech like that. ’Tis most unmanly. Go back to your seat now and I’ll talk to you another time.” I obeyed, but I did no work. No one else did much either. The hysteria had spread to the class. I alternated between fits of exultation at my own successful defiance of the Murderer, and panic at the prospect of his revenge; and at each change of mood I put my face in my hands and sobbed again. The Murderer didn’t even order me to stop. He didn’t so much as look at me. After that I was the hero of the school for the whole afternoon. Gorman tried to resume the fight, but Spillane ordered him away contemptuously—a fellow who had taken the master’s cane to another had no status. But that wasn’t the sort of hero I wanted to be. I preferred something less sensational. Next morning I was in such a state of panic that I didn’t know how I should face school at all. I dawdled, between two minds as to whether or not I should mitch. The silence of the school lane and yard awed me. I had made myself late as well. “What kept you, Delaney?” the Murderer asked quietly. I knew it was no good. “I was at Mass, sir.” “All right. Take your seat.” He seemed a bit surprised. What I had not realized was the incidental advantage of our system over the English one. By this time half a dozen of his pets had brought the Murderer the true story of Flanagan’s shilling, and if he didn’t feel a monster he probably felt a fool. But by that time I didn’t care. In my school sack I had another story. Not a school story this time, though. School stories were a washout. “Bang! Bang!”—that was the only way to deal with men. like the Murderer. “The only good teacher is a dead teacher.” (1949)