His eyes throbbed. Voices scratched in his head; all around him in the staff room, the low hum of conversation was spattered with the clink of teaspoons stirring coffee cups. He slumped over the table and wished time would stand still. His elbows slipped and pushed some papers onto the floor, reports, assessments: paperwork that would need completing tonight. He gathered them, and they rustled, dry as dead leaves, as he piled them up. He pushed his fingers into his eye sockets and rubbed hard. Penny Wray was standing behind him and she touched his shoulder. ‘Last lesson this term. Good luck.’ The klaxon sounded.
He nodded and picked up his briefcase.
He put the postcard inside the poetry book, at the right page for the lesson; he opened it and said to the class, ‘So, William Butler Yeats. “The Second Coming”.’
Someone sniggered. McNally or Fearon, no doubt. Brendan carried on, his reading-to-the-class voice a little louder. He slowed his words, tried to emphasise the most important phrases, to convey the gravitas and beauty of the language.
‘Somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs …’
A laugh vibrated, staccato machine-gun fire. Brendan looked up. ‘Kevin Fearon?’
There was a pause, a face twisted in consideration. ‘I was just thinking about the slow thighs, Sir.’
‘He is always thinking about thighs, Sir.’
Brendan tried to manage the moment with a half-smile. ‘All right, Jordan. Back to the poem. Where was I?’
‘In the middle of slow thighs, Sir.’
Laughter ricocheted; kids’ faces were masks, distorted with hilarity and he felt himself duck a little, pushing his head down into his collar. He started again. ‘Somewhere in sands …’
‘Yeats is gay, Sir.’
Brendan snapped his head towards the boy. ‘No, Gilbert, it’s believed not, Yeats married Georgiana H—’
‘Are you married, Sir?’
‘He is so; I have seen his wife, the blonde one with the big—’
‘She works in the doctor’s, my mother saw her.’
‘Now … Yeats is telling us in “The Second Coming” …’ Brendan’s heart drummed in his throat and he lifted the book. The postcard poked out from the page and Brendan pushed it back.
‘You and your missus, Sir,’ began Jordan Jelfs. ‘Do you write poems about her thighs, Sir?’
Laughter crackled again. Brendan felt sweat leak and trickle down the back of his spine.
‘Tell us about your second coming, Sir, and her soft thighs.’
‘Is she a good ride?’
Brendan put the book down on his desk and the postcard fluttered to the floor. He caught the eye of Malandra Shaw, who was applying mascara. She gave Brendan her full gaze.
‘Mr Gallagher would rather ride Miss Wray.’
The boys howled, throwing themselves back in their seats. Kevin Fearon waved his fist over his groin. ‘I don’t blame you, Sir. I could ride her too!’
‘So come on, Sir, tell us about the Miss Wray one. Does she have soft thighs?’
Brendan considered each face; the kids were rocking with delight, punching the air and looking at each other, mouths twisted in sarcasm. He brought his palm down hard on a desk. His mouth twisted and held still, a frozen grimace. He spluttered, and then the words came. ‘Shut up. Do you hear me? Just shut up, all of you.’
The room went quiet for a moment. The air prickled. Brendan felt damp under his arms, and smelled the stale sweat pooling there.
Softly, Kevin Fearon cooed: ‘Ooohh, he’s getting angry …’
There was a snigger; someone made a farting sound on their arm. Brendan was pale as the page as he walked over to Kevin’s desk and leaned over, inches from his face. Something was building inside him, a hard mass of anxiety: the son, the husband, the teacher, the total failure. His mouth was dust-dry. He licked his lips, once, like a snake. Behind his eyes a throbbing pulse was blinding his vision. He brought his hand down on the table. ‘All this has to stop. Now. It has to stop.’
His voice was raw and the edges of his words signalled a fury beyond his own control. Kevin leaned back in his seat, a smirk ready to curve on his lips, but something made him hesitate. At the back of the class, someone scraped a chair; someone else exhaled noisily.
Brendan thumped the table again, his fist bloodless. ‘Yeats is an important part of our studies,’ he began. ‘This is all going to change. Over the holidays each and every one of you will write me an essay about Yeats’ poetry. You hear me? All of you?’
He banged his fist again, twice, three times, and he was beating at his anxieties, flattening each one. All eyes were fixed on him. Brendan stood up, dizzy, and walked over to the board, pointing at a question projected in print. His voice shook, but his eyes were livid coals. He felt a pain in his hand. A nail was bent backwards and the skin was purpling.
‘Right. Right. What literary devices has Yeats used in “The Second Coming”? I want two sides of A4 paper from each of you, handed in to me the first day back after the summer break. Now, write it down in your homework diaries. In silence.’
He stared wildly around the room. Each student bent a head towards the page, writing, and some twisting up to look at the white board, each face a study of perplexed or feigned interest. Brendan bent down and picked up the postcard, his hand a palsy of nerves and triumph, and he read the handwriting again. His mother was on a beach in Brittany.
When the klaxon sounded and the students left, one or two bumping into desks as they went, Brendan collected the papers together and pushed them deep into his briefcase.
‘Happy holidays, Brendan,’ Penny Wray said when she came into the classroom, cool and confident in her shorts and T-shirt. Brendan’s face flushed violet. It occurred to him that he would not see her for several weeks. He breathed deeply and forced out the question that had popped into his mouth and filled it like cement.
‘Are you away for the summer, Penny?’
She grinned. ‘I’m off to Mexico. And you?’
He shrugged. ‘No plans. Not really.’ He looked at her, all white shorts and glowing skin, and tried again. ‘So, will you go to Mexico with a boyfriend?’
She turned away and picked up his copy of W.B. Yeats, examined the cover and put it down again. ‘It will be a sporting holiday. Snorkelling, sailing, sunbathing.’
Brendan almost said he wished he could come along. ‘Sounds perfect,’ he mumbled.
She grinned at him. ‘Will I email you some photos then? The scenery’s lovely. I’ve been there five times before.’
He nodded and wondered again if her offer of friendship could have been something more. He was aware that his shirt held the stench of sweat. She sat at his desk, crossing her legs, and he swallowed. She had a newspaper in her hand and was unfolding it. Her ponytail swished and she flicked the pages.
‘Look,’ she said, pointing at an advertisement. ‘I’ve found us new jobs. Here – this one would suit me perfectly. In charge of sports, just in the north of the city. And this is the job for you. A pastoral post in St Cillian’s. The application date is this week. It’s just up your street. You’d be great at it.’
Brendan followed her finger and read the print. A new job in a new school. Penny was right, it was what he needed, and he would apply. They would find different schools and have different lives and she would not miss him. But perhaps change was just what he needed.