The Dead School Read Free

bath was history and there was nothing now only the protestants across the way singing ‘The Lord is My Shepherd’ and every bell in the town ringing out to call
the devout to their respective places of worship. Sunday morning was the best morning of the week, the best by a long shot. And Malachy wasn’t the only one who loved it either. Another great
fan of the Sunday Morning was Packie Dudgeon, who whistled a little tune as he made inroads into his white beard of foam in front of the shaving mirror and said, ‘Man, Malachy, if
there’s one morning in the week I love, it’s Sunday morning! Sunday morning every time!’ He grinned when he said that, then wiped the razor with a towel and went on whistling his
tune. Malachy was as busy as a beaver too, brushing his jacket and knotting his tie and combing his hair. Then it was on to the polishing of the shoes and as usual he had to keep at them until you
could see your face in them. ‘I want to be able to see that old phizzog of yours in them!’ Cissie would say. ‘And if I can’t, don’t think I wouldn’t make you go
and do them all over again for I would – and make no mistake about it!’ But she needn’t have worried. She didn’t have to worry in the slightest for he was polishing away to
beat the band and by the time he was finished, they were like mirrors the pair of them. Then it was off out to the scullery with her, rattling pans and breaking eggs and doing God knows what as she
got the breakfast ready. The smell of rashers would make your mouth water. Was it any wonder they loved Sunday mornings? Bacon sizzling and eggs spitting and Cissie slicing away at her cakes of
soda bread and making sure that you were going to have the breakfast of a lifetime. And so you would, once you were back from chapel.
    But now it was time to get going, yes now it was time to hit the high road and off up the hill to say your prayers to Jesus. Packie squirted a bit of aftershave on himself and called into the
kitchen, ‘Are you right there, Malachy me son – I daresay it’s near time we were making tracks. We don’t want to keep The Man Above waiting now, do we?’ ‘Indeed
we do not,’ replied Malachy, and, fixing his nutmeg-knot tie just one last time, headed off out the front door, hand in hand with the one and only Packie Dudgeon, his father. Cissie
didn’t bother coming with them because she had already gone to early Mass as she always did. ‘To make sure I have a good big breakfast ready and waiting for my two wee men when they get
home!’ as she said. Boy, did Packie like that! On the way up the street, he rubbed his hands and turned to Malachy as he said, ‘What do you say, son? Isn’t she a good one? Now
when all’s said and done you have to hand it to her. There’s not many women in this town would have a breakfast like that waiting for you when you come home. There’s times I think
I’m not going to be able for the half of it, do you know that! Enough to feed a blooming army, she says! Am I right, son?’
    Malachy said that he was. No, he said he sure was, for he knew only too well from past experience just how hard it was to get through all the stuff she heaped on your plate. There were
times when he was only able for quarter of it! Not that he was complaining of course! He most certainly was not! It would be a long time before you would ever hear a word of complaint out of Packie
or Malachy Dudgeon about Cissie Dudgeon’s breakfasts!
    And so here they were on Sunday morning, strolling through the bright and colourful streets of the town with the warm breeze blowing and Michael O’Hehir the football commentator sweeping
out of every window, getting so excited that you thought he was going to lose his mind. ‘Yes! He’s going through! Thirty yards out! Twenty yards out! Ten yards out! Oh my God!
It’s high! Yes it’s high and it’s – over the bar !’ Half the time you thought he was going to burst into tears or just go