The Young Rebels Read Free Page A

how to use a telephone, John Joe?’ the Head inquires.
    ‘I do not know how, sir.’
    ‘Here, I’ll show you.’
    Then the Head leaves me alone in his office so I can have privacy. This will be the first time I’ve ever placed a telephone call. The telephone is not a toy. Children are not permitted to use one. Even big boys who smoke store-bought cigarettes and ride their bicycles into the centre of Dublin have never used a telephone.
    I feel quite grown up, making a telephone call in the Headmaster’s office.
    Facing the front windows is a big desk piled high with papers. The desk is surrounded on three sides by bookcases overflowing with books. More books are stacked on the floor. The whole room smells of them, a paper-and-leather smell. It’s very quiet in here, too, with a great feeling of…peace, I guess. Peace is as soft as dust, as comforting as cushions.
    After I ask the telephone operator to connect me, I have to wait a long time until Aunt Nell comes on the line. The first thing she says is ‘What’s wrong?’ in her sharp voice. She often begins conversations with those words, as if something must always be wrong.
    ‘I want to know how Mam is.’
    ‘She’s in good form,’ my aunt replies, but she says it too quickly. I know she’s lying. They must think I’m stupid. The Head doesn’t think I’m stupid, he trusts me to use the telephone by myself.
    ‘If she’s in good form, may I come home?’
    ‘You’ll stay right where you are, John Joe. The fee has been paid and that’s all there is to it.’
    ‘Please, Aunt Nell, can’t I at least–’ The instrument goes click. Then it makes a sound like a fingernail on a blackboard.
    I stand holding the receiver in my hand. I want to scream at it.
    Instead I begin grabbing up the papers on the deskand throwing them around the room. Some I wad into balls and hurl at the windows. When I have papers all over the floor I begin with the books.
    I don’t even notice the Headmaster enter the room until he’s standing right beside me. I freeze. He’s going to do what any teacher would do, march me outside and beat the living tar out of me with an ash plant. He can never make me cry, though. My father taught me that. If I cried, my father kept on hitting me until I stopped. ‘That’s how to make a man of you,’ he claimed.
    I double my fists and glare up at the Head.
    ‘When you are finished here, John Joe, and have it all out of your system,’ he says calmly, ‘please gather up the papers and books and put them where you found them.’
    Then he turns and walks out of the room. Leaving me alone.
    I don’t understand this man.
     
    The Head has taken our class himself this morning. He is talking of the future and how to prepare ourselves for it. ‘Some of you boys might consider teaching as a profession,’ he tells us. ‘It is among the highest of callings. A teacher takes a grave responsibility upon himself: the moulding of the mostsensitive of all God’s creations: a human mind.
    ‘It is essential that the teacher understand the world of his pupils. For example, a teacher in the Infant School should show a keen interest in the puppies and kittens the children have at home. In Primary School the teacher of boys should be thoroughly aware of the rules for marbles and leap-frog, while a teacher of girls should know how to skip rope and care for dolls. A Secondary School teacher needs to be comfortable with hurling and football, or baking and dressmaking.’
    I never heard of a teacher taking any interest in the things that interested his pupils before. Maybe I could be a teacher someday.
    My father would hate that. He doesn’t think teachers make enough money, which is true, I suppose. Most of those who teach here work at other jobs as well. The Head does a lot of writing and editing for magazines and periodicals.
    It’s hard to explain about the Headmaster of St Enda’s. Boys tend to think of teachers as the enemy because they prevent us from