The Young Rebels Read online

  If – I mean when – she gets stronger, I should like to bring her out here. Maybe the Pearses would give her a room with windows looking toward the mountains. In such a serene setting, I just know she would get well.

  When the lilacs bloom I could bring her armloads of blossom for her room. Lilac is her favourite scent.

  CHAPTER TWO

  OCTOBER 1913

  The Headmaster of St Enda’s takes in strays.

  In August there was a lockout in the city as the result of a labour union strike, and a riot resulted. Several of the workers were killed by the police. Their leader, a man called Larkin, was arrested. The government ordered the schools to refuse admittance to his children, but our Head ignored the order. One of the Larkin boys is in my dormitory. I wonder how he felt about his father’s arrest. That’s almost as bad as having a sick mother, I guess.

  After a few weeks Mr Larkin was released on bail. His son says he’s gone to England to raise funds for the men who are locked out. While he’s away a man called James Connolly is taking over as leader of the workers. None of his boys is in school here, though. Roger says that’s just as well, because there are enough ‘working class’ boys at St Enda’s already.

  The Head doesn’t like us to talk about someone’s ‘class’. I don’t know why. Other people discuss it all the time.

  He really does take in strays. All sorts of injured creatures find their way here, and we boys are expected to take care of them. ‘The only boy ever expelled from this school was made to leave because he hurt a cat,’ one of my classmates tells me.

  I’ve never had a pet. My father doesn’t want the mess and trouble of animals in the house.

  The Head’s brother shows us how to splint a bird’s broken leg using a drinking straw. ‘Remember that this little bird is one of God’s creations just as you are,’ he says.

  I stare down at the little bird, who is opening and closing its beak very rapidly. I never thought of an animal as a living creation of God before.

  Caring for the bird with the broken leg falls to me. I’m delighted with myself when it begins to get well. Maybe I can be a doctor someday. If I am, I’ll never cause pain to anyone.

  There is a telephone in the Headmaster’s office. One must ask permission to use it. I apply to the Head’s mother, a plump, grey-haired lady with a soft voice and a sweet smile. ‘My Mam is quite ill and I want to ring home,’ I explain.

  ‘Bless you, lad, of course you do. And so you shall.’ Before she escorts me to the Headmaster’s office she gives me a quick hug. I’m not used to being hugged and don’t know how to react. She smells of soap and lavender water.

  The Headmaster is seated behind his desk, writing in a large book. He stands up when his mother enters the room. She explains the situation, then leaves us alone together. I wish she would stay but don’t dare ask, it would make me sound like a baby.

  ‘Do you know 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 desk and 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 most sensitive 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 doing things we want to do. When the father of one of the day pupils came out to the school yesterday, I happened to overhear a conversation between him and the Head as they stood in the front passage. ‘My son has no interest in books or study,’ the man was complaining. ‘All he wants to do is make the most appalling noise on an old tin-whistle he found somewhere. What am I to do with the little good-for-nothing?’

  ‘The answer is obvious,’ the Head replied quite seriously. ‘Buy him a good tin-whistle.’

  Without asking permission, another boy has taken several old wooden shutters and built himself a sort of hideaway out in the woods. When the Head finds out about it he sends Willie into the city to purchase some timber and sheets of tin. ‘Every man should know how to build a house for himself,’ says the Head.

  We boys are put to work sawing the timber into little planks and cutting tiny nails and door hinges from the tin. Then we are shown how to draw up plans for building houses. By spring, each of us will have completed an entire miniature house, including making bits of furniture. I never thought I could do such a thing, but I can. We all can.

  The Headmaster is not our enemy.

 
Today we’re writing compositions. When I turn mine in, the teacher comments, ‘You could improve this by being a bit more lyrical.’

  When I ask Mr MacDonagh for a definition of lyrical, he replies with a smile, ‘Lyrical is what makes your heart sing’.

  The only thing I can think of that makes my heart sing is hot porridge on a cold morning. Does that mean porridge is lyrical?

  I’m also studying Latin and maths and literature, but my favourite class is History because it’s full of battles and great deeds. Not English history, which is all I was taught in National School, but Irish history. The history of Ireland goes back thousands of years, long before there was any writing. History was passed down from generation to generation by the druids, who memorised everything. The Head says that each time a history book is written changes are made, but when something is memorised – it took the druids as much as twenty years of study – it is carved on the mind and almost impossible to change.

  We boys can speak English outside of class, but when one of our teachers praises us – which they often do, surprisingly – it’s always in Irish. It’s amazing how quickly one can learn a language in order to hear good things about oneself.

  Mr MacDonagh instructs us in what he calls ‘our native tongue’. He says we’re all part of one family, the Irish family. Even Roger, I suppose, though it’s hard to think of Roger as a brother. It’s a funny thing about Roger, though. He’s very good at maths; he can calculate huge sums in his head. When I have trouble with multiplication he shows me an easy shortcut.

  I guess I can’t call him names in my head any more.

  One day Mr MacDonagh brings a photo album to the school to show us pictures of his pretty wife and young children. He’s very proud of his children, and tells us delightful stories about them.

  I wonder if my father is proud of me? He certainly never shows it. Everything I do is wrong, according to him.

  I’m convinced that Thomas MacDonagh has eyes in the back of his head, hidden in his curly hair. He can be standing at the blackboard with his back turned to the class and suddenly say, ‘Do not pick your nose, John Joe.’

  How can he tell?

  To his credit, he doesn’t go banging on about it. One correction should be enough; that’s the policy at St Enda’s. It’s funny how well it works.

  Mr MacDonagh has a mischievous side, too. He enjoys playing pranks as much as we do. The Head is too dignified for pranks, yet I’ve heard him laugh out loud at the jokes Mr MacDonagh tells.

  The Head has a wonderful laugh, a deep warm rumble that comes right up from his belly. It makes one feel good just to hear it.

  In Irish the word for Headmaster is Ardmháistir.

  The Ardmháistir has a friend called Constance, Countess Markievicz, who is the wife of a Polish nobleman. She herself is Irish. Well, Anglo-Irish. Upper Class, the Ascendancy and all of that. Her family has estates in Sligo, but she doesn’t live the life I imagine other wealthy women do. She’s very involved with the labour movement. Together with a man called Bulmer Hobson, four years ago she founded an Irish boy scout troop. She named it Na Fianna Éireann, after the army of Fionn Mac Cumhaill. I didn’t know who Fionn was until I came here, they never told us about him in the National School.

  A company of the Fianna has been organised at St Enda’s by a young apprentice teacher called Con Colbert. Most of the students here belong to it. I’ve watched them drilling like real soldiers on the playing field and they look terribly serious, but one can tell they’re having great fun.

  I want to join the Fianna, but Con Colbert says I have to have permission from home first. I shall write the letter tonight.

  Roger says he’s going to write one too, and asks me how many ‘esses’ there are in the word ‘permission’. Maybe he can do maths, but I can spell.

  After several days I receive a reply to my letter. It’s not from my father, though. Aunt Nell writes that my request is denied because my mother is afraid I might be hurt. Mam doesn’t understand the kind of things boys like to do. She wants to keep me wrapped in cotton wool.

  She’s the one who needs to be wrapped in cotton wool.

  My mother’s not getting any better. The Ardmháistir lets me ring home whenever I want, but no one will tell me what’s happening with her. I knew they wouldn’t. They will have to let me come home for Christmas, though. Then I shall learn the truth.

  Meanwhile I am learning other things. I was wrong about the Ardmháistir. He appears stuffy, but he isn’t, not really. I think that’s only the face he wears because it’s expected of him. He takes his meals in the family dining room with his mother and sisters, but sometimes he joins us in the refectory afterward. He’s not nearly so serious then. He leaves off his academic robe and sits with us in his shirtsleeves, as if he’s just another boy. He knows wonderful stories about ancient heroes and can recite reams of poetry by heart. Once or twice he even joins us in a sing-song.

  The Ardmháistir writes plays, too. We are going to put one on here later this month. Some of his plays have been produced in the Abbey Theatre, with boys from this school acting the parts. I would like to be in one of the plays but my Irish isn’t good enough. I’m improving, though. Mr MacDonagh says I have an ear for languages.

  My own family would never say such a thing to me. They’re afraid I would get above my station.

  The Ardmháistir says if Ireland was a republic we wouldn’t have such things as ‘class’ and ‘getting above your station’. In a republic all men, and all women too, are equal under the law.

  Ireland is not a republic, but part of the British Empire, the huge area that’s in pink on the map of the world. The Empire contains both slaves and masters. Still, is it not better to be a small part of something grand, like an empire, rather than a little republic all on its own, with no power and no glory? That’s what my father says anyway. He’s in the civil service, working for the government in Dublin Castle.

  I don’t want to become a civil servant. I don’t want to be anything like my father.

  Although the Ardmháistir rarely talks about himself, one can tell that he’s proud of his parents. His late father was a Protestant, an Englishman who came to Dublin in his youth and never went back. He acquired no small measure of fame as a monumental sculptor, producing a number of fine statues and altars for Catholic churches. Eventually he became a Catholic himself, like the Ardmháistir’s mother.

  Most of the boys at St Enda’s are Catholics. But the Ardmháistir says religion must never be divisive – meaning it must never be used to divide people. Protestant students like Roger are welcome here. They can attend their own churches, but aside from that they receive the same education as the rest of us, with a strong emphasis on Christian prayer and moral standards.

  ‘It is the same God for all of us,’ the Ardmháistir says. ‘We just speak to him in different ways.’

  Jim Larkin’s son is very downhearted. His father has been sentenced to seven months in prison. I don’t think that’s fair, the man was only trying to stand up for the workers who are badly exploited. Would Christ not have done the same thing?

  This afternoon I used the telephone to ring home and ask about my mother. I got the same answer as always, which is no answer at all.

  Tonight in the dormitory I pick a fight with Roger. ‘I’m tired of your complaining,’ I tell him. ‘What do you have to complain about anyway? You don’t know what troubles are.’

  I’m a little taller, but Roger is heavier than me. However I’ve heard the Ardmháistir say that size doesn’t matter.

  I give Roger a bloody nose.

  He goes crying to Mrs Pearse.

  In the morning I am summoned to the Head’s office. ‘You want to be thrown out of this school,’ states the Ardmháistir. It is not a question.

  ‘No sir,’ I lie. But I do want to be thrown out. I want to go home while there’s still a chance to see Mam.

  He looks at me across his desk. ‘I despise bullies and bullying, John Joe. Ther
e will be none of either in this school. Do you understand?’

  I put my fists on my hips and thrust out my lower lip. My father calls it my bold expression.

  The Ardmháistir stands up with a sigh and comes toward me. ‘Hold out your hands,’ he says. I expect him to strike them with a ruler. I know what that’s like, it’s been done to me lots of times.

  Instead he holds out his hands and takes both of mine. ‘I’m afraid you do want to leave us,’ he says gently. ‘But sometimes what we want is the very worst thing we could get, John Joe. If you are expelled you will not be living up to your full potential. Is failure what you really want?’

  ‘Failure?’ I echo. It is a damp, sad word.

  Although the Ardmháistir’s face is full, almost fleshy, I am aware of unyielding bones beneath. ‘Failure,’ he says, ‘means knuckling the forelock to people who think they are better than you.’ Patrick Henry Pearse, who prefers to be called Padraic, speaks in a low, hard voice I never heard him use before.

  CHAPTER THREE

  NOVEMBER 1913

  Margaret, the Ardmháistir’s older sister, instructs us in French. She’s a good teacher but takes no nonsense from us. The younger sister is called Mary Brigid, and she plays the harp. She’s said to be ‘temperamental’. I’m not quite sure what it means, but it’s not good. When I was very little we had a brown pony and a dogcart with a red leather seat, and Mam took me for drives in the country. Mam’s parents, who are dead now, had given her that pony and cart before she married.

  But my father sold the pony because he said it was temperamental.

  I don’t think the Pearses can sell Mary Brigid, though they might wish they could. She has ‘turns’ sometimes, when no one can control her. She laughs or cries for no reason and has to be sent to her room. Otherwise she would disrupt the entire school. Her brothers are very gentle with her. Neither of them loses his temper, no matter what she does.