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Teacher Hooked

Hook you like...

Hook you like…

It was a bitterly cold day shortly before Christmas and the class was restless. The room was packed as we prepared for English, which was always one of the most enjoyable classes. The teacher, Mr. Stores, or Dick as he was commonly known, was considered to be one of the best in the school and, although not a pushover, we could get on pretty well with him. This was important as most of the other teachers were much older than Dick and we had little or nothing in common with them. He was like an older brother, and we felt an affinity that was to our mutual benefit.
That was until one fateful day.
On that particularly sharp and windy morning Dick came into the class, took off his coat and cast his eyes about for a spare hook. When he could not find one he proceeded to remove coats from a hook near the lectern and let them fall to the floor. Then he placed his coat on the now free hook and, tapping its pockets to ensure that nothing was left in them, started the class by asking ‘Well, class, what do we think of Shakespeare’s use of irony?’

The class was distracted and barely paid attention to his question after this unbelievably, crass act. It was a bad moment, and to use one of his pet phrases ‘a Rubicon had been crossed’. Furtive glances were exchanged and heads were shaken in disbelief as thoughts of revenge silently grew. We soon focussed on the lesson, while conjuring up all sorts of cruel punishments for Dick’s despicable behaviour.
Over the next few days many suggestions were offered ranging from the diabolic to the downright inventive, all generating much mirth. It was no surprise that the most colourful suggestions were thought up by someone who has since become a leading politician. A talent for deception and the ability to laugh at another’s misfortune is an essential for such a career, and Kelly had it in spades. When I think about it now I’m sure that he was must have been emotionally damaged at an early age, or maybe he was just nasty git. The best suggestions came from those in the back row, always a source of nefarious thinking, and, appropriately, the winning idea came from one of the boys whose coat Dick had dropped onto the floor. And, like all great endeavours it was deceptively simple, but it needed careful preparation.

And above all, timing.

Gummed up

Gummed up

The plan called for a nice, shiny new hook to be made available to Dick at the start of our next English class. Unbeknownst to him we had removed the screws from a hook and substituted them with a large blob of wet, sticky chewing gum. This mouth-watering work of adhesive genius took five of us an entire lunch-hour to prepare and our jaws were sore from all the chewing. Mine were numb and I thought that I had had a rough time at the dentist. My face as red as a cardinals hat when I finished and offered my blob to one of the ‘engineers’. Murphy’s job was to join all the blobs and have a trial run. He did it with great commitment as coats were hung and the resistance factor calculated. After stringent testing he decided that more gum was needed and Connolly was sent to the local shop for supplies.
When the final solution was prepared and tested, under the watchful eyes of the entire class, the shiny hook was pressed into position and fingers were crossed in anticipation. ‘Well done, Murph,’ someone shouted and we all cheered. The engineer smiled, took a bow and slipped casually into his desk.
There had been many pranks played on teachers over the years and our magnum opus would definitely to be remembered. The story would go around the school like wildfire, and with everything in place we waited in scholarly silence for the coat tosser to get his comeuppance.

Ring-a-ding-ding

Ring-a-ding-ding

Shortly after the school bell rang we heard the sound of Dick’s steel-tipped shoes coming down the corridor, and the tension in the classroom rose a notch. ‘All things come to those who wait,’ whispered Doyle conspiratorially into my ear as he leaned over from the desk behind. I grinned and followed the other thirty pair of eyes as the door opened and the lamb walked easily to a silent, sticky slaughter.
Dick put his case down and, as usual, looked about for a spare hook. His eyes moved along the line of coats before landing on the shining beacon that almost cried out for his attention. ‘I’m free,’ it seemed to say and he grinned in surprise at his good fortune. He walked across the front of the class, took off his coat and, as the moment of truth was reached, carefully placed it on the hook. It held, thank God, and we collectively breathed a sigh of relief.

The class started with a discussion on the merits of the sonnet form but our attention was elsewhere. It was difficult not to keep an eye on Dick’s coat but nothing happened for the first ten minutes or so. As time passed without incident we begrudgingly cursed Murphy for his obvious brilliance as an engineer. Dick moved about the room, as was his style, asking questions and developing an argument that was informative and lively. I made a contribution and sat back, as the first movement of the Dick’s coat was spotted.
All eyes darted to and from the hook as its adhesive support began to stretch like only quality gum can. It moved slowly, like a river of pink lava against the wooden panelled wall. I looked at Dick and wondered about his possible reaction when he realised what had happened. ‘It might turn nasty,’ had been the general opinion, and we were about to find out.
Dick continued to walk about as his overcoat continued its inexorable, downward slide. It was a wonderful sight and it killed off all the idle chatter in the room. The quiet was bordering on the religious as the thick, pink line began to unravel and fray.
‘There she goes,’ Doyle sniggered under his breath.
Dick turned abruptly and asked. ‘Well, Doyle, have you got something to share with us?’ He raised his brow waiting for an answer, but none came.
There was total silence in the room as the gum, having performed beyond all expectations, its elasticity stretched to the maximum, finally and gloriously broke.
We all turned to see Dick’s coat lying on the floor below the thin strip of glistening, pink gum that was about three feet long.
Dick was furious, and he snatched his coat up and roughly brushed it before tossing it over the back of his chair. Breathing hard and staring at us with fire in his eyes we braced ourselves for the inevitable explosion. To our surprise, though, he put his hands up in a gesture of surrender and uttered just one word. ‘Sorry.’ It was a comment that earned him a round of applause and cemented our new, mutual understanding.

Scene of the crime

Scene of the crime

 

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Mum & Mozart – a short story

National Concert Hall (NCH)

National Concert Hall (NCH)

The line ‘If music be the food of love play on,’ always brings a smile, especially when I think about my mother. She was a music fan, a lover indeed, and the words from Shakespeare’s play Twelfth Night were something that she truly, deeply believed in.

Our house was never quiet when mum was around, as the sounds of opera singers and orchestras drifted merrily from big 331/3 rpm records that were treated like family heirlooms. They were her pride and joy, and she loved nothing more than tearing the cellophane from a new disc and placing it gently on the turntable. I remember the look of anticipation on her face as the needle dropped, scratched and hissed momentarily, before the strains of violin, piano, quartet or singer made her smile the broadest of smiles. It was transfixing, and one of my earliest, and happiest, memories.

Growing up with such a lover of music I was encouraged to get involved, and for many years I took piano lessons. Although I practised hard and often felt my mum’s hand gently squeeze my shoulder as she whispered ‘That’s nice, really nice,’ I knew that I was never going to be the next Mozart. It didn’t matter to her as long as I tried, but I grew to love the Austrian maestro and his wonderful works. Of all the great composers she introduced me to on my musical journey Mozart’s warm, inspiring and exuberant music is something that has stayed with me, and for that I will always be happily in her debt.

Mum’s parents were not themselves musically inclined, but she told me that they were always enthusiastic for her. They brought her to singing lessons, and concerts when they came to town. She remembered getting a record player that had to be started with a winding arm, and a box of new needles. The records were heavy, black vinyl plates that all too often became scratched and cracked. And so she spent hours in record shops and got to know the best places to go, and sometimes the owners gave her records for free because they knew she loved the music. She collected music by all the great composers and she was as knowledgeable of classical music as anybody I ever knew. I found a few of her old records recently in the attic, the sleeves dusty and torn, and I wondered how many times did she slide them out and put them on her record player. Countless, no doubt, I thought, and gently brushed them clean before putting them beside my CD collection. They may have looked awkward but their content was no different and just as enlightening.

As I grew up pop and rock music became a bigger part of my life. I listened to the radio and discovered The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, The Eagles, Fleetwood Mac, Stevie Wonder and countless other bands that I now cannot remember. The music made an impression, be it good or bad, and it was discussed endlessly with friends late into the night – our musical rite of passage. Some of us were fans of one band or another and we took great delight in defending our own personal favourites. We were committed to the music and I came to understand why my mother had such a love of this mystical medium. It was something that I could not touch, taste or smell but I could most certainly feel it. It could inspire and lift the soul and express a sadness that words could never hope to do. The magic of music is wonderful and it always had the power to surprise and make me feel better.

Years later I often took my mother to concerts in the National Concert Hall (NCH) nights out that I remember fondly. One particular one stands out, and the more I think about it the more I understand her love of music. It was a Mozart Night and the foyer was abuzz with excitement long before the start. We sat and had a drink, and my mother was bubbling excitedly looking at the happy faces and listening to the friendly conversations around her. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ she said, and I grinned a reply.

I led her to our seats and she immediately leaned forward and looked over the balcony at the milling crowd below and the stage beyond. Then she sat back, clasped her hands tightly and nodded her head slowly in response to some inner rhythm. When the seats were filled the lights were dimmed and the performers took the stage. A silence descended and you could almost hear the audience breath as one before the music began. It opened with a rousing version of the Overture to the Marriage of Figaro that was loudly applauded. Then we had some beautifully played piano concertos and the delicious Clarinet Concerto which is my own personal favourite.

Every so often I would glance at my mother and see the concentration and happiness on her face. But it was not until the singers took the stage that I saw what I can only describe as a transformation. My mother was an old woman, in her eighties then, but the singing seemed to unlock something within her and I was privileged to see it. During the Sull’aria, from the Marriage of Figaro, I heard my mother singing very quietly, like the whisper over my shoulder a lifetime ago. I had never heard her sing like this before and I was immensely proud. And when I glanced at her again I didn’t see an old woman sitting beside me but a young girl lost in music, bright-eyed with her life to live. When it finished she smiled at me and it took all the strength I had not to cry. It was a magical moment, and I’m sure even Mozart would agree that he had struck the right chord and that music is indeed the food of love.

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-1791)

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-1791)

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