VIATICUM

VIATICUM

by

Albert Woods

Halfway through Sunday tea, an announcer interrupted the radio serial to tell us the Russians had launched a volley of nuclear missiles that would reach their target - us - in five minutes time. We were to go for shelter, not panic, and, above all, stay concealed until further notice. The voice delivered the distressing news with such calm that the initial reaction was to assume it to be part of the play. But Tom Brown's Schooldays did not, so far as anybody knew, include a holocaust scene and, besides, the siren from the fire-station was not part of the broadcast. All hell let loose. Housemasters tried to herd their charges - who had no intention of maintaining the order of numerous fire-drills - and prefects traded their seniority rights for sheer brute force. It was every man for himself. We stampeded along the corridors and down the stairs to the cellars.

I wasn't the last one down, though even by the time I got in, Father Dominic had begun the communal prayers. I would have expected him to concern himself with our safety; take a register or something. Still, perhaps he felt that begging God for deliverance was the most profitable way of spending our few remaining moments in this world. Some of the boys were too young to fully appreciate the gravity of the situation, but they cried nevertheless. The terror was infectious.

After about five minutes, Father Dominic rose from his knees and instructed us all to make an act of contrition. Most did, though not me and Skinner. When seven or eight minutes had elapsed, with still no explosion, the good priest ventured up to the surface and observed life going on as usual out on the main road.

That evening, after Benediction, we were told that we’d been the victims of a practical joker. Father Dominic had found the wires running from the refectory loudspeaker to the amplifier and microphone in the physics lab. Some of the boys were aghast. I was bursting to laugh, though managed to suppress it. The best bit was when he told us that he’d phoned the BBC and been taken for a madman. I would have given anything to have seen him making that call; watched his bulbous red face turning puce. I loathed him.

It was never Skinner and I, or Skinner and me; so I won't say it now. Me and Skinner were the only two who knew who had done it: - us. Well, I rigged up the equipment and called the fire brigade; he did the talking. He had a versatile voice. He was a good friend and, like me, detested the very mention of Dominic. Neither of us would ever tell.

Typical of the swine that he was, Dominic kept everybody in an hour’s detention for two weeks after the incident, hoping to force an admission or a betrayal. He would doubtless have got the latter had anybody else known, and he told us time and time again that the punishment would go on indefinitely until the culprit was found. Fortunately, several parents complained, so he was forced to relent and drop the matter. We laughed.

Jenny, one of the dinner ladies, had a loony mother who was game for anything. She had once been turned down for a part-time cleaning job by Father Dominic, so had no misgivings about agreeing to assist in our next little plot. We told her what to say and she made the telephone call, disguising her voice and pretending to be the Bishop's secretary. She told Dominic that arrangements had been made for a visiting missionary to give a talk to the local schools and, to save his limited time, this would take place in the cathedral, when several groups of our age could attend at once. Dominic was fanatical about timekeeping, so it did not arouse his suspicions when we found ourselves the first to arrive on the specified morning. There we were, thirty-four jolly schoolboys sitting in the front pews; a position which, Dominic was proud to point out, would not be enjoyed by latecomers.

Me and Skinner resisted the temptation to look at each other. We knew that we would only start sniggering if we did - especially when the next party came in. First the close family, then other mourners and, finally the coffin with the Bishop swinging incense all around it. The subsequent confusion had Dominic's face contorted like a freak. He ushered us out as quickly as he could, not daring to offer the Bishop's enraged eyes a meeting with his own. More pointless detention followed.

When we felt that the dust had settled, me and Skinner embarked on a campaign of merciless irritation of Dominic. We entered his name in every advertising offer coupon we could lay our hands on, and arranged for processions of tradesmen to call on him; plumbers to mend un-burst pipes, electricians to repair faultless circuits, and even an undertaker to measure-up the very much alive Father Michael. The man was slowly cracking, we believed; and what made it really good was when he appointed me head-boy. I should have been an actor.

We never did stop to wonder where it would all end. Certainly, the idea of disposing of Father Dominic altogether just sort of evolved. It was after the ‘mysterious’ fire in his office, I seem to recall.

The boiler house was directly opposite his bedroom window. If we stood there at night, we could see him pacing backwards and forwards: praying or meditating, we assumed. He had recently caught some boys having a sly smoke and was being particularly watchful that night, so all we had to do was hang about in the dark striking matches. He spotted it soon enough, and I saw him charge out of his room and across the quad. By the time he reached the boiler house, we were back in our beds and pretending to be asleep; then pretending to be awakened, like everybody else, when the almighty blast shook the place.

Skinner managed to get hold of the newspapers - something that we were denied access to - and they told of a fatal ‘accident’ which was probably due to a gas explosion.

I often thought it odd that I had no inclination to 'work’ on anybody else after Dominic, though it was by no means due to remorse. Neither me nor Skinner had the slightest qualms about what we had done and, if we were completely honest with ourselves, were rather proud of it. No; it was simply that we never came across anybody who brought out the hatred in us like he had. I know it sounds trivial, but what hurt me was the day I started at the school and he singled me out from the class to complain that my shoes were dirty. My mother had spent hours polishing them the night before, and it was only a few specks of mud from the quad lawn that had got onto them. I was missing my mother already, and felt that he had poured scorn on her efforts.

Skinner's gripe was more serious. Unlike me, he was unable to turn on the charm. As a result, he was usually in Dominic's bad-books and would allow his studies to suffer in pure defiance of the man. He meant to end up with such a poor academic record as to bring shame on the school. Fortunately, Dominic's demise caused him to rethink and he eventually left the place with a string of impressive exam results – much better than mine, I have to say.

I will never forget my first day at college either. During the welcoming service, my mother stood with all the other parents watching as we each approached the lectern for a personal greeting from the Head. She was so proud of me. Skinner's dad was there too.

Before she left, mum told me that she had been standing behind a young priest who was making scathing remarks about some of us. When she heard him mention somebody's untidy hair, then saw him point at me, she had shed a small tear.

I didn't like that.

I suppose you can't even remember the incident. It was a long time ago, though I've never forgotten it. You must believe that I really did try to put it out of my mind, but that was impossible. Did you never wonder who was doing all those things to you? Why your Bible was torn to shreds and how your vestments came to be strewn across the road?

Fate is a peculiar thing, isn't it? I was only thinking that I would have to dispense with you when you were struck down. At first, I was not too sure about believing the doctor when he said that there was little hope. But now I do, seeing as you’ve not been able to move a muscle nor utter a single word in months.

Good heavens! Look at the time. I really must stop this idle chatter and get along to take the confessions. Of course, you can't look at the time, can you? Never mind. It won't be for much longer. I poisoned that milk you just had. It'll work all right, though they do say that it's a slow painful death.

Did you know that they're giving me your parish? Make’s sense; after all, I’ve been running it since you became ill. My mother would have been so proud of me.

Good, isn't it?

No, I don't suppose you’d be too pleased. You never did take to me, did you. And I've seen some of the lousy reports that you submitted to His Excellency, refusing to recommend me for a parish of my own.

Still, that's life, as they say. It's not what you know, but who you know.

Bishop Skinner pulled a few strings for me.

Pax vobiscum.

Oh… and… requiescat in pace.

** ** **

© Albert Woods (2012)

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