Roots of Outrage

‘Nothing?’ Steely eyes. ‘She didn’t … invite you perhaps?’

‘No, sir, she did not.’

‘You expect me to believe that? You just took it into your head to climb up her drainpipe at midnight? Without any encouragement whatsoever?’

‘Correct, sir.’

The headmaster glared at him. George Mahoney had his eyes down, a grim smile twitching his face. The headmaster stabbed the air with his finger. ‘I put it to you, Mahoney, that if you didn’t have encouragement from Miss Rousseau, your behaviour was insane! Unless you intended to rape her! Was that your intention?’

Mahoney was shocked. ‘Absolutely not, sir!’

‘To try to seduce her perhaps?’

‘No, sir.’

‘But to “talk”? About your career? At midnight?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘“Oh, good evening, Miss Rousseau – or should I say good morning? – just dropped around – or climbed around – to have a little chat about my future career as an historian. I say do you mind giving me a bit of a leg-up over this window sill – but if you prefer I’ll just cling to this drainpipe for half an hour while we ‘talk’ … ”’

And Luke Mahoney, seventeen years old, in the dock without a defence, had very nearly had enough, after a sleepless night. He looked his headmaster in the eye, and his voice took on a new edge: ‘Yes, sir. Exactly.’

The headmaster glared. ‘Do I detect a note of aggression there?’

Luke looked the man in the eye. ‘No, sir. Just a note of self-defence.’

The headmaster’s glare lost its steel for a moment, then his face filled with fury: ‘‘You describe your story as a defence? Would your father –’ he flung an eloquent hand at the lawyer – ‘consider that a credible defence?!’

Luke Mahoney did not care anymore – suddenly he had had enough of this humiliation and he did not care that he was going to be expelled: and as he was going to be expelled why the hell was he putting up with this shit?

‘Very well, sir, as you evidently don’t think much of that defence, how about this one: I climbed up that drainpipe at midnight because I’m madly in love with Miss Rousseau, sir. Because faint heart never won fair lady, sir. But I absolutely assure you, sir, on a stack of bibles, that Miss Rousseau knew absolutely nothing about this passion of mine, sir. And that you have obviously interpreted her resignation as evidence of complicity is quite incorrect, and if that will be a blot on her copybook, if that will prejudice her career, if you give a bad report about her to the education authorities, that will be the grossest of injustices. That would be like the injustice suffered by an honourable woman who is stigmatised by society after being raped, sir. And I promise you I will correct that by writing to the Department of Education and confessing my guilt, sir.’

There was a silence. The headmaster was staring at him. George Mahoney was looking at his son with something approaching pride. Luke Mahoney stood there grimly – and he wasn’t blushing anymore. Take it or leave it, sir, was his demeanour. The headmaster recovered, and glared:

‘And what did you expect Miss Rousseau to do about that, if she had given you no encouragement?’

‘I had no idea, sir.’

His father sighed. The headmaster rasped softly: ‘I don’t believe you, Mahoney. I find it too much of a coincidence that Miss Rousseau does not intend to press charges against you –’

‘Indeed, sir, I’ve gathered that you don’t believe me.’

‘Oh? And have you also gathered that I intend expelling you?’

‘I have, sir.’

The headmaster glared. Then he slumped down into his chair. He sighed, then said: ‘You had a good life ahead of you, Mahoney. Brains, sportsman, personality, good looks. You had an excellent chance of winning a Rhodes Scholarship. Now? Do you realize you’ll have great difficulty even finding employment with an expulsion record?’

Mahoney said grimly: ‘Yes, I realize that, sir. So can we now please get on with it?’

The headmaster was taken aback by this impertinence. ‘Get on with it?’

‘My medicine, sir. The six of the best you’re going to give me. And let me get on the road.’

The headmaster blinked, then leaned forward. He hissed: ‘You can thank your lucky stars that before I formally expel you I am giving you the chance of leaving this school voluntarily.’

Mahoney closed his eyes. And sighed in relief. ‘I am very grateful, sir.’

‘I hope you’re still grateful after this …’ The headmaster picked up a cane. ‘Drop your trousers.’

Mahoney undid his belt. He pulled down his trousers. He bent over.

The cane whistled.

They drove home in grim silence. George parked in the garage. He switched off the engine, then slumped. He turned to his son. ‘You’ve been punished. I’m not going to punish you further.’

‘Thank you.’

The old man nodded. ‘Besides, you’re not a schoolboy anymore. You’re a young man now, whether you and I like it or not.’

Mahoney didn’t say anything. Yes, he felt like a man, though his arse felt like a schoolboy’s.

‘You became a man in the headmaster’s study, You stood up for yourself, you protected Miss Rousseau and took your medicine.’

Mahoney didn’t say anything.

‘Miss Rousseau did know you were coming, didn’t she?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Mahoney said grimly.

The old man sighed. He looked away. ‘But you technically saved her honour. Just. That was right.’ He added: ‘Though I’d have expected nothing less of you.’

Mahoney said nothing.

‘Yes, I’ve noticed a sudden maturity’s come over you lately. Now I know why.’ The old man shook his head. ‘So, she did you some good, Luke. That’s the way to look at it.’

Mahoney nodded grimly. ‘Yes.’

‘But I hope you’re not going to keep in touch with her.’

‘No, sir. She and I agreed that last night.’

‘Good. That’s wise.’ The old man looked at him. ‘You’re not really in love with her, are you?’

Mahoney wished he could vaporise. Maybe that would also stop his arse hurting. He lied: ‘No, sir. It was just very exciting.’

For the first time the old man smiled. ‘I bet it was … And I think you can stop calling me sir. You’re out in the big wide world now. You can’t stay in this town. Though you might be a hero with the boys, it’ll be very embarrassing.’