Buisness Studies
by
Hugh Vaughan

Business Studies, with Big Pol, was always a comfortable option, always the first classroom to empty at lunchtime, always a lengthy discussion of last night’s televised soccer match at the beginning of his class. Big Pol got his name, predictably, because of his towering height and his propensity for polo mints. His height helped curtail any class indiscipline. Big Pol’s teaching strategy, flowed from the horizontal position, his bum on the seat and legs on the corner of the table, the polo mints positioned in front of him. After his opening remarks of last night’s soccer, trigging an intense discussion, he allowed open debate of any topic depending upon his mood; history, literature, current affairs. Often he would simply say ‘ask me any question, boys, anything you like?’ Reading the next twenty or so pages of the textbook followed the discussion. If you had read it, you read more or simply dozed in a reading position, always completed in silence. While this worldly contemplation took place, Big Pol read his thriller, the latest or relive his passion for Raymond Chandler. 

The active part of his teaching strategy occurred in the latter part of the lesson, a question and answer session. To avoid him asking a question of us, we fired the questions at him. Often, he referred to the book or a diagram for discussion, or he got us to copy relevant definitions or diagrams from chapters. This was his paradigm in every class.  The boys liked the easy predictability of this routine, and we always encouraged the interested soccer players in the class to shoot a question at him as soon as he entered the room, hoping someone would ask another, and another before his attention went to the textbook.

While absorbed in a world of espionage or Marlowe, Big Pol let his fingers doing the walking; he was notorious throughout the school for his proclivity to work his finger up his nose or up his bum. This, he did without any awareness of anyone present. He was a bit of a dandy, a gentleman about town, wore smart shirts, well cut trousers and highly adorned leather shoes and boots. Buckles dressed his leather shoes in silver or brass, leather piled on leather with carved intricate patterns. ‘A buckle is a great addition to any shoe’, an apt Irish proverb, I discovered in a short story during the English lesson the previous week. His well-shod feet matched his bejeweled fingers. Silver, gold, and stone rings enfolded his fingers. Celtic filigree produced in silver over emerald worn on his narrow aged fingers. Permanent etched silver bands on his little fingers. Different rings appeared frequently. His tight silvery beard covered his thin face; his mouth, almost lipless, and tobacco stained teeth were all dominated by his sharp protruding nose, famous for enjoying frequent excavation. Only on close inspection did the surprising discovery of his deep set, beady eyes, betray those determined pupils. Yet, his preponderance for saggy cardigans transposed him from a dapper dresser, a man about town, into a work-a-day teacher. His simmering eyes betrayed a man with a hidden passion.

After five minutes, Big Pol signaled to me, to come up to his desk and asked me to get him some fresh baps for his lunch. I was not the usual errand boy as he always chose a local lad, John Deeney, tall, looked more mature for his age, always encased in a duffle coat and he lived in the same street as the shop.  We envied John, he could get out of bed ten minutes before school started and still be on time. In fact, on a few occasions he showed us his pajamas under his clothes. The previous week Big Pol and some of us were chatting in the playground, idling away our time until recall for class. I summoned up the courage and asked him if I could perform the baps-buying role sometime. He said he would think about it. Therefore, when he called me up to the front, I didn’t think it was for buying baps, but something to do with school. I was a quiet, small student, flying below everyone’s radar.

‘Get me a bap and a cream finger from the shop across the green, can you manage that and not get lost? He told me in a squeaky soft sarcastic voice’, as he handed me a pound note, ‘don’t lose me change’, he added as I made my way to the door.

Outside the door, the corridor was empty and I relaxed. Down the three flights of duplicate stairs, and glancing up and down the bottom corridor, I hoped for a quiet exit. Not wanting to meet the principal, Brother Browne, whose brisk step of size ten shoes sent a trail of chalk dust and dandruff in his wake, the foyer was clear and walking towards the front door, I heard a door open and the flap of a soutane.  I stepped nimbly inside the medical room, an occasional sixth form study room. It was empty, just a couple of books littered the tables. His steps came towards the room and the door opened a little as I stood behind it, holding my breath, panic flowing through me. Brother Browne must have heard something, but the door closed again softly. Relaxing again, his steps continued down the hall and disappeared into silence.  Stepping out, the coast was clear again and off I went, through the front door, through the school gate and up to the shop.

Crossing the soggy green, opposite a square of houses, where the corner shop stacked its vegetables outside on pale wooden boxes. Having got my purchases from a craggy faced man in an off-white, stained shop coat, barely looking at me during the transaction, I carefully counted the change and placed it in my empty left trouser pocket. I would not be embarrassed in front of the class or Big Pol, if the change was incorrect or mixed up with my money or assorted contents of my pockets. The thought of emptying my pockets in front of everyone terrified me. Keeping the bap and cream finger in good condition was essential, I held the white paper bag containing Big Pol’s lunch very carefully. The cream finger positioned on top of the bap, its white greasy filling soaking through the paper already.

I waited on the path to let a bus pass and cross the green, when alongside me stood a familiar body, curiously wrapped in a large duffle coat and within its oversized hood came a grunting salutation. Was John Deeney in class today? I did not reply. The person hid his hands in his pockets. However, the flop of the elbows did not look right. He scurried away across the green, towards the school. I looked at the sleeves of the coat, straining my eyes to see the sleeves tucked into his pockets but they did not house his arms. Underneath his coat, below the knees, tight against his trouser leg, was a thin rifle barrel, on both sides. The oversized duffle coat hid them. Slowing down my pace to let him get further away from me, he waddled into a lane next to the school. By the time I got to the school, he had disappeared.

‘What kept you?’ A question balled at every boy tasked to get the baps, and the same answer, ‘there was a queue in the shop’. The ritual completed, including getting a polo mint for my trouble. Leaving class for a short period was a better reward, although seeing a gunman was unnerving.

I went back to my desk, looking out at the magnificent views, down over the town, the blue winding river reflected the blue, clouded-spotted day. The sight of the town nestled on the curve of the river is always welcome relief from humdrum teaching. Through the windows on my left, a couple of open fields lay beyond our playing fields, each bounded by tightly grown hawthorn hedges.  I could see a group of men gathering under the hedge alongside the school’s playing field. It was not usual to see groups using the field for target practice. Of course, the penny dropped, that duffel coat was moving weapons for this target practice session.

Big Pol, asked us to continue reading our little red books, and ignore the dozen men milling around the field below. It was difficult. Mostly they stayed close to the hedge and out of sight, when a couple of them placed targets in the centre of the field, a round target and a dummy.  This unreal movie, through the dirt-smeared windows caught our full attention. We could not see what was exactly happening but knew what was happening. Only the staccato blasts echoing through the sunny morning indicated something was amiss. After what seemed quite some time, Big Pol drew us back to how business, in the real world, could make a profit. 

Suddenly, all heads turned to look through the windows at the rumbling outside. It was the whoop-whoop of the helicopter blades, flying across the school’s windows. After hovering over the fields, it rose swiftly, realizing what was occurring below. The helicopter dipped again, flew at speed over the field and headed towards us, leaving the windows vibrating in its aftermath.

Big Pol sighed deeply, and said ‘Ah! Where were we?  Write your questions and we’ll start’.

Five minutes later, the thundering whirring of three helicopters came into focus. I think, they were Wessex, and hovered over the fields above the school. One by one, they disappeared beyond the upper hedges and rose sharply again. British soldiers dropped onto the upper field. We could see clearly the green garb of the Brits moving along the upper hedges, and the ‘Boys’ as they are known locally collected in a bunch by the lower hedge. A stream of shots rang out. A sniper had climbed a tree and let off a volley towards the newly arrived. The British Army returned fire scattering the top leaves of the trees where the ‘Boys’ positioned themselves. Two fields and one hedge separated the warring parties. We had a grandstand view of the battle below, all of us standing watching out the windows. Further rattles took place below, the British attempted to move forward but the gunmen held their defensive positions. From above, we could advise both parties how to advance given our strategic view.

‘Jeeze, boys I guess we better make a move, leave your books’, says Big Pol. Just then, a ginger headed and bearded new teacher, stuck his head into the room shouting ‘We will evacuate to the Quad, NOW!’ The evacuation bell rang too, and hundreds of boys filled the corridors and stairs leading down to the Quad, a sanctuary from the gun battle above and below the surface of the main part of the school. The Quad, housed the metalwork room on one side and the woodwork room on the other. A pond sculptured by the metalwork teacher, and the woodwork teacher, planted a garden of veggies and other various plants. As the boys streamed into the safety of the Quad, they trounced everything in sight, the garden pounded by hundreds of tiny feet. The metalwork teacher stood astride his pond, attempting to save the newly installed fish by pushing away any errant boy. Escape was through a side gate, into a square of houses and down a winding hill. 

Eventually, we got into the square, people going about their daily business, unaware, of the life and death battle five minutes away. As we walked off, we realised time was ours for the rest of the day. I went to a mate’s house for lunch on the other side of town to plan what to do with our freedom.