tiles, fully in love with their petty jealousies and three sugars. The classrooms were both garish and dirty, which doesn't aid the spirit when one is leading on the poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins.
It should've been a holiday, but it seemed most parents would do anything to avoid having their children at home an extra day, including sending them to the Kissing of the Cross. I bumped into Mr Dorran at the edge of the sports wing. Dorran was Head of Music and very short, always wearing needlessly ugly ties over his junior shirts. Not for the first time, I wondered if he had become a teacher in order to feel like one of the world's naturally tall people. He certainly swaggered among the pupils as if his chance to be big had finally come. I also noticed he had the beginning of a moustache.
'Ah, just the man,' I said, placing the crucifix and some other things on the register table.
'Hello, Father David,' he said, trying to dodge me with an armful of violins. 'I'm awful busy. This was supposed to be a day off.'
'Of course,' I said. 'Just a word in your small ear.'
(I see now that in many ways I was not wise. Dorran smarted.)
'If it's about the music, you must spare me.'
'Not a bit of it, Mr Dorran,' I said. 'I made a request of you at the beginning of Lent. Let us not have any more of these rubbishy hymns. There is no one else to whom I can address these remarks. You are the man in charge. Rubbishy hymns, horrible words. What are these hymns about sunny days and being happy? Where do they come from? In the new term, can we not progress a little to ... well, to proper music?'
'Excuse me, Father,' he said. 'Those hymns have been used in Scottish schools for quite some time. They are very popular. The pupils like to sing them.'
'They also like to sing Eminem, Mr Dorran, and we shan't be introducing that to the Mass just yet. I gave you the music. I didn't hear any of it at the Mass for the beginning of the Easter holiday. Could you not manage "Cross of Jesus"? It being Easter. "Cross of Jesus"?'
'I don't know it.'
'Music by John Stainer, 1841â1901,' I said. 'Words by William Sparrow-Simpson, 1860â1952.'
I squeezed some sheet music between his instruments.
'Please don't do that, Father. I won't be patronised in this way every time I see you.'
'Mr Dorran, I'm not asking for the "Stabat Mater".'
'Yes, you are!' he said. 'In the context,
yes, you are!
What can only be described as a look of utter hatred suddenly crossed the good man's eyes. He flushed and plucked a string on one of the violins, as if to mark the taking of a bold decision. 'Has it ever occurred to you that you don't belong here, Father David?'
'Well, of course, Mr Dorran,' I said. 'I've never been sure I belong anywhere in the world. Perhaps you'd take pity on me therefore and spare me the terrible agony of having to listen to seven hundred impressionable young people singing "The Beautiful Month of May".'
'That is typical arrogance,' he said.
I could see Mr Dorran was fighting to restrain some coarser instinct. He looked at me as people do when they think they see through you. 'Can I remind you,' he said, his jaw slackening, 'this is a comprehensive school. You may find it difficult to imagine just what that means, Father. It is a
com-pree-hen-sive.
We have to make certain allowances here. This is not Eton College.'
'Heaven forfend,' I said.
'Pardon?'
'That really would be something to worry about.'
'You know what this town is? It's an unemployment black spot. I don't think you understand what has happened here. The factories are empty. The churches are empty.'
'Ah, Mr Dorran,' I said. 'But the heart is full.'
The Head of Music conducted a symphony of derision into a single sniff. 'You should take a leaf out of Bishop Gerard's book,' he said. 'He comes here with the crook and everything else, but you know what? He sits down at the piano and plays Boyzone to get the pupils' attention.'
'Yes,' I said, 'but Gerard has a much larger range
It should've been a holiday, but it seemed most parents would do anything to avoid having their children at home an extra day, including sending them to the Kissing of the Cross. I bumped into Mr Dorran at the edge of the sports wing. Dorran was Head of Music and very short, always wearing needlessly ugly ties over his junior shirts. Not for the first time, I wondered if he had become a teacher in order to feel like one of the world's naturally tall people. He certainly swaggered among the pupils as if his chance to be big had finally come. I also noticed he had the beginning of a moustache.
'Ah, just the man,' I said, placing the crucifix and some other things on the register table.
'Hello, Father David,' he said, trying to dodge me with an armful of violins. 'I'm awful busy. This was supposed to be a day off.'
'Of course,' I said. 'Just a word in your small ear.'
(I see now that in many ways I was not wise. Dorran smarted.)
'If it's about the music, you must spare me.'
'Not a bit of it, Mr Dorran,' I said. 'I made a request of you at the beginning of Lent. Let us not have any more of these rubbishy hymns. There is no one else to whom I can address these remarks. You are the man in charge. Rubbishy hymns, horrible words. What are these hymns about sunny days and being happy? Where do they come from? In the new term, can we not progress a little to ... well, to proper music?'
'Excuse me, Father,' he said. 'Those hymns have been used in Scottish schools for quite some time. They are very popular. The pupils like to sing them.'
'They also like to sing Eminem, Mr Dorran, and we shan't be introducing that to the Mass just yet. I gave you the music. I didn't hear any of it at the Mass for the beginning of the Easter holiday. Could you not manage "Cross of Jesus"? It being Easter. "Cross of Jesus"?'
'I don't know it.'
'Music by John Stainer, 1841â1901,' I said. 'Words by William Sparrow-Simpson, 1860â1952.'
I squeezed some sheet music between his instruments.
'Please don't do that, Father. I won't be patronised in this way every time I see you.'
'Mr Dorran, I'm not asking for the "Stabat Mater".'
'Yes, you are!' he said. 'In the context,
yes, you are!
What can only be described as a look of utter hatred suddenly crossed the good man's eyes. He flushed and plucked a string on one of the violins, as if to mark the taking of a bold decision. 'Has it ever occurred to you that you don't belong here, Father David?'
'Well, of course, Mr Dorran,' I said. 'I've never been sure I belong anywhere in the world. Perhaps you'd take pity on me therefore and spare me the terrible agony of having to listen to seven hundred impressionable young people singing "The Beautiful Month of May".'
'That is typical arrogance,' he said.
I could see Mr Dorran was fighting to restrain some coarser instinct. He looked at me as people do when they think they see through you. 'Can I remind you,' he said, his jaw slackening, 'this is a comprehensive school. You may find it difficult to imagine just what that means, Father. It is a
com-pree-hen-sive.
We have to make certain allowances here. This is not Eton College.'
'Heaven forfend,' I said.
'Pardon?'
'That really would be something to worry about.'
'You know what this town is? It's an unemployment black spot. I don't think you understand what has happened here. The factories are empty. The churches are empty.'
'Ah, Mr Dorran,' I said. 'But the heart is full.'
The Head of Music conducted a symphony of derision into a single sniff. 'You should take a leaf out of Bishop Gerard's book,' he said. 'He comes here with the crook and everything else, but you know what? He sits down at the piano and plays Boyzone to get the pupils' attention.'
'Yes,' I said, 'but Gerard has a much larger range
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