And the Blessings of a Good English Teacher.

The life of the writer must begin somewhere. With biro chewing, gazing into space, the odd shout of eureka! And sometimes that’s the way it keeps going. In searching for the source of all this pleasure and pain, I find myself crossing that rubicon, the Long Mile Road to be precise. Time to enter the Land of the Christian Brothers, in the shadow of the looming tower of Drimnagh Castle.

It was there that the cogs began to engage, targets were set, adjudication became official and formative. Entering secondary school, my English teacher up to Intermediate, or Junior, Cert, was a Mister Diggin. Affectionately known as Milo, English class was a pleasure. Since most of our education was through Irish, it gave us a chance to speak and think, and write, in our first language. This might not always have been such a pleasure for Milo. But he could hide his pain, and was one of those genuine enthusiasts for the education of his charges.

Somewhere in first year, I think, a school essay was set to which I applied myself with the usual rigour. That is, let’s see how quickly I can get this done before turning to the real stuff of life: football, rock music. Drink, feck, girls was a bit later. The essay was dutifully prepared and I gave it to my sister to read through. I imagine that would have been at her insistence. Marie was my eldest sister, though both were of keen literary mind, Joan would have been diffident regarding my literary output. Marie was less than impressed. Yes, she said, it’s dutiful, but dull.

I was dismayed. Surely these things just had to be done. Don’t tell me they had to be good as well. So, now I had to apply such unused muscles as thought and skill to my school essay. And what for? The praise of my sister; was I mad? Still I did apply myself and carved out an essay that was full of incident, funny and concise. I cannot recall the gist of it. It was the usual what I did on my summer holidays or some such. But with feeling

Then, disaster. Milo was so pleased that he read it out. This excited a predictable response from my peers. Surreptitious slurping sounds, fingers drawn across throats, gimlet eyes. Oh no, I had joined the other side. Now, now, relax; no-one jumped me. It was a good class that looked out for one another, and I also managed to keep immune from physical ragging by cultivating ‘the look’. At the same time, and being typically racked by angst, I decided it was best not to push it.

I intended for my stories to take a downward slant, so Milo wold not feel the need to hold me up as an example every time. What I needed to do was to make them less and less acceptable, more and more outrageous. The nadir was reached, I think, when prompted to fill the roll of neighbourhood character, and fabricated a drunken Scotsman straight out of central casting. The details are vague but I am sure salacious, involving certain stereotypes of men and kilts. Milo didn’t baulk at this, but fortunately my standing was raised amongst my peers.

Milo was also fond of proclaiming his love for the sacred triumvirate of Shakespeare, Picasso and Sinatra. I, and my classmates, didn’t entirely share the joy. Oh, but you will, he said. True, up to a point. At least, two out of tree ain’t bad.

He put to me to more refined tasks. We were doing Wuthering Heights at the time, and he commissioned me, given the now dubious nature of my essays, to draw a picture of the house. Which I did, making a ruggedly gothic affair set atop the windswept moor, as might be seen by someone approaching over a nearby rise.

It was successful, as was that first three year period in secondary school. Ultimately I’m still bound by that loop. The picture tells the story, and then the story reveals the picture.