Joe arrived at the school in plenty of time for his appointment and took his son Daniel along to the gymnasium, which had been set up as an ad hoc games room for the evening. He was relieved to find that several of the boy’s classmates were already there. The children were obviously excited by the big adventure of being in school ‘after hours’ and Daniel was welcomed noisily by his friends. Satisfied that his son was going to be entertained for a while, Joe then made his way to the classroom and joined a small queue of parents waiting outside. He could see from the appointment list pinned up on the wall that things were already running well behind schedule; he began to suspect that he was unlikely to get home in time to see much of the football. The children’s work was laid out on a long table in the corridor. He started to look through Daniel’s portfolio, noting his primitive drawings and rudimentary writing efforts with a warm glow. He liked the picture called My Family and recognized with a grin his son’s summation of familial duties and responsibilities. Under the cartoon figures with their stick legs, waving arms and big heads, Daniel had written ‘This is my dad – he is silly and makes me laugh’ and ‘This is my mum – she makes my dinner and helps me to read and gives me cuddles when I am upset.’

Joe made a mental note to tell Marie about their son’s description of the family. She would laugh, no doubt, then make a remark about one, or several, of his shortcomings. He knew that Marie did not regard him as a model husband and father. If, however, push had come to shove, he was pretty sure that she would not have classified him as a bad one. She might well use the words lazy, selfish and irresponsible, to describe him, but would probably concede that his heart was in the right place. Marie was fond of telling folk that she had responsibility for most of the important domestic chores, while Joe, she said, looked after the ‘men-things’ like the TV remote control, changing light bulbs, arranging CDs in alphabetical order and catching the occasional spider.

Daniel was Joe and Marie’s only child. Although still at an early stage of his schooling –he was six years old- Marie felt it was important that he was kept on the right track. Having had a largely unsatisfactory time at school herself, she wanted to make sure that young Daniel was able to make the most of his opportunities. Marie regretted the fact that her own school life had more or less hit the rocks at the point of puberty and had been allowed to deteriorate gradually thereafter. Although she was a bright girl, a lack of due care and diligence meant that she had left school with no qualifications and jumped into a succession of lowly-paid jobs. She took her son’s education seriously, so when she signed up for the new aerobics class at her local sports centre, she had been presented with something of a dilemma. The Wednesday-night class was just what she and her sister Hannah had been looking for in order to kick-start their latest fitness-and-weight-loss regime. Unfortunately, the second week of this new class coincided with the first parents’ evening of the new term.

Daniel had had mostly glowing reports throughout his first year at school. The sweet-natured Mrs. Rutherford had clearly taken a shine to him and thought that he could do no wrong, but things had deteriorated in the boy’s second year. His new teacher was Mr. Donnachie, a plump and –Marie thought- slightly effeminate man who, it appeared, was less than dazzled by Daniel’s charms. The latest report card had stated that Daniel was a bright enough child, but under-achieving; it said that he often day-dreamed in class and that he tended to get sucked into chatter and mischief by other boys. Accordingly, Marie felt that this forthcoming chat with the teacher was going to be even more important than usual. Joe knew that Marie’s first thought would have been to sacrifice her aerobics class, but it was only into the second week of the course and she wouldn’t want to give the instructor the wrong impression; nor would she want to let her sister down. Hannah had made a bit of a fuss when Marie had originally intimated that she was considering missing the class in order to meet the teacher. Joe pretended to be reading the paper while it was pointed out, in plain language, that no man would ever think of sacrificing any of his interests for something as mundane as a parents’ evening. He had always thought that Hannah had rather more attitude than was strictly necessary.
‘It’s a man’s world right enough’ she said, hoping that her psychological ploy would have the desired effect on her sister. Maybe it did. Later that evening, Marie told Joe that she had decided to go to her class and that he would have to go along to the school to carry out the parental duties. He made a point of moaning a little when he checked the football fixtures and saw that there was going to be a Champions League game on the TV, but he knew that he would be able to see the second half, at least. For reasons that probably had more to do with Hannah’s attempted intervention, Joe put up some token resistance to the plan. He said that he didn’t like going to these things on his own. ‘How would you know that’ asked Marie, ‘when you’ve never actually been to one on your own?’ He struggled to find a response that didn’t state the obvious, that he would rather stay at home and watch the football. ‘Och, you know what I mean’ he said, ‘I’m never sure what it is you’re supposed to do’.
‘Joe, how difficult can it be?’ said Marie, exasperated. ‘You listen to the teacher talking about Daniel and then you ask questions about his schoolwork. You find out if there is anything we can do to make his schoolwork better’ she said, spoon-feeding her idiot husband. Joe knew that somewhere in the back of Marie’s mind would be a lurking suspicion that he would somehow make a complete arse of whatever it was she was asking him to do. And, of course, that made it funny to pretend to be as hapless as she clearly thought he was.
‘But should I write stuff down?’ he said. ‘What if the teacher asks me something I don’t know?’

Marie ended up writing down a number of questions she wanted him to ask the teacher. She wanted to outline the issues causing concern and then to devise a strategy for dealing with them. He could tell that she was still a bit wary of trusting this to him, knowing that he would not want to get into any potentially awkward areas. His instinct was to avoid confrontation, while Marie didn’t see the harm in a frank exchange of views. Joe’s idea of a good meeting would have been a two-minute dialogue with ‘everything is fine’ at the end of it and then a dash home to watch the football. ‘I want the truth, warts and all’ Marie said, with her serious face on. ‘I want to know what he’s good at, what he’s not so good at and I want to know who these so-called bad influences are.’ She was nothing if not thorough. ‘I want to know specifically what we can do to help Daniel improve. Can I trust you to do this, Joe?’ she asked, looking again for reassurance. ‘Och, no worries’ said Joe, checking the TV listings page.


At last it was his turn to see the teacher, as a matronly young woman and her weary-looking husband completed their consultation. As they exited the classroom and closed the door, the woman looked like she was on the verge of genuflecting as she said ‘thanks very much Mr. Donnachie, I’ll get onto that right away’. The husband looked embarrassed, as Joe thought he should. The woman had spoken to the teacher the way he remembered his mum used to speak to the doctor or the priest, with a deference that could be interpreted as charming or embarrassing, depending on your point of view. Joe was surprised that a woman who didn’t look much older than him could have such an old-fashioned attitude to authority.

He knocked on the door and then entered the classroom. He was more than a little surprised when he recognized the teacher sitting at the desk. It’s Moon Donnachie, he thought. Moon fucking Donnachie. ‘Moon’ was not his real name. He was called Moon at school because he was fat and he had an enormous behind. It must have been nearly twenty years since Joe had seen him, but there was no mistaking who it was. Joe had history with Moon. Serious history.

‘Eh … I’m here for Daniel Sweeney’ he said, unsure whether or not to acknowledge their connection. ‘Ah yes, Mr. Sweeney’ the teacher said, offering a slightly limp handshake, ‘nice to meet you. I’m Mr. Donnachie. Please have a seat. I’ve spoken to Mrs. Sweeney before, but I don’t believe we’ve met.’
Oh yes we fucking have, you fat bastard thought Joe. Moon Donnachie had been responsible for the single most traumatic moment of Joe’s schooldays. Although two decades had passed, he could recall it like it was yesterday.

It had happened during his final year at St. Mungo’s primary school. On a day not unlike any other, Joe had asked for permission to leave the classroom, partly because he needed to pee and partly because he wanted a five-minute skive. After he had taken as long as he reasonably could in the toilet and was returning to his classroom, he noticed Miss Mulwhinney coming along the corridor towards him. Miss Mulwhinney was the assistant head teacher; she was approximately one hundred and five years old and, rumour had it, had been a founding member of the Gestapo. People said that she had taught Hitler everything he knew. She was the classic old style, fire-and-brimstone Catholic Nazi, inspiring terror and loathing among the pupils. As was the school custom, Joe greeted her with a fawning ‘Good morning Miss Mulwhinney’ as their paths crossed in the corridor. The ancient dragon replied with a haughty ‘Good morning, young man’. She must have been in a good mood, Joe thought, since she didn’t bite his head off or disembowel him on the spot. As she passed him, he happened to turn back and notice another pupil coming along the corridor in his wake. It was Moon Donnachie. Moon was in the year below Joe. His big brother was Peter Donnachie, who was captain of the school football team, all-round top dog and glamour boy. Even though Joe hardly knew Moon, except by his weight-inspired soubriquet, it seemed like too good an opportunity to miss. There was clearly some entertainment to be had, so, entirely for the other boy’s benefit, Joe began to do an odd little dance behind Miss Mulwhinney’s back, miming what looked like an approximation of an out-of-control puppet. The ancient teacher had stopped Moon on his way along the corridor. As she talked to him, unaware of the comedy capers going on behind her, Joe caught the plump boy’s eye and started hopping around like a drunken village idiot, making faces at the teacher. As the conversation continued, Joe expanded his repertoire of antics, first sticking two fingers up from each hand and then simulating an extravagant masturbatory act. It was the sort of thing that he did now and again; as something of a class clown, he was a popular child with his peers, but less so with certain teachers, who probably found his low-level smart-ass disruption more irksome than the occasional apocalyptic flake-job. Moon, the privileged audience of one, stifled his laughter as he continued to talk with Miss Mulwhinney, one eye on Joe as he continued to cavort. After another moment or two, satisfied that his corridor antics had brightened up someone’s morning, Joe returned to his classroom. It was all in a day’s work.

Ten minutes later, he was sitting half-listening to his teacher -Miss Dolan- going on about European capital cities when, without a word of warning, the angel of death came calling. The classroom door opened and Mr. McDonagh -the head teacher- walked in, looking very grave indeed. Unscheduled classroom appearances by Mr. McDonagh were only slightly less rare than sightings of his holiness the pope distributing jazz mags in the boys’ toilet.
‘I’m sorry Miss Dolan’ the headmaster said. ‘I’m going to have to interrupt this lesson because something terrible has happened’.
Immediately, Joe knew in the pit of his stomach that he had been grassed by Moon. He felt the blood drain from his legs. ‘There is a boy in this classroom who has just committed the most appalling offence against a dearly-loved member of staff’. Mr. McDonagh looked straight at Joe and let his gaze linger on him for several seconds, more than enough to let him know that he was dead, disemboweled, absolutely fucking nailed to the wall. Joe was eleven years old at that point and he knew that if he lived to be one hundred and eleven, nothing that ever happened to him could be quite as scary or as humiliating as this. The headmaster continued with his solemn peroration. ‘Miss Mulwhinney has been working at this school for nearly a quarter of a century and has been loved and respected by generations of pupils. She is an absolute pillar of the community and does a huge amount of voluntary work for the church and yet, children, this particular boy -one of your colleagues in this very classroom- has seen fit to make lewd and obscene gestures behind her back’. McDonagh paused for effect, like a judge about to don the black cap and announce the death sentence. The silence was deadly, deafening, sickeningly electric. ‘Lewd and obscene’ he emphasized those words like he could hardly believe that he was being forced to accommodate them in his mouth. ‘Lewd and obscene gestures behind the back of a woman who is the very epitome of decency, who has not one malicious bone in her body. Is that any way to treat someone who has worked tirelessly and selflessly for the benefit of children in this school?’
He turned his gaze, once again, to Joe and let the moment linger for maximum dramatic impact. ‘Mr. Sweeney, would you care to come out to the front of the class?’ Joe somehow managed to make his way to the front, even though his legs had turned to jelly. ‘Have you anything to say?’ asked the headmaster. Joe could feel his lip tremble, but he managed to force out two syllables: ‘No sir’.
‘What was that, boy?’ barked McDonagh, milking the moment for all it was worth. Joe could feel a tear run down his cheek. He could not believe that that fat bastard Moon had grassed him. How could someone be so evil? ‘No sir’ he repeated, ‘nothing’.
Then, in front of thirty of his fellow pupils, Joe was given four lashes of Mr. McDonagh’s trusty leather strap. He was in tears as he made his way back to the seat. His hands stung like hell, but the real hurt was in the betrayal and the humiliation. He couldn’t figure out why McDonagh would want to hit him as hard as that with his belt, in front of his mates and all the lassies in the class. And why, Joe thought, did that fat cunt report me to the headmaster anyway? For the remainder of the day, he resolved to kill Moon and thought about the various ways he might make him suffer. But then he remembered that the slimy one was the brother of the sainted Peter Donnachie who, in addition to being the school golden boy, was also said to be a bit useful in a scrap. It wasn’t fair.


Sitting across now from his son’s teacher, the all-grown-up Mr. Donnachie, Joe recalled the entire episode in a flash. There was no doubt it was him. Moon bastarding Donnachie, the informant. The collaborator. The slimy cunt.
‘So, Mr. Sweeney’ said Donnachie, ‘did you get a chance to go through Daniel’s portfolio?’ Joe replied in the affirmative; he had had plenty of time to go through it while waiting outside. His appointment, after all, was supposed to have been half an hour ago.

‘Although some of his work is very … imaginative’ said Donnachie, ‘I’m afraid that Daniel’s performance in class is not entirely satisfactory. He tends to be a bit chatty and he loses concentration a bit too easily.’

It would be nice if you could at least start by accentuating the positive thought Joe. He harboured dark thoughts of revenge, but knew that Marie would kill him if he got into an altercation with the teacher. He had to gather his wits, work out an appropriate strategy. ‘He’s six years old’ he said, with a gentle shrug.
‘All of this’ he continued, gesturing to the body of the classroom, ‘is still quite new to him.’

Moon frowned and said: ‘Yes, but other children have managed the transition.’
Joe replied, with what he hoped was just the right level of assertiveness, ‘I’m sure his concentration levels will improve in time.’ In his head, he added you fucking nancy boy.

‘Yes, I would hope so’ said the teacher. ‘He really will have to work at cutting down on the chatter. If we gave marks for chatting to friends he would be up there at the top of the class.’ He finished the sentence with a smile, but Joe knew it was just a professional move; the mechanical gesture that disarmed you while the cold eyes locked on to their target.

‘Well’ said Joe, ‘I’m happy that he is a sociable wee boy and that he is reasonably popular with his peers.’ I can’t believe this fucker doesn’t even remember me he thought. Or does he remember me and he is just too ashamed to admit it? He wasn’t sure which of those options upset him most.
‘Yes’ said Donnachie, ‘if we gave out a prize for being the class clown, I think Daniel would be the bookies favourite’.

‘Well, maybe you should give a prize to the class clown’ said Joe. Donnachie just looked at him blankly. ‘It’s an important role’ Joe added, but he didn’t really know where he was going with any of this. His impulse was to punch Moon in the face, but he was thinking: This guy is in charge of my boy five fucking days a week. He could make his life a misery. This guy has … power.

‘Yes … quite.’ said Moon eventually, aware now that the situation had taken on something of a confrontational aspect. He was clearly weighing Joe up, wondering just how irksome or even dangerous he might be. ‘But it’s also important to be able to read and write’ he said, ‘and to pay attention when those in a position of authority are talking.’

Authority over wee kids thought Joe. I’ll bet that’s all you can manage.
‘I hear what you are saying Mr. Donnachie, but I happen to think that school is about more than learning to read and write’ said Joe. ‘It’s about learning to interact with other human beings’. And, he thought, about learning to be a decent human being, you fucking cocksucker.
‘The child who can make his friends laugh’ he added, ‘can help bring a degree of balance to the day, don’t you think?’
Joe really wanted to nail Moon for his crime, but he thought that it might make him look like a sad loser to drag up stuff from twenty years ago, like he had been nursing some pathetic grudge all this time. But regardless of what had happened back then, it was clear now that Donnachie just wasn’t a pleasant character. Joe thought: this guy doesn’t really like kids.

Moon stood –or rather, sat- his ground. ‘I’m not disagreeing with you, Mr. Sweeney. I just think Daniel has to learn that there is a time and a place for everything.’ He appeared to sense that Joe was tensing himself for a prolonged exchange and added: ‘To be honest, I’m a little concerned about three or four of the boys in Daniel’s group. There’s a bit of a gang mentality about them. And Daniel, ultimately, is more of a follower than a leader’.

‘The playground can be an unforgiving environment’ said Joe. ‘And each child will develop his or her own coping mechanisms’. He knew that if Marie ever got wind of this conversation, her own coping mechanism would involve removing his testicles and putting them in a jar on the mantelpiece.
‘But the classroom is a place to learn’ said Donnachie, ‘not to socialize. Not to amuse your friends.’

‘The classroom is part of the school’ said Joe. ‘Surely you’d agree that anything that happens in here has implications for what happens out there. And vice versa.’

Moon shuffled some papers. He was looking to close off this line of inquiry sooner rather than later. ‘Shall we talk about Daniel’s actual schoolwork, Mr. Sweeney?’

What a fucking tone thought Joe, talking to me like I’m one of his pupils.
‘I would argue that relating to those around him and coping with change is part of his school work, Mr. Donnachie’ he said.

The teacher looked down at his notebook and drummed the fingers of his right hand on the desk. He wanted out of this conversation. He decided to try another angle. ‘Look. I’m not saying that Daniel and his chums are bad kids, of course. It’s just that they seem to inhabit their own wee world, a wee gang with their own rules. They are as thick as thieves. All for one and one for all.’

‘I’m glad to hear that my son has a well-developed sense of loyalty’ said Joe, sensing the opportunity to make his point. ‘Don’t you think that’s something to be admired, Mr. Donnachie? Wouldn’t you value that in a friend or a colleague? Or even an acquaintance? A sense of loyalty?’

There was an uneasy pause before Donnachie, looking a little confused, said
‘Of course. Look … I’m not entirely sure what you’re driving at here, Mr. Sweeney.’

Joe looked out the window.

He wanted to say that it was more important for his child to be loyal to another child than to be loyal to some concept of order within the school. He wanted to say that he would prefer his son to be an average pupil rather than the sort of kid who would grass someone to the authorities in order to score a few brownie points. He was glad that Daniel was giving this self-important prick cause for concern in the classroom. Three cheers for the human spirit.
But Moon would care nothing for that. He was just obeying orders. To him, Daniel was just a number sitting at a desk, another empty vessel into which he would dump the prescribed amount of information. You know nothing about my beautiful boy, thought Joe.

He wondered whether there was much difference between Moon Donnachie, the child-informant, and Mr. Donnachie, the uptight and controlling teacher. Had Moon been evil or just inadequate, desperate to impress those in authority? What would he do to Daniel now if Joe offended or upset him in some way? Joe had been severely punished for his misdemeanours, but times had changed and at least Daniel would never be a victim of corporal punishment. He couldn’t imagine allowing anyone to hit his child. How could his parents have let it happen to him? No kid deserved to be beaten and humiliated in front of his friends. He thought about his son sitting in this classroom five days a week. Would Moon really be horrible enough to make things even more difficult for the boy? Or was he just a regular guy, trying to make the best of what he had, trying to do his job, trying to get as many kids as possible through the curriculum?

Joe put his hand in his pocket and fiddled absently with the car keys, the feel of them providing a lifeline to the real world, the comfortable world outside the classroom. He could feel the piece of paper that Marie had given to him with specific instructions on what to ask.

After a moment that was about three-quarters of the way to becoming an awkward silence, Joe looked at the teacher and said: ‘Is there anything … specific that my wife and I can do to help get Daniel’s schoolwork up to speed?’

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