Charles Bronson, Jill Ireland and Double Ben

It’s a wet Sunday night, around 10.30, must have been January 1977. 

As the lights come back on, 350 boys file out of the hall. They have just watched the second instalment of three, as Charles Bronson singled-handedly takes out an entire neighbourhood of south Detroit. Testosterone fills the air. Plastic bins are kicked. We make our way up to our own night-neighbourhoods; the 5th. Year rooms, Main Street, the Rat’s Hole and The Hotel. 

Up in the dorms, groups huddle. The plot is discussed; the final scene in which a blood-stained Charles Bronson stumbles home to a semi-dressed Jill Ireland, being the most analysed. 

Ten minutes later, were tucked up in bed. The rain drives against the window. I check the time. 11.20. Sleep won’t come. The familiar knot in my stomach grows. Sunday night. No amount of visualisation of Jill’s satin nightdress helps (those horse-hair mattresses tend to have that effect). 

11.30. Now only eight hours. The knot hardens; eight hours to the start of the new week. And that can only mean one thing; Monday morning, 9.15. Double-Ben. Double-chemistry; the cruellest possible start to any week. 

7.50. I drag myself out of bed. The last time I looked at a chemistry book was the previous Thursday. I have a bad feeling about this one. 

Ben Sherry RTE 

9.15. Class opens in the usual way. Ben stands with his back to the desk, rapping with his knuckles against it in the now familiar alertness test…clakity clak clak. Nervously we respond with our feet; clak, clak. (Did he really do it hide a flatulence problem?) Either way, the distraction is welcome, but we know that blood-letting is not far away. 

Silence falls. I keep my head down. Eye contact is lethal. My location in the class - midway down the centre row - has been carefully selected. Avoiding the front and definitely the back. Across the aisle from me is Ollie Dyar and directly in front of me is David Nunes; the two potential Crick & Watsons of the class. The tactic - up until now - has worked pretty well; surrounding myself with such chemical talent has meant I have been free-wheeling in their slipstream and have largely gone unnoticed. 

Until this morning. 

It starts innocently enough. Some routine questions about the weekends theme-work, answered solidly by some of the reliable's at the front. But then he starts working his way down the centre row, quickly progressing to the second row, his frustration palpable, as he’s not getting the answers he expects. I throw a sideways glance at Ambrose beside me (I call him Ben to this day!). We both know danger is coming our way. Like me his head is down. And like me, I can see he’s ashen-faced. 

Without warning Ben (the real one) skips the row in front of us and decides to lob a grenade towards the back of the class. Afraid to turn around, I can now hear this grenade has landed firmly on Con Clifford’s lap and already he is on his feet, having to bring his copy book up for further scrutiny. When Ben asks him why his work has not been done, Con replies meekly (with one of the greatest ever lines) “I’ve been building up my notes.” 

Clifford is sent out of the class in shame; giving the rest of us precious minutes to get some oxygen on board and our act together. 

Ben resumes the interrogation. With horror, I now realise he has reverted to his original order, working his way down our row; the holy grail of what he’s looking for being the correct definition of the effect of potassium and magnesium ions in a water solution (how sad is that, that I remember?). 

Jill Ireland

But now, he introduces a new mind-game. As he receives each incorrect answer, there is a stretched moment of tension as each victim is dispatched. But more worryingly, the next one is now given a higher title; his way of raising the stakes. 

“Mr. Healy, would you care to help us?” Not the answer he’s looking for. Gerry is sent to the door. 

“DOCTOR Hickey?” Chickey makes a gallant effort, but to no avail. 

Dangerously close now. My non-writing hand is shaking so much I have to sit on it. And as I do so, I hear the words. Time freezes. And everything goes into slow-motion. 

“PROFESSOR O’Beirne. Would you care to share YOUR theories with us on this?” 

Time stands still. I’m on my feet but my knees are shaking. Doing my best to look intelligent. I look around. Hoping my eyes can make contact with some key allies remaining; Rossa? Mike? Greg? But it’s heads down all round. There are no life-belts being thrown my way. Sink or swim. This is a lonely place. 

I blurt out an answer. It’s a version of one I’ve heard earlier but with one grammatical change that somehow stuck in my head from my short Thursday reading; I added the words other than (Again sad, I know - that I remember)… “ hardness in water is caused by the presence of ionic solutions OTHER THAN potassium and magnesium…”. 

The answer is met with a stony silence. Ben stands expressionless, tapping the top of his desk. This could be the final straw. Full explosive mode may now be just a tap away. The tension hangs there and is stretched. 

In silence, Ben stops tapping and reaches down behind his desk. I wondered what form of humiliation was in store. Airborne missiles were not out of the question. He walks down to me and places a black metal box on my desk. He opens it and asks me to put my hand in. 

I do as he says; hardly able to place my shaking hand in it. 

I pull out two wrapped boiled sweets. 

He smiles. Shakes my hand and asks me to sit down. I do so, my heart still thumping. 

Twenty minutes later and we’re out of there. Double chemistry was followed by Pat Sheary’s history. John Fennell’s biology brought us to lunchtime. By then normal service had resumed and we were all laughing. 

The rain had stopped. After lunch, we went for a walk around the track and on the way to 2.00 class, I found the two forgotten sweets in my pocket; nothing ever tasted as good. 

By then the first day of the week was nearly over. Only six days to the next instalment of Charles Bronson and Jill. The stomach knot would be back, but I knew it would never be as bad again. After class. More laughing. With my friends. My brothers. Happy, happy days. Never to be forgotten. 

TOB. 

E mail: tobarch@gmaitobarch@gmail.com

If you have been affected by any of the issues raised in this article certain organisations may be able to provide help and advice.