Perspective

Sheltering from the September down pour Jacob Callaghan cradled a cigarette between his fingers. Throughout his fifty years of monastic life, it had been his one and only vice. Young, trendy people stepped around him as they made their way out of the rain and into the gallery, eyeing him as he took another drag. He knew it was a dirty habit, but he had done it for so long now the stress of quitting would probably put too much strain on his heart.

Thinking back too why he had started made him laugh, he was a new young teacher at a prestigious boy’s school and when he had been spotted by one of them smoking before morning mass he had unofficially been known as the “cool monk.” Different to the stuffy puritans they were so used to, in truth that had been his second cigarette ever and would otherwise have been his last.

He didn’t do it for the sake of coolness anymore, in fact since he had received a letter from a former pupil, he had smoked more than usual. It wasn’t until the September of 1996 that St Benedict’s had accepted any female students, and his art class remained free of them until the year 2000. Twenty-five boys to just two girls. It wasn’t the first time a former student had reached out to him after years, and he had always made the effort to respond back. There was just something about this young woman’s letter that unsettled him.

Dear Father Callaghan,

You may not remember me, but I am a former student of yours. I would like to formally invite you to an exhibition I am hosting at the Thomas Nast gallery. I hope you will be able to make it and that I won’t be too much of a distraction this time!

Lydia Moore

That final line made no sense to him. He strained to remember her face out of a tidal wave of students when a sharp pain caused his hand to spasm. His cigarette had burned down. He let it drop before crushing it underfoot, deciding he was going in. It had been an hour’s drive. He had travelled that far for a reason even if it was unclear right now. Coughing into a closed fist he ducked inside.

The bright lights and pastels of the gallery walls were a battering on the senses. Open plan and without a single shadow seemed to be what the young craved these days. A few faces had a glint of familiarity to him, most likely some of his former pupils had also been sent invites. He adjusted his clerical collar, lately had had worn it less often. But it always commanded a certain respect he had found hard to retire.

He shook his jacket, accidently spraying a nearby crowd. When he put a hand up by way of apology, one of them shot a look at him. Disgusted, there was no other word for it. Jacob put it down to the disrespect of today’s youth, he had educated young minds for more than forty years and was glad he retired when he did. Young people now would’ve have laughed at the thought of being taught by a monk.

The hardwood floor creaked and groaned as people poured over the work, for such a good turnout the gallery was oddly quiet. Must be some truly captivating art on display, Jacob thought to himself. He decided to start on the far-left corner and work his way around, when he stopped and stared. Muddy browns and tans against a violent splash of red drew his eye.

He walked over to inspect the painting, perfect rows of school desks filled with young boys sat forward. Their faces frozen in cavorting laugher, not the innocent joy Jacob would have associated with boys of that age. Something in the wild eyes and flashing teeth conjured images of starving hyenas.

At the head of the class, an almost ethereal and vampiric figure loomed, casting a shadow on a small, terrified looking young girl. The dark beings large, spindled fingers outstretched toward the severe scarlet of the girl’s uniform. She had drawn her arms up to her chest, resignation and fear written on her face. His clerical collar grew tighter around his neck as old memories assaulted him.

Mid semester of 2000. Chalk in hand he was sketching the outline for that days lesson, on perspective. The nattering boys grew quiet, something that never happened until he cleared his throat. At the door his latest student stood, lost was the only way to describe her.

“Miss Moore, late on your first day? Well boys, looks like we’ve been sent a distraction.”

“Sent a distraction.” A man stood next to him murmured, reading the small plaque underneath. A chill crept down Jacob's spine, he had known what he had meant, an interruption to the lesson. He never wanted to frighten the girl, he had been supportive of girls joining the school, had even discussed it with some of the students who were against it. He had tried to treat her just the same as the boys, a presence that commanded a little fear and a lot of respect.

He had recalled wanting to apologise, he was certain. During his career he called a few students to his office to clear the air if he felt he had gone overboard, especially if it had been in front of their peers.

His throat was tight, whilst deep in thought Jacob realised his hand had crept up around his throat covering his collar. He wanted to quietly remove it before coming to his senses. Why should he? Under his tutelage most of his students had become good, some great. He was going to leave. Throw the invitation in the nearest bin and forget the name Lydia Moore.

It wasn’t a simple as that. The piece had drawn quite a crowd, and for the first time in decades Jacob Callaghan felt vulnerable. Like they had some right to scrutinize him, judging him without ever knowing what he had sacrificed for the children of others. He had none of his own. He had given them everything he had. Drawing his shoulders back he squeezed through the crowd, keeping his eyes firmly fixed ahead of him.

His exit was clear, but rage had begun to build behind his eyes bringing on one of his headaches. By what right? I was her art teacher, and she’s built a career out of it. Why such resentment? He forced himself to calm down, closing his eyes to the overhead lights and taking in a deep breath. He needed another cigarette.

As he fumbled in his blazer pocket for his lighter, he was confronted by another painting. One in a similar vein to the first. Again, the threatening figure in swirling black robes dominated the piece, with contorted rage on its face it extended a long arm over a dark chasm. Tight in its grip it held a small girl by the wrist, her tiny legs dangled loosely. Her face looked to be pleading. This one she had titled “by what right?” The words echoed in his head. He had said them once before.

“By what right do you question my teaching methods?” He bellowed, towering over the head of pastoral care.

“We’ve had a complaint from the girl’s parents, she’s sick with worry Jacob.” He explained in a hushed voice. They were both stood outside the classroom, but he knew every pupil could hear him, he was making sure of it.

“Why don’t we see what exactly she finds so distasteful about my lessons then?” He turned to renter the classroom when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s not the Victorian era, just ease up. It can’t be easy for her in a class full of boys.”

“I don’t tell you how to wipe the snot from under the first year’s noses do I John?”

With that he shoved open the classroom door so forcefully the hanging paintings shuddered.

“Lydia Moore? To the front of the class please.” He ordered.

John had followed him in and was at his elbow.

“Mr Callaghan please…”

“Lydia Moore!”

She was alone at her usual table, head down, hands shaking. In five quick strides he was across the classroom beside her.

“Is my style of teaching not to your liking Miss Moore?” When she offered him no reply he took hold of her wrist, pulling her out of her seat.

“Maybe you’d like to come up and tell the rest of the class why?”

His own wrists suddenly felt very tender. The idea he had put his hands on a student and didn’t recall disturbed him. But he couldn’t deny it, he had traumatised the poor girl. Letting go of the lighter in his jacket pocket he scanned the room, looking for any sign of her. A sea of people chatting and laughing all merged and began to sway.

“Excuse me?” He asked a passerby. His heart was racing, if he didn’t sit down soon, he knew he would collapse. The man ignored him, brushing away Jacob’s outstretched hand to join his partner. With nobody to help him he stumbled into one of the benches hard. Catching the corner and steadying himself. One of the waiting staff eyed him, he gave her a smile she didn’t return.

Jacob clutched his chest and breathed deep, not wanting to lift his head. Certain he couldn’t cope with anymore memories returning to him. Instead, he examined the wood floor. Tracing the splits and knots with his eyes.

“I did the best I could for them.” He muttered to himself. “More than the monks who taught me.”

During his own school years he had been hit with cane’s, locked in broom cupboards for entire days and had been threatened with things so foul he had locked them away in his head forever. When he decided to go into teaching, he had made himself a promise to be better than them.

Who are you trying to convince? A voice in his head asked him. He forced himself off the bench, it was common of the artist to give a small speech. Usually mingling for a short while afterward before hopping over to a nearby bar. Jacob was sure he could catch her before then.

As he did in every crowd Jacob stood a head taller. A helpful tool when cultivating his no-nonsense approach to teaching. He walked the length of the gallery, his eyes landing on each woman he passed. Only one stood out to him, he would’ve passed right over had it not been for a scarlet ribbon in her hair, the same colour of the old St Benedict’s blazers.

Champagne in hand, she was chatting with a handful of guests. Her eyes sparkled whilst she listened, captivated by their musings. The sight of her filled him with pride. The teenager so painfully shy she struggled with eye contact was now recalling a story, delighting the semi-circle of people formed around her. The crowd burst into laughter.

He wasn’t going to catch her alone. Young artists and fans were all vying for her attention whilst she did her best to accommodate. He reached out to touch her elbow, an old habit, or the urgent need to explain himself, before quickly withdrawing. Feeling exposed Jacob simply stared as she chatted, he could hear what they were saying but couldn’t process the words.

“Father Callaghan?”

He snapped him out of his stupor. Lydia Moore had turned toward him, offering a smile.

“Miss Moore, you look very nice this evening.”

“Kind of you to say,” she looked down at her dress, “did you spot my ribbon?”

She reached up and ran it through her index and middle finger. He tried for an enthusiastic response, but his voice caught, instead he nodded. The people around him felt stifling, why couldn’t they give them a few moments alone? He wanted to explain, even if she hated him.

“This is my old art teacher Mr Callaghan, you might have spotted him in some of my work.” Lydia said.

Jacob let out a nervous chuckle, the jovial atmosphere had dried up.

“Might I have a word alone?” He asked. Lydia thought for a moment before nodding her head.

“I’ll be two minutes ok everyone.” Lydia said.

“Your still on for a speech?” One of the bearded men who had been orbiting her asked.

“Of course.”

She took him to the black curtains at the far end of the gallery, staff members disappeared behind it. Lydia pulled back the curtain. Jacob ducked through, another pang of guilt spiking though his guts. By now he expected to be wiping thrown champagne off his face, her being so accommodating almost brought a tear to his eye.

The staff area was dim, only a few hanging bulbs and the fire exit sign for lighting. Stacked chairs, toe sack trolleys and large canvas covers had been hidden away. Staff weaved through the clutter as if on instinct, offering Lydia smiles before hitting the gallery floor.

“This is about as private as it gets around here, I’m afraid.” Lydia said. Jacob braced himself. He had jumbled together an apology but when Lydia’s friend had reminded her about a speech his mind had spiralled. Of course she’s being polite, she’s waiting to humiliate him in front of the whole crowd.

“I thought this would best be done privately.” He said, an image of him snatching her wrist made him regret the words as they left his mouth.

“It should never have happened, my treatment of you. I was under the pressure of tradition. Other monks and myself, I think we thought we were preparing you all for a hard world. When you turned up in class, a sign of changing times. It frightened me.” He paused for a reaction, but Lydia offered none.

“I should have apologized back then. I am sorry now, truly.”

When dealing with troublemakers Jacob knew a drawn-out silence could be far more devastating than a dressing down. He wished she would just unload on him, rave about his bullying incompetence. But she didn’t, she quietly considered his words.

“Thank you for your apology,” Lydia said, “but I’m not convinced that’s true.”

Jacob opened his mouth, maybe to protest or to clarify. Lydia continued before he had the chance.

“Was it really about tradition? Or did you not want the boys to think you were soft?” Her tone carried no aggression, but the words cut him deeply. For a moment the pair stood in silence, Lydia casually sipped her champagne whilst Jacob fought away tears. She checked the time on a small, elegant wristwatch before looking up at him.

“Speech time,” she said, “I’m glad you came this evening.”

She gave him a light touch on his arm before turning toward the black curtain.

“Are you going to talk about me? In your speech?”

She was disappointed at the question but smiled back.

“Stay and find out.”

She stepped out through the part in the curtain back to the gallery, a beat later an applause sounded. Jacob knew he couldn’t stay whether she mentioned him or not, he had been shattered. He strode toward the fire exit using his hip to press down on the leaver, heading out into the pouring rain. He walked until he spotted a sheltered doorway, were he dug into his blazer pocket for his lighter and cigarettes.

It was out of respect. That’s what he chose to tell himself. It was her moment and no good would come of her making it about a past bad experience. To stay would have been intrusive. For the first time that evening he was thankful for the thundering rain, its noise helped drown out the doubts that kept pulling him back to the gallery. He supposed he could live with it. Even if at his core, he knew he wasn’t the man he thought he was.