W2F-020 After the Match-0.txt
AFTER THE MATCH

They burst into the reception hall of Old Woodleigh, fists raised in triumph, the growing waaahh sound which had been audible from a distance now deepening, distorting their faces as they fell en masse through the double doors. The opposition had been trounced in a stunning display of muscle and airborne muck at the Leinster Schools Rugby Final.

Helen stood with Doreen and Katy, the wives of two other Bellemont teachers. Waaahhh... The women shifted uncomfortably, taking pointedly casual sips from their drinks as they watched the boys close in around the two trainers. Helen studied Adam's face. He was in seventh heaven. This was the moment when all the extra time spent training the young beasts - the late nights, the pep-talks and sessions which had intensified during the last, vital weeks - suddenly added up. She was pleased for him, the happy glow on his face some sort of pay off.

'Isn't if marvellous for them!' Doreen giggled over the G and T, adjusting a frothy pink blouse at the neck as the tangle of cheering bodies suddenly shifted in their direction.

'Absolutely!' Katy agreed. 'You must both be thrilled skinny.'

'Oh it's great to see them win. As a mother I know just what it means to the boys,' Doreen said, eyes shining with pleasure.

'Aren't you thrilled, Helen?' said Katy again, more for something to say than in true speculation.

'Delighted. Delighted,' said Helen, distracted by the whooping and back-slapping.

'Of course it's your first time so it 'll seem very new,' Doreen whispered. 'But when Adam has worked with Patrick and brought them through like this a few more times, you 'll take it all in your stride. I know when Patrick started training I was so nervous you wouldn't believe it. I mean you want them to win, you wish so desperately for everything to work out.'

'Well it has anyway.' Helen was vague, uncertain of her humour.

Patrick and Adam were hoisted shoulder-high, good-humouredly tolerating the heaving the jostling. The parents of the players mingled with the group, not quite at the centre of the knot of bodies but near enough to be hugged and kissed by sons who were out of their minds with joy. One of the boys forced the cup, a well-dented trophy chased in silver in gold, into Adam's hands.

'Ah, lads, I can't balance!' he shouted, raising the cup unsteadily. They roared again and took off at a lumbering gallop around the hall.

'Easy now lads!' Patrick called. Nobody heard. He was older than Adam, his face finely-lined, more assured.

Flustered helpers tried to seat the jubilant mob. Waiters and serving women signalled, ignored until a few of the parents and most of the teachers made their way to the dining area. The boys followed untidily. Helen groaned as one of them started the school rallying song again. It was rapidly taken up as they filtered through. She was starving. The afternoon on the terraces at Lansdowne had been freezing, hail and wind whipping in under the stand till they were drenched. They were proper ninnies to have taken so much trouble with their appearances, she thought, observing the other women. Like fresh, dewy flowers, individually not so interesting, but as a group colourful and strangely expectant. Like girls at their first party. The older ones were muffled in furs and fine wool. Because it was a day which had promised victory, she 'd had her hair plaited, and wore a new navy and green dress bought specially for the occasion. It had cost too much but she liked it and Adam would find the effect exotic and interesting among all the matrons.
'Womba, womba, womba,' the slow chant began. She tried to look benevolent and pleasant as she took her seat and watched the team and their followers crash their way down along the tables. 'Ing-gang-oolie-oolie-oolie-oolie,' they growled, reminding her of visiting rugby teams from New Zealand whose ritual dance was intended to intimidate the opponents. One of the boys grabbed a seat opposite her and sat down, panting.
'Jaysus!' he gasped, blinking in her direction, but she realised that he wasn't looking at her so much as drifting in and out of some hallucinatory and highly-pleasured dream. 'Ing-gang-goo.'

To her right a restless middle-aged man with lightly-tanned skin shifted continually in his seat.

'Hello, I 'm Helen Kilroy.' She introduced herself, decided she 'd best make an effort and be sociable. The bane of her life. Being sociable. Making an effort for the sake of civility. He looked at her for a moment, surprised at her presence, not expecting to be addressed.

'Oh. How d'you do? McElligot. Jim,' he mumbled, extending his hand.
'You 've a son on the team, right?'
'Wrong. Nephew,' he said, looking over her shoulder and waving at somebody.
'Good man Delaney! Knew you 'd do it, ya bloody hound!' he bellowed, taking a slug from a glass of wine. 'Chow-chow-chow,' the call went, its barking rhythm strengthening. Helen tried again. For Adam's sake she must make an effort to be amenable.
'Oh yes, I remember the boy - Ciaran McElligot is your nephew.'

'Got it in one!' he said, before stopping suddenly. 'But... but...my God, I 've just realised who you are!' He sat back, absorbing her from head to toe as if she were a vision.

'I do apologise Mrs Kilroy...Helen, that what you said?... The way things are today, I don't know what's happening. Super isn't it, you must be so proud of Adam, delighted with yourself, what?'

'Womba, womba, womba.' She wondered how to counter the flood of hyperbole. How pleased did she have to be, how could she convey her pleasure, that yes, it was wonderful?

To her left, Doreen chattered to somebody's father. She was cut out for it, Helen thought, remembering the chocolate eclairs and apple-tarts which Doreen had ferried to the team the evening before every match. 'I really feel for them,' she was saying, staring wide-eyed at the man. 'It's so hard for them in a boarding-school. I find they really need something to remind them that we all care, that somebody really, really cares.'

'Oh you 're quite right, quite right,' the man replied.

The poor bugger was bored stiff. Helen peered over Doreen's shoulder and into his eyes. He caught the look and in the flicker of an instant almost responded, stifling a smile. She looked away then. No joy there. Homo domesticus if ever she saw him. Common-or-garden species. Widespread in the British Isles. Shed its inhibitions only during summer migration. Likes the company of its own sex. Probably saves his charm for the rugby tours. Miles away from solicitous wives. Still. Best not start messing. For Adam's sake. Best behave and keep her talents for the home front or circles where they wouldn't be misinterpreted. This was no place for wit and irony. Or so much as a hint of sex. 'Yak-yak-yak-yak-yak-yak-yak,' the boys roared. 'Come on, Bellemont, win it back!' The 'Waaaahh' sound rose again as they finally settled down, plastic chair scraping and hacking on the wooden floor.

Adam and Patrick sat like young bulls, penned off at the top table, surrounded by priests, the headmaster and various significant supports, including the priest who had once found her bathing naked with Adam in the school swimming-pool. Adam had been raging afterwards. Hadn't he told her not to strip, but no, she 'd insisted, determined to tease, and had even tried to rip his swimming-trunks off, just as Goggle-face walked in. The thought of it made her suddenly splutter with laughter. The McElligot man scrutinised her.

'God but it's a tremendous occasion,' he muttered to her, as if testing her sanity.

'God but it is,' she replied glibly, giggling again in recollection of the priest's bland face as she 'd waded to the side of the pool in an attempt to conceal her flesh. Word inevitably got around. A black mark. A man who couldn't control his wife in certain situations was open to question.

During the meal, people were absorbed in the post-mortem: the earnest dissection of every moment of play, comparisons with previous finals leading to disputes, jokes, noisy debate. She could think of a million and one more interesting topics, even if it was their special rugger day. Hadn't she shown interest in other people, even in the brat sitting opposite, hadn't she tried a variety of conversational options, from current affairs to UEFA and British soccer hooligans, the Olympics? Of course it wasn't necessary to say anything to that lot. She glared balefully at her soup. More a matter of making the right sounds, little-woman chat. She listened to Doreen.

'Well of course education is important, it's one of the most important things any parent can give a child!' she was saying with vehemence.

'Quite. The wife and I like to take certain decisions too. All in all some guidance is needed and the discipline which rugger adds is damn well unbeatable,' the man beside her said.

'Discipline?' she cut in over Doreen's shoulder. 'What do you mean by discipline?' she asked, putting on an interested face, hand curling under her chin. The man looked extremely surprised.

'Aaah! Discipline? Discipline's discipline any way you look at it: the boys have to be ready to forge good careers, stand up for themselves, go for it in a tough world, that type of thing...'

A waiter slid a plate of turkey and ham before her, then another slammed a heap of mashed potatoes and liquidised sprouts on top of the meat.

'You mean externalised discipline?' Helen asked, determined to be awkward.

'What? Beg pardon?'

'The ability to kow-tow to authority and suchlike - a bit like doing things without asking why?'

Doreen nodded her head in agreement and Helen was suddenly aware that she was listening intently.

'But what else is there?' Doreen asked.

The man started to hum and haw.
'Asking why isn't always such a bally great thing, young woman, he commented, focusing at a point beyond her.
'You 'd drive yourself crazy if you were constantly questioning things, Helen,' said Doreen.

'Is that so?' said Helen.

'Yes, and the long and the short of it for me is that they get such a lot out of the experience. It stands to them, makes...' she searched for the word, '...it makes men of those boys.'

'Well said, well said.' The man applauded quietly with manicured hands.

The meal was over. There was, she thought, little so say which would have made the slightest difference. She glanced along the length of the table, making no effort to conceal an expression of boredom. Katy was chirruping with some guy from the IRFU, Doreen was flirting with the disciplinarian, McElligot brayed joyfully over his wine, his nephew smiled like an imbecile and the muscular boy opposite, who told her he was a hooker and laughed, expecting her not to understand what the term meant, rocked backwards and forwards on his chair, spooning trifle into his flaccid mouth. Adam and Patrick sat in the sanctuary of the top table. Thank God Adam wasn't a yob, one of those aleckadoos. At least the whole thing was a game for him, a sport. Rugby was rugby was rugby and if people didn't know the difference between Phase One and Phase Two possession they could forget it. Not for him the ribald tribalism that emanated from their opponents' dressing rooms prior to every match as trainers bullied mercilessly and told the team they couldn't generate a pint of piss between them. That wasn't Adam's style. Instead, Patrick had been persuaded to adopt Adam's half-baked meditation techniques, picked up as a result of some cursory reading and a trip to Bangkok some years back. The Bellemont boys had been ribbed mercilessly, with 'Bellemont Boys Levitate' and 'A Try for the Maharishi' lashed across the evening papers. All the more satisfying to prove them wrong, Helen thought, to see Adam have his glory. She was nothing if not loyal.

McElligot wheeled back in his chair as the speeches began. He had reached the point of no return, and lit a cigar, his hands unsteady. The place was noisy: boys and fathers shouted and catcalled across the room; wives and mothers smiled in complicity, the waaahh sound threatening to erupt again until the headmaster raised his right arm in a plea for silence.
