W2F-011 Transformers-0.txt
Transformers in the Sky

The parents'committee meets every first Tuesday of the month and this was a Tuesday. Rain and sleet pouring out of the heavens, an east wind that would swipe your nose off. Keith had a touch of his asthma and really I didn't feel like leaving him. But needs must. I 'd been on that committee for four years and hadn't missed a meeting. Keith seemed to be alright: he 'd got his new toy to play with, one of those little transformers all the kids are mad about. He was sitting up in bed, fiddling with it, when I looked in from the hall. So I said nothing, just wrapped myself up in my old anorak and dived into the car. 'Take care!' Denis shouted from the hall door. 'One of those tyres is bald!'

'Not as bald as you!' I thought. But I just said, 'OK, will do'," since I wasn't in a joking mood.

I wish we could afford a new car or a new set of tyres that aren't bald. But we 're lucky to have any car at all.

When I got there most of the others had already arrived. There were some excuses from the usual malingerers. And one member hadn't rung but hadn't yet turned up. Kay Brown: she's a writer, married to a well-known journalist, and kept busy, I 'm sure, with all sorts of does. One of the glitterati, she is, on the telly every time you turn it on. I don't know why she bothers with the school committee, but she does. She was elected last year, the year her kid started. It's considered rather an honour to have her. Nobody would say that aloud but they don't need to. You can see it in the way they kind of wither slightly when she arrives on the scene, and start addressing their remarks to the door or the ceiling, instead of to the group. As often as not, Kay Brown doesn't turn up for meetings. And just as well, I think, sometimes.

We waited for five minutes. I talked to Mrs Johnson, Brendan's mother, about their teacher's new habit. Keith and Brendan are in the same class, third class, and their teacher has taken to keeping them away from football as punishment for misbehaviour. What he calls misbehaviour. Going to the loo without asking for 'permission'. I ask you! That was Keith's sin last week. He 'd had a carton of orange juice for his lunch as well as his free milk and he was caught short. So he wasn't allowed to go to the pitch. 'If it happens again I 'm complaining,' I said to Mrs Johnson. I was relieved, very relieved, to hear that she 'd back me up. Brendan had been kept out because he couldn't spell'spontaneous'. I mean to say. Keith has asthma. Football is good for him; he needs the air and the exercise. And the children of Ireland are overweight. A recent survey I read in the paper has found that out. And no wonder. No wonder, I said to Mrs Johnson, with one sports class a week, and then they 're taken out of it if they can't spell'spontaneous'. (Keith, by the way, is a good speller. I taught him to spell with the Doman method when he was two.) I was glad Mrs Johnson would back me up. You don't like to complain, on your own. Fear of repercussions.
p> We started at a quarter past. Mrs Fitzpatrick, Sarah Fitzpatrick's mother, read the minutes and correspondence. She's the secretary, Mrs Fitzpatrick. She's a tiny woman, only about five foot tall; she's very young and looks like a child herself. Always dressed in track suits. Even for the meetings. This night she 'd a pink one on, with a sort of embroidered peasant motif at the neck. Very girlish and nice, actually. She's efficient and quite dedicated. Last year she ran the sports almost single-handed (I helped by buying the medals and the other prizes, but she did all the organisation.) We listened to the minutes and they were passed and signed and then we got down to the business of the evening, which was the sale of work. It's our biggest project and takes a lot of organising. Publicity, collecting stuff to sell, arranging timetables, staffing all the stalls. God! Only the people on the committee realise how much work goes into it. You get no thanks either. But someone has to do the job. Last year we raised three thousand pounds. That's the average, actually. The school got a new computer and three hand-drying machines for high infants, first and second. Keith's class still has towels, unfortunately. I had my turn washing them last week. It is ironic. He seems to be running one step ahead of those drying machines all the time. Maybe this year. At a quarter to nine Kay Brown arrived. Breezed in, I should say. Literally. Her long fair hair was wind-swept, her long beige raincoat was wrapped against her body, so you could see its thin lines. You 'd think she 'd been battered about by a force ten gale or something. It hadn't damaged her make-up though. </p
'Sorry I 'm late!' she said, in her brisk deep voice. She has a man's voice actually and I think that's part of her secret. You know what I mean? People take you more seriously if you 've one of those voices. They carry better than most women's, somehow. She sat down in the seat nearest to Mr Leech, the chairperson.

'Problems!' she sighed, raising her eyebrows to the ceiling.

As if we 'd all understand.

As if nobody else had problems.

Mr O'Blatheration - that's what I always call him, privately - went on saying that we should concentrate all our efforts on the bottle stall since it was such a good money spinner. He suggested we write to breweries and distilleries and ask for contributions.

'Do you know how many national schools there are in this city?' Kay Brown turned on him. Her eyes were very bright. As per usual. They have this funny mixture of amusement and something else. I can't describe it really. Confidence? As if she knew more than anybody else in the world.

He said something that sounded like 'ahem.'

'What I mean is,' said Kay Brown, her voice changing its challenging tone. She became softer, kinder, like a mother who has been impatient with her bold child but has suddenly decided to be lenient, because she 'll get better results that way. 'What I mean is, breweries and distilleries and big companies like that are probably inundated with requests like this. They 're not going to bother sending bottles to us, one school in a thousand. They probably wouldn't even answer our letter.'

A lot of people in the room nodded, as if this was exactly what they were thinking themselves. Well, she was probably right. She always sounds as if she's right. Probably she often is. And then, as I was saying, she has this dogmatic sort of voice. And Mr O'Blatheration is a stupid old bore. I don't know why he's allowed to stay on the committee. He doesn't even have a child in the school anymore. His kids left ages ago. They 're both in the States now. Still, when she said that, I said, under my breath, 'Bitch!' I don't know why I said it.

He didn't even answer her. Oh, trust him! He went right on, saying that we should also write to all the big shops in Dublin looking for gifts for the Wheel of Fortune. As usual, he said, he would spin the wheel. He said we should do a form letter, that we could get the president of the committee and the head of the school to sign. Kay Brown laughed and looked up at the ceiling again. Mrs Fitzpatrick said: "Thank you, Mr Sheridan. We 'll consider that.'

We went on to talk about the catering. Kay Brown had ideas about that, too. She thought we should have nothing except soft drinks. It would be much more practical. We always have tea and coffee, brack and biscuits. The tea shop is the busiest part of the sale of work, after the bottle stall. Funny how drinks play such an important part, I mean in a sale of work at a primary school. But they do. The other stalls are more for show. The real money spinners are the bottle stall and the teas. They 're a nightmare to run of course. There aren't enough boilers and the room we have it in is too small. But it's part of the sale of work.

'You don't have to be traditional,' Kay Brown was saying in her persuasive voice. 'Just because something is traditional doesn't mean it's sacred. Look, I guarantee that if we sell nothing but soft drinks we 'll make exactly the same profit we make on teas, with one quarter of the work.'

Soft drinks. Just what I don't want to see more of. Denis has been on the dry for two months now, going to his AA meetings as regular as clockwork. The fridge is full of bottles of Coke. He's spending more on Coca Cola than he spent on booze. I haven't been able to get Keith a new pair of shoes. Even the children's allowance seems to disappear before I know where I am. Poor Keith, his toes will soon be out through the pair he has. If Denis keeps off the booze it 'll be worth it. If...

Mrs Murphy agreed with Kay Brown. About the drinks. Mrs Murphy has five kids in the school. She's one in nearly every class. Steps on stairs. The da is out of work but you couldn't tell it from the kids. She keeps them neat and much better dressed, half the time, than a lot of the well-off ones. Don't know how she does it; it must be a real struggle. Kay Brown is quite friendly with Mrs Murphy. She's one of the few people on the committee she talks with, actually. It's as if Mrs Murphy is special because she's so poor and brave, just like Kay Brown is special because she's so talented and beautiful. It really gets me when Mrs Murphy sides with Kay Brown. They really think all the rest of us are crap.

Suddenly something funny happens. I get this buzzing in my ears. A sort of zinging sound. And at the same time I get this picture, this weird mental image. I see myself, naked in the middle of the kitchen at home. I 'm chewing something, some herb, parsley or something, and I 'm transforming. I 'm slowly transforming into some sort of animal. A brown animal, furry. A white tail, long legs, long ears. A split lip. It's a rabbit. No. A hare. I 've turned into a hare, in my own kitchen. I hop around, timid looking, as if I 'm getting my bearings in my new shape. I jump up on the table. There's a head of lettuce lying there but I ignore it. Instead I take a flying leap and I 'm out through the window, out in the garden.

Out of sight.

Where am I off to?

When I said that thing about getting more machines, drying machines, last month, Kay Brown laughed and said: 'Do you know that those drying machines constitute a danger to the human skin? Towels are much safer. Much. Doesn't matter how many germs are on them.'

Honestly!

As soon as any other business is over I leave the room. I don't stay on for the tea and biscuits. I leave the room and I go out to the car and I drive home. It's still raining. The road is black and shiny like polythene. Reflected lights dance on it, yellow, red, green. They hop around in front of my eyes so that I can hardly see. There are other lights leaping around in my eyes, too. Shimmery lights reflected in the tears that are covering my pupils like ice melting on black tar.
