‘Well, it’s a mutually beneficial transaction. I liked what Sister… Sister… Whatshername… Kevin?’
‘Kennedy.’
‘I liked what Sister Kennedy called it. A Good Samaritan. As I said on the phone, I have found one. Him. A corporate Good Samaritan…’
‘Is that not oxymoronic?’ I said, smiling.
‘There is nothing moronic about this plan, nothing at all,’ he said, defensively. ‘Are you…?’ He eyed me carefully. ‘Are you familiar with the corporate world, Ms Thomas?’
‘Not particularly,’ I said. ‘I’m mean I’m aware it exists.’
‘Well,’ he smiled indulgently at me, ‘it’s about deals. The art of the deal, heard of that?’
I nodded. ‘Vaguely.’
‘So, he gives the school – us – the money and we give him a tiny little piece of land. It’s worthless really. Hard to develop. He may or may not be able to build on it. But the point is, he wants to give back.’
‘Well, you don’t just give money for nothing. Take the opera for example. Say I’m a bank. Do I just give money to some piddling little opera company and get nothing back? Or do I give some cash to the aforementioned piddling operatics in exchange for something?’
‘Ummm….’
‘Exactly! I get something back. Tickets, nice seats for Beethoven or what have you. Or the bank’s name on the programme. There’s always something in return. And it’s nice to have a box at the opera or your name saying how generous you are. It creates good feeling. Are you with me?’
‘I think so.’
‘What if you are a charity… do I just give you money no questions asked because I am a good and kind and nice bank?’
‘You might…’
‘No… I won’t. Because I’ll need something back for the taxman. I need a thank you. My name in the paper saying I gave x amount of yo-yos. Catch my drift?’
‘Not really.’
‘Say you’re a school,’ he was now speaking with exaggerated slowness.
‘We are.’
‘Great! Perfect. Well, I’m a developer and I want to give you money because I’m a good person. Do I just give you the money?’
‘Yes?’
‘No! I give you the money, but you give me something in exchange.’
‘Like a plot of land?’
‘Like a worthless, rocky, brambly plot of land.’
‘Brian, if he was to build on it, would we have a say how the land was to be used? A community centre, I was thinking… or perhaps an elderly person’s drop-in place…’
‘Well, I am sure our GS, as I like to think of him, would be open to suggestions like that.’
Was this all BS rather than GS, I wondered. But land did get sold. In fact, years ago, some of the school was sold to developers and a housing estate, where many of our pupils lived, was built. There was precedence.
‘Tabitha, I think we should call another meeting of the board of governors and we can then take a vote. I have a feeling that it might make sense to them,’ he said, implying it was my lack or intelligence that was leading to my slightly muted reaction.
‘Who is this man?’
‘Our Good Samaritan? Freddie Boyle is his name. I’ve been looking into his background and asking a few of my contacts, and he’s entirely kosher. Made a mint and now wants to give back. Make sure St Paul waves him through when it comes to his turn. Or maybe he’s just got a heart of gold. He’s going to give us 20,000 notes, no questions asked. The land is worth half, if that.’
‘I think I might just get some advice… Ask an estate agent to come round.’
Brian looked hurt, crestfallen even. ‘An estate agent… but…’ His bottom lip stuck out. ‘I thought I was looking after this for the school… I wanted to do this for the Star of the Sea, for Dalkey. I really believe with this project that we are giving back, you know? I’m all about the giving back. Anyway, it’s not about selling the land for the highest price, we probably could get a better price. Some fool estate agent would convince you that it was worth ten times the price, but they’d be wrong. There’s so much granite in there and it’s such an awkward site. So that’s why this Freddie is such a good fit for us…’
‘Maybe…’ I tried to think clearly. ‘Would there be a contract that we could sign, stating all this.’
‘Think, Tabitha,’ he commanded. ‘Think of the smiling faces of the little children glowing in the collective light of 100 iPads. Think of all that learning that is contained in a tiny computer. Like a million books all folded up and squashed inside, all ready for the pupils of Star of the Sea to read. Rest your mind on that image, Tabitha. And we’ll see what Sister… Sister Thingy and the other ones have to say.’
‘Sister Kennedy,’ I reminded him. ‘And Noleen Norris and Brendan Doherty,’
‘Indeed.’ The crocodile smile again. ‘But personally, I think it is the best action for the school going forward and I am delighted, in my humble way, to be part of it.’ He stood up and saluted me, his little child’s hand flicked his forehead. ‘Roger and out.’
‘Roger,’ I found myself repeating. But just then, there was a noise from outside, a chanting from somewhere.
‘Oi, teacher, leave those trees alone!’
From my window I could see a small group of people were holding placards: Save Our Trees, Squatters Rights For Squirrels and Developers Deliver Doom. A scraggly, ragtag band of people, they were. I peered closer. Ah! There was Nellie Noonan, Nora’s friend from swimming; there was a youngish man with dreadlocks and an old fleece; an older, bearded chap, with tiny glasses, wizened in stature and dressed professorially in a shabby brown suit; and a young woman dressed in a flowery dress, an old man’s cardigan and a shaved head. And finally, there was an older woman with long hair and a scraggly Barbour. My mother.
‘Oi teacher, leave those trees alone… Oi teacher, leave those trees alone.’
What fresh hell was this?
*
My mother. My mother!
I marched out, furious. They all turned to watch me storming over and their chanting petered out and then Nora began again and they picked up their shout.
‘Oi, teacher…’
I fumed, as I speed-walked towards them. Was there nothing my mother wouldn’t do? I’d told her to keep her nose out. And there she was, eyes gleaming. She had scented something. A protest. Her favourite thing in the world. A couple of picnic chairs had been set out and there was a small blue gas stove where a kettle was boiling away. They looked like they were settling in for the long haul.
Hands on my hips, I stood in front of them, as they looked at me expectantly, pleasantly even.
‘What the hell do you think you are doing?’ I hissed at Nora. ‘This is just another of your protests… whales, salmon, nuclear weapons. All your various bandwagons. And now this! A tiny plot of land which is of no value to anyone. Except us. We might be able to get something from this. Something for the school. How could you? How could you embarrass me like this?’
She smiled at me. ‘Tabitha,’ she said, patiently. ‘It’s not personal. But we have a moral obligation to protest.’
‘Who’s we?’
‘Us.’ She nodded at the group. ‘The Dalkey Wildlife Defenders.’
They all nodded, one or two gave me a little wave.
‘Nellie and I played in the Copse as children and this is a matter we can’t let go. It’s not against you and your decisions. It’s about trees being in peril and when they are, we have to act. It’s what we do.’ She smiled at me as though that was all that needed to be said, and I would walk away fully accepting her need to protest.
Oh no. Oh no, she wouldn’t do this to me. She had spent her life, swanning about saving the habitats of geese or snails in sand dunes or on that bloody peace camp. She wasn’t going to do this here. And now. With me.
‘Mum, there is no peril,’ I insisted, vaguely considering the alternative nostril breathing technique that Clodagh had demonstrated to keep calm. ‘We are going to have a say in how the land is used, going forwards. I have suggested a community centre and they will take our considerations fully into the plans.’