Latin Class

• Father Dunstan entered the classroom like a bird,
• think heron, or crane, long creaking legs
• hidden under his Franciscan habit.
• He slowly placed the Latin textbook
• like a box of pearls, centered precisely
• on the table.

• ‘Now, my angelic charges,
• I have a secret to impart to you.’
• He raised a hand, as though in warning,
• and rushed over to the windows,
• peering out, pushing one open,
• leaning this way and that.

• Satisfied, he came back to the table.
• ‘If any of you is wearing a wire,
• now’s the time to squeal, spill the beans.
• If I find out later . . . What was that?!’
• Slowly on tip-toe towards the door.
• He paused, holding the handle,
• ear against the jamb,
• then swung the door dramatically wide,
• jumped out into the corridor,
• looking right and left.
• No one snooping today.
• This was routine for our Latin class.

• ‘O.K. I don’t want it to get beyond 
• the walls of this room,’ a pause, 
• ‘or the ceiling and floor, naturally. 
• Now, internally, swear you will tell no one 
• what I am about to tell you.’ 
• He gave us a few moments, 
• then stage-whispered in an awed voice, 
• ‘The secret is about some irregular 
• uses of the pluperfect tense.’ 

• At the end of the class, he swept up his book, 
• strode to the door, paused again: 
• ‘Whatever you do in life, boys, 
• never underestimate the pluperfect!’ 
• I had maintained, and maintain, my sworn vow 
• so can’t, of course, tell you what we learned that day. 

Photo by Gabriella Clare Marino on Unsplash