The Anatomy School

by Bernard Maclaverty

  Martin sat by himself on a wooden bench in the corridor outside Father Valerian’s room waiting his turn for confession. He checked the grandfather clock at the end of the corridor. A quarter past. His stomach rumbled emptily. He felt good about himself the way he planned this. He had done nothing much since his last confession, which was on Saturday in his own parish. He had deliberately avoided playing with himself all week because he knew he was coming on this Retreat. The boys who had been here last year told about the open confession you had to make — sitting opposite the priest in an armchair with the lights on. The idea of this man-to-man stuff put the fear of God into him. It was beyond him to tell a lie in confession. If he had wanked he would have to tell it because confession was talking directly to God. The priest was only an intermediary, like a telephone: you talked through him. You told him your sins and God heard them. How could you hide things from God? The window opposite him was stained glass but at night it was black. On the walls between the windows were some African works of art — masks, heads. Beside them pictures of Redemptorists in white soutanes standing having their photographs taken beside black men. Like the kind of thing he’d seen in the magazine The Far East. His mother had it delivered every month by the Legion of Mary. Support for the missionaries, she said, it’s the least we can do. She also said it would be one hell of a job to keep a white soutane clean throughout the length of a working day. White was a totally impractical colour for Africa.

  Martin looked at the clock again. Twenty past. What was going on in there?

  At last the door opened with a squeak and McGarrity came out. He pulled a face — half grin, half warning — and kept his hands joined as he walked away down the corridor. Martin stood up and took a deep breath. Holy fuck.

  The room was dimly lit. The door squeaked in reverse as he closed it.

  ‘Come in, boy. Over here. I’m not going to eat you.’ Martin looked around. The voice came from the armchair beside the fire. ‘Sit, man, sit.’

  Martin sat. It wasn’t an armchair but a hard, straight-backed chair. Father Valerian was wearing a purple stole around his neck and his biretta was perched on the top of his head. Martin tried to remember the formula of words he said every week but the priest wrongfooted him by asking, ‘How long is it since your last confession?’

  ‘A week, Father. Bless-me-Father-for-I-have-sinned. It-is-a-week-since—’

  ‘And …?’ There was a long silence. Martin tried to think of something to say. The priest encouraged him. ‘Has it been a clean sheet this week?’

  Martin hesitated, wondering if the question had something to do with wanking or wet dreams.

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Good man, good man. But, you know — you can always do better. A good man like yourself can benefit from a more rigorous examination of conscience. Know what I mean? On an occasion like this let’s take an overview — do a kind of overall spring-clean. Do you indulge in any morbid habits?’

  ‘What … are …?’

  ‘Self-pollution?’

  ‘I’m not sure …’

  ‘Impurity with yourself?’

  ‘I … I … I’m not sure …’

  ‘Well if you’re not sure I’m certainly not going to put it into your head.’ The priest leaned forward, his hands resting on his knees.

  ‘Father, I have bad thoughts, if that’s what you mean. Also I touch myself.’ Father Valerian sighed.

  Martin went to the chapel to say his penance and to be by himself. The place was small and dark except for the lit candles. The sanctuary lamp glowed red. He knelt at the back and concentrated, trying to pray. He clenched his eyes tightly and tried to think in words he would use himself — none of the We beseech thee O Lord stuff. If You want me to devote my life to the priesthood, to You, tell me in some way. He did not want to ask for a sign in case it happened. He did not voice the thought. Because as soon as he had voiced it the possibility existed that the place would be filled with a roaring light and he could find himself on the flat of his back with God talking to him. In Ireland it was more likely to be the Mother of God talking to him. She seemed to have priority. But on the other hand he did want some indication whether or not he had a vocation. The candle flames pulled themselves upright — long and yellow with barely a movement from side to side.

  Lord, do you want me to become a priest? Martin said into himself.

  Another boy, Brendan O’Connell, came into the chapel and knelt down. He took out his rosary beads from a purse. A purse — for God’s sake — with a snap fastener. Martin heard it opening, and then the tiny rattle of the beads. The candle flames flickered and danced after the air had been disturbed. The guy scratched his head and cupped his face in his hands. He was sighing a lot and sniffing — generally being a pain in the arse — letting everybody see he was making a heavy-duty decision.

  Martin stood up and went out into the night for a cigarette. It was bitterly cold. The flagstones in front of the building glittered with frost. He could see his breath on the air as well as the smoke. When he looked up there was no moon: the sky was black and cloudless, but full of stars. He walked behind the Retreat House where it was even darker, shielded from the lights of the town. He moved away from the lit windows down to the shelter of an ivy-covered wall. He didn’t like the gravel crunching beneath his shoes so he walked on the grass which was stiff with frost. He looked up again, and from this point the stars were amazing. The swirl of the Milky Way was obvious from one side of the sky to the other. A town boy, he had never seen anything like it. There was no part of the sky which wasn’t filled with stars — impossible to put a finger between them, impossible to put the nib of a pen between them. The constellations he knew from books seemed to have been swamped by lesser stars. Gradually he began to pick the star groups out — first the Plough, then the W of Cassiopeia, Orion with the sword at his belt. And he was aware of their absolute silence. To be so vast and yet to make no sound whatsoever. His neck was beginning to hurt. If he could lie down. Also his teeth were beginning to chatter, like when he came out from a swim. If he relaxed the muscles of his face, it would go away. When he tensed against the cold, his jaw would begin chattering. He put his hands in his blazer pockets and tried to make himself a smaller target for the cold air. He was out here to make a decision, not to think about how cold he was, not to look at the stars. He inhaled the last of the cigarette and spun the glowing butt away over the wall into the dark. Yes — if he passed his exams he would strive to become a priest, to devote his life as best he could to the service of others; above all, to the service of God. He felt the weight of his decision lying on him and was turning to go in out of the cold when the word ‘no’ came into his mind. He walked with his head down. It was as if someone had spoken it. En Oh. NO. It had definitely come into his head from somewhere outside himself. He turned his face up to the sky. No. And no again. A very definite no was inside his head. Could this be the sign he had asked for? NO. He wondered was the no an answer to the question he had asked himself — could this be a sign? — or the overall question of whether or not to become a priest. No. There it was again. From outer space — a message. It must apply to the big problem and not to the problem within a problem. He felt a surge of gratefulness to the word that was repeating inside his head. The weight of the decision he had just made was beginning to lift. In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was God and the Word was NO. He could do something else. God was letting him off the hook. Martin Brennan was surplus to requirements as far as the Almighty was concerned. As Father Albert had said, a boy has to be able to say no. And here he was doing it. No — he said it to himself again. And at the same time felt a surge of gratefulness to, of all people, God. The lights of the town came into sight again as he rounded the building. They shone distinctly in the harbour, it was so still. The water stood the town on its head. He came to an area of the wall which was waist-high and leaned on it looking down. The wall was two or three feet thick and he clim
bed on to it and lay on his back, looking up at the stars again. To save his neck. His breath hovered above him. He would not become a priest. He had moved from one element to another. As his mother would say — it was not for him. He would do something else with his life which would be equally good — he hadn’t a clue what it was just yet. Now it was a Good Friday night and he was lying on a wall shivering, grinning at the stars. Suddenly a meteor blazed across the sky — quick as a nib scrape. And a joy shot through him. Everything was the right colour and in the right place and his feelings were in defiance of gravity.

  2. A Morning Walk to School

  Martin kept his collection of books on the mantelpiece in his bedroom. He couldn’t decide which way to stack them. Vertically, like a real library or horizontally, like a pile of books. He only had four of his own, the rest were schoolbooks. He lifted his homework diary which was falling to bits. It had assumed the curve of his backside because he kept it in his hip pocket most of the time. He got the books he needed for the day’s classes and slipped them into his bag, then plunged down the stairs two at a time.

  ‘I’m away,’ he yelled.

  From the kitchen he faintly heard his mother shout, ‘Go easy.’ The front door slammed.

  He slung one strap of the bag over his shoulder and walked quickly to the main road. The sky was blue and full of rushing white clouds. It was a good feeling the first day back after Easter. There was no homework to be handed in, just your mates to see. He eased up, coming to O’Grady’s, the paper shop on the corner. It had a sandwich board outside on the pavement with scrawled capitals: VIETNAM CALL UP REFUSED. Kavanagh should appear at any minute coming down the hill. It was a quarter to nine by the Bank of Ireland clock. He didn’t want to be sèen hanging around actually waiting so he walked up and down. The other side of the sandwich board had some guff about Captain Terence O’Neill. He looked at FOR SALE ads in the window — handwritten filing cards. It felt good having enough money for a day’s supply of smokes. But O’Grady’s didn’t sell singles — he’d have to wait until the wee sweet shop beside the school. He’d have preferred the money for ten but he was not a millionaire. Somebody was selling a gents racing bike. Was there such a thing as a ladies racing bike? Neat little headlamps? Reading the ads Martin could have his back to the hill and still keep an eye on it, reflected in the window.

  He had only known Kavanagh for two terms and they had never agreed to meet, apart from ‘I’ll see you in the morning’ as they parted each afternoon. It was always better when they just coincided on their way down the road. Kavanagh was the guy everybody wanted to know and Martin felt — just lucky — that they walked the same route to school. Martin knew very few in his present year. All his mates had moved on when he failed. There was an ad which said TUTORING FOR RE-SITS. He looked away from it. Too close to the bone. He had to convince his mother that he was applying himself — so that meant very few outings at night. He read a few more cards. He hated noticing spelling mistakes. Somebody was selling a ‘perambulater’. He could see a reflection of the bank clock. He took his time, reversing the image — like working out one of those intelligence puzzles in the eleven-plus exam. He deciphered it as ten to nine.

  ‘Come on, ya bastard.’

  He turned from the window and looked directly at the hill. No sign of him. Maybe he was sick. Maybe he’d gone off somewhere with his family for Easter and not come back. Condor would be out thumping the latecomers at the top of the drive even though it was only the first day back.

  When he turned to the window again he glimpsed Kavanagh’s reflection come into view. Martin moved off immediately as if he had just paused to glance at the cards. He looked over his shoulder and Kavanagh saw him from a distance. Martin waited until he came alongside.

  ‘What about ye?’

  ‘Grand,’ said Kavanagh. ‘What about yourself?’

  ‘OK. We’re cutting it fine.’

  ‘We’ll make it for nine, no problem.’

  ‘I’ve gotta get fags.’ Martin quickened his pace and gradually matched Kavanagh’s. Kavanagh was big, basketball big, and his stride was longer. And he had great hair. Martin only came to his shoulder. They both carried the same kind of bag in the same kind of way. A khaki canvas haversack, one strap slung over the right shoulder. It was utterly unthinkable for anyone to wear it properly — on the back with loops over both shoulders. Val-der-ree, valder-aa, hill walking in the Alps whistling merry tunes. The khaki colour stood out against the black of the blazer, a dangerous black and tan combination. And there was brass too. Cheap buckles and canvas straps fastened the top flap to the bottom. There were never enough books to fill the bag and it was stylish that they should flop about loosely inside.

  Kavanagh heaved his bag a little higher on his shoulder and said, ‘Jesus, I hate this.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Going back to school. The worst thing’s the getting out of your bed in the morning.’

  ‘Maybe you could go to night school,’ said Martin.

  ‘Be far better if you could get pushed to school in your bed. Very salubrious.’

  ‘Yeah — big castors on it, the size of pram wheels. And your ma pushing it.’

  ‘Up the drive — past Condor. In your pyjamas. With your cock still up like a tent pole.’

  ‘I’m totally amazed at the things people get up early to do,’ said Martin. ‘Like duels. Imagine getting out of your bed at that time of the morning to be fucking killed? Even worse, imagine getting out of your bed early to kill someone. Behind the cathedral at eight.’ Martin had to run a couple of steps to keep up. But he didn’t mind because he knew they were late and Condor never gave anybody the benefit of the doubt.

  They came to the wee sweetie shop and Martin went in.

  ‘I’ll not be a minute.’

  ‘It’ll only stunt your growth,’ said Kavanagh as he followed him in. The place was very dark — one 60-watt bulb. The middle-aged woman behind the counter stared at Martin. She had her hair up in a beehive.

  ‘Three Regal,’ he said. Martin produced his money. The woman rolled her eyes and all but snorted. She opened a wooden drawer and selected a packet of Regal. She took out three and trundled them across the counter.

  ‘Have you got a packet?’ The expression on the woman’s face did not change. She opened the wooden drawer again. Barely looking down, her hand raked the contents. She dropped a ten Park Drive packet in front of Martin. Kavanagh came up behind him.

  ‘Did I not see the gleam of gold in there?’ he said to the woman.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘All I ask is a touch of class for my friend.’ He laid a hand on Martin’s shoulder and pointed at the drawer. The woman produced a different packet.

  ‘Would a Benson & Hedges suffice?’ she said.

  Both Kavanagh and Martin nodded. Martin handed over his money and she flicked the empty gold packet on to the counter. He slid the three Regal into it and closed over its neat hinged top.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  ‘Mutton dressed as lamb,’ said Kavanagh to the woman. She smiled. Kavanagh knew how to talk to old people. He could use their lingo.

  Outside Martin said, ‘I never saw that before.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your woman, smiling.’

  ‘Maybe you gave her no reason,’ said Kavanagh. They continued to walk. ‘Did you get much done?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Studying.’

  ‘Naw …’

  ‘Did you get your hole?’

  ‘Naw …what about you?’ said Martin.

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘Did you get it?’

  ‘That’s for me to know and you to find out.’

  ‘What did you do over Easter?’

  ‘It was horrid.’ Kavanagh put on an upper-class voice. ‘I kid you not. Laid up with measles …’

  ‘Poor old thing.’ Martin took up the voice as well.

  ‘I kid you not. I had to stay in the d
orm until Matron gave me the all clear. Uncle Quentin took me for a drive in the country — lots of adventures.’

  ‘Where were Lucy-Ann and Philip and Jack and …?’

  ‘They’d fucked off on an adventure of their own — Five Go to Pudenda Island — with Kiki the parrot.’

  ‘Philip is marvellous with animals.’

  ‘Hey — look at this …’ On the other side of the road from the school alongside the graveyard wall there was a crowd of workmen laying cable. The surrounding pavement was taped off.

  ‘Aw fuck,’ said Martin.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I forgot the camera. I was doing an article on the Retreat in Ardglass. And I was supposed to bring it back to Cuntyballs today.’

  ‘He won’t make a fuss.’

  ‘I’m not so sure.’

  ‘If he does, just you send him to me.’

  Condor was at the top of the drive. There were some first-years standing around waiting to see the executioner at work. It was the same every morning. Just before nine he — as Dean of Discipline — would saunter down to the main door to take up his position. He wore a black soutane with a small shoulder cape. As he stepped out he would slip his hand inside the breast of his soutane and withdraw a yellow bamboo cane and flick back his shoulder cape. He’d hold the cane upright behind his back, so that it just playfully touched between his shoulder blades and tap-tapped the hair at the back of his head. Then he’d listen for the six pips for the nine o’clock news to sound from the kitchen. He’d elaborately check that the BBC was right against his own watch. He’d gaze at it, his under-lip jutting. Boys still in the drive would break into a run. Condor would bring the cane into sight — then hold it up like a sword. Everyone was running now. Condor was smiling. When he felt like it he would bring the cane down and everybody after that would get walloped. He’d listen to excuses with his head to one side, as if he was hard of hearing, but he rarely accepted any story. When he waved your excuse aside you had to put your hand out. He’d whip the cane down and catch you across the fingers. One on each hand. And on the follow-through there would be a loud whap as the cane hit his soutane. After ten past nine it was two on each hand. Cold mornings were the worst. It was like an electric shock. Pain beyond belief in the fingertips. Then a moment or two of numbness. Then the second kind of pain as the blood tried to push back through the hurt tissue. It was so fucking humiliating that grown-up guys had to put up with this shite. From a priest, too. If anybody complained about their punishment Condor would say, ‘You boys are but gristle, not yet hardened into the bone of manhood.’