The Anatomy School

by Bernard Maclaverty

  It was on a par with the idea that discipline was something to be developed and taught. Somewhere in your being you had a discipline muscle which, if exercised enough, would always be in perfect trim. Certain no-good riff-raff were too lazy to exercise this muscle but the good thing was that it could be done for them. Condor would beat them and this would exercise the discipline muscle and everything would be all right. They would become disciplined because they had been disciplined.

  But this morning they were OK. In — by the skin of their teeth. Martin was still feeling good about what had happened in the wee sweetie shop. Kavanagh’s hand on his shoulder. And calling him my friend even though it was in a cod sort of way. They heard the first whacks of the latecomers as they moved into the corridor.

  There was a group who met regularly in the locker room. The lockers had been removed years ago, but the place was still known as the locker room. They all greeted Kavanagh and Martin. It was good to be seen coming in together like this too. Kavanagh and Brennan. Brian Sweeny came over and there was a lot of backslapping went on between him and Kavanagh. On the first day it was always the same.

  ‘Any jokes?’ Sweeny asked.

  Everyone gathered round and Kavanagh grinned and they all leaned forward.

  ‘There was this guy, right?’ he said. ‘I kïd you not. From the country — a big fuckin ganch — and he took this woman out. She was lovely, a real cracker — beautiful hair, big mouth, tits out to here. Anyway, after the night out, she says to him would you like to come back to my place? And she takes him up the stairs and into the bedroom and she strips off and lies down on the bed with her legs wide open. And your man says to himself, Jesus, if I play my cards right, I might be on to something here.’

  Somebody at the back of the crowd who hadn’t quite heard kept saying, ‘What? What did she say?’

  ‘Sexual intercourse is all right,’ said Brian Sweeny, ‘but there’s nothing like the real thing.’

  ‘This priest,’ said Kavanagh, ‘asked a boy Do you masturbate a lot? And the boy says About a teaspoonful.’

  The bell rang.

  ‘Aww fuck.’ Almost everybody said it. Kavanagh and Martin were in different classes for the first two periods. Before they went their separate ways Kavanagh said, ‘See you at lunch time. Here?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah sure.’ Martin couldn’t stop smiling the whole way to his first class. ‘A touch of class for my friend.’ The gold cigarette packet — the hand on the shoulder.

  ‘Very salubrious. I kid you not,’ Martin said aloud to himself.

  Ned Kelly, the Latin teacher, was reading his morning paper with his bald head cocked slightly to one side. Everybody was working on a translation. The classroom was silent — in the distance the sound of a pneumatic drill. There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in.’ The door opened and the Reverend Head came in with a new boy dressed in civvies. Ned Kelly’s head shone as he bent over and listened to the Reverend Head. He then nodded for the boy to sit down. Before going to a desk the guy smiled and, as a kind of parting gesture, offered his hand to the Reverend Head in front of everybody. For a moment the Reverend Head didn’t seem to know what to do.

  ‘Thank you for all your help, Father,’ said the boy in a voice too loud for the classroom. The voice was refined, easily mocked. The Reverend Head shook hands with the new guy. When he did it, he looked like he wished he hadn’t. He rubbed his hand on his haunch and pushed it into the folds of his soutane out of the way.

  Martin was at the back of the class sitting on his own in an old-fashioned two seater desk. The new boy came down the aisle and slid on to the empty bench beside him. Martin nodded but the new boy looked through him. Other guys were turning, trying to get a look.

  The Reverend Head said, ‘This is a new man — Blaise Foley.’

  ‘Blaise is with an ess — not a zed,’ said the new guy. The Reverend Head looked over his half-glasses at the new boy and stared at him. ‘It’s spelled the same way as Pascal, the philosopher, spells it.’

  ‘Thank you for the lesson,’ said Ned Kelly. He and the Reverend Head whispered some more, then the Reverend Head said before he left,

  ‘Treat Mr Foley as you would wish to be treated if it was you who were joining a new school.’

  ‘Brennan, can you clue the new man in to what we’re doing this morning.’

  Martin nodded. He pushed his book across the desk and pointed to the passage. The guy looked down at it as if he’d forgotten his glasses. He also sat like he was wearing a neck brace or else had a bad back. He seemed to have neither pen nor paper with him. Martin smiled and pretended to go back to his translation.

  ‘How long is there to go?’ said the new boy. He had dropped his voice to a whisper.

  ‘Ten minutes.’ The new guy reached into his inside pocket and produced a pencil, which he set in the groove at the top of the desk. He began to look around him, at the high ceiling, at the skirting boards, at Ned Kelly reading his newspaper.

  ‘Do you want something to write on?’ said Martin.

  ‘No.’

  The translation passage was from Cicero. Martin was having difficulty with the tense of the main verb.

  ‘A couple of minutes,’ said Ned Kelly without looking up from the paper.

  The new boy leaned over and said, ‘Who is that big cunt?’

  ‘His name’s Ned Kelly. He’s not that bad — he’s OK, compared to some.’

  The new guy raised an eyebrow.

  ‘All Latin teachers are dumbfucks. Hatchet-men.’

  When the time came to correct the translation Ned Kelly went through it line by line, phrase by phrase, sometimes taking an answer from one of the boys, sometimes supplying the words himself.

  ‘Silent enim leges inter arma? Anyone?’ Nobody volunteered. ‘What about the new man? Any idea?’

  ‘I haven’t a baldy.’

  Ned Kelly stared at him. There was a silence. Nobody moved. Ned Kelly maintained the eye contact and the boy stared back.

  ‘I don’t know where you’ve been before this but that is not the way we answer questions in this school. Next — Brennan what do you make of it?’

  ‘In war laws are redundant.’

  ‘Yes. Like manners in schools nowadays.’

  The corridor was empty one moment then, the second after the lunch bell, it was full of boys pushing and shouting. Martin leaned against the wall. Everybody was surging towards the door. From a distance he could see Kavanagh’s head above everybody else’s. He was fighting towards him through the crowd.

  ‘So. What d’ya think?’ Martin shrugged. They allowed themselves to be borne out through the door by the mob. The sun was shining. Martin said, ‘What about Brian?’

  ‘He goes home.’

  ‘You got anything to eat?’

  ‘Naw. Get some chips. Maybe walk to my place,’ said Martin. ‘I could get the camera. Calm Cuntyballs down.’

  ‘Is he mad?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him. There’s a few left on the roll. I could take some artistic ones of you eating chips.’

  They wandered down the driveway and Martin told Kavanagh about the weird new guy.

  ‘His name is Blaise, for fucksake. Can you believe a name like that?’

  ‘I suppose if it was your father’s name it wouldn’t seem so bad. Like if your da had a tattoo then your attitude to tattoos would be different.’

  ‘But he used a great word,’ said Martin. ‘A real good curse word. Fuck, what was it?’ They turned left at the huge iron gates of the school.

  ‘And Ned Kelly asked him a question and your man says I haven’t a baldy.’

  ‘Fuck you’re joking. To baldy Ned Kelly?’

  ‘I kid you not.’

  ‘Shit the bed. That’s asking for it.’

  At the other side of the road a squad of men was still digging up the pavement in front of the graveyard wall. Pneumatic drills roared and hammered away. Traffic was being waved around large wooden spools of cable. Marti
n had to shout to be heard. But Kavanagh shook his head to show he couldn’t hear. Martin leaned close to his ear and yelled at the top of his voice, ‘It’s hardly worth saying anyway.’

  ‘If it’s not worth saying, it’s not worth shouting.’

  They smiled and didn’t speak for a while. Gradually as they put distance between them and the school the noise lessened, until it was just traffic. Kavanagh said, ‘So how was the Retreat thing?’

  ‘You should’ve come. It was OK. I got some photos — one of a guy’s sick along the side of the bus.’

  ‘I can hardly wait.’

  ‘Seeing everybody silent was weird.’

  ‘Did everybody keep it?’

  ‘More or less. There was some messing about in the dorms but most of the guys took it seriously.’

  ‘Jesus. I don’t think I could’ve done it.’

  Brennan’s front door was always open. Martin went in and Kavanagh sat on a wall, kicking his heels. If Martin had brought him in, his mother would have wanted to know who he was and why wasn’t she being introduced. ‘Sometimes I think you’re ashamed of me.’ Then there would have been a whole palaver about exams and Medicine and how difficult it was to get into and how long it takes before you earn a penny piece. Six years wasn’t it? And could he not help Martin apply himself. Because if Martin applied himself he too could get into anything he wanted. And how Martin had failed last year but it wasn’t going to be like that this year because he was a boy with brains to burn, what he lacked was application.

  So it seemed easier to leave Kavanagh outside while he ran upstairs for the camera. In the hallway there was a great smell of something cooking.

  ‘It’s only me,’ he shouted.

  When he came back down his mother, at the foot of the stairs, said, ‘What has you back at this time?’

  ‘Forgot this.’ He showed her the camera.

  ‘Have you had any lunch yet?’ He made a face, unsure what was going to follow. ‘I’ve just made a pot of soup.’

  ‘I can’t. Someone’s waiting for me.’

  ‘Who?’

  He nodded outside. His mother opened the door and saw a young man in school uniform sitting on the wall opposite. She beckoned him.

  ‘No — we don’t have time, Mum.’

  Kavanagh hopped down and crossed the road.

  ‘There’s a brave spring in your step anyway, whoever you are.’

  Martin introduced Kavanagh to her. He shook hands and he even bowed a little in her direction.

  ‘That’s what I like — a good firm handshake. Sometimes I think our Martin is ashamed of me.’ Martin sighed. ‘Have you time for some soup?’ Kavanagh looked at Martin.

  ‘No, we’re in a rush,’ said Martin.

  ‘It doesn’t take long to sup a drop of soup.’ She spoke directly to Kavanagh.

  ‘Yes, that would be great, Mrs Brennan,’ he said. She directed them into the parlour, said she wouldn’t be a minute. Kavanagh sat down in the chair Mary Lawless usually sat in and in the confined space he looked all jutting knees and awkward elbows. He seemed to be trying to make himself fit the room. Or to make Martin less self-conscious about the size of it. Martin slung the camera over his shoulder and sat in Farther Farquharson’s chair. He rolled his eyes and made a face.

  ‘It’s OK. Smells good,’ said Kavanagh. ‘What is the school using now?’

  ‘A Leica.’

  ‘I like it.’ It seemed only moments until Mrs Brennan arrived with a tray. On it were paper napkins, two bowls of soup, salt and pepper, a plateful of buttered bread and two soup spoons.

  ‘Here’s all your orders.’ She set the tray down and the boys reached for the bowls.

  ‘Lovely,’ said Kavanagh. Mrs Brennan stood just inside the parlour door. She was wearing a blue nylon housecoat and now that her hands were empty she slid them into her pockets. Kavanagh spooned the soup and blew on it. He tasted it and made a noise of pleasure. Mrs Brennan smiled.

  ‘That’s really great soup.’

  ‘There’s nothing like soup from a bone. It has everything. Carrots and leeks and soup mix …’

  ‘Soup mix,’ Kavanagh almost shouted with enthusiasm. ‘I know all about soup mix …with the split peas and the lentils and barley and all.’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’

  ‘Everything but the kitchen sink,’ said Kavanagh. Mrs Brennan laughed. She was fiddling nervously in her pocket.

  ‘I’ll just leave you boys to get on with it,’ she said. But she didn’t move. ‘So what are you going to be doing next year?’

  ‘Medicine. I hope.’

  ‘A doctor?’ Hearing this, Mrs Brennan sat down on the arm of the sofa. Her nervousness seemed to increase. She took a potato peeler and some coils of browning apple skins out of her pocket and laughed. ‘Would you look at me with the potato peeler.’ She looked slightly shy about it and put it back in again along with the peelings.

  ‘It’s a very difficult faculty to get into,’ said Kavanagh.

  ‘So I believe. It’s a very long course. It’s ages before you earn a penny piece.’

  ‘Yes, it’s going to be a long haul, Mrs Brennan. Six maybe seven years sometimes.’

  ‘God save us. But it’s worth it.’

  ‘Not to worry — Martin here will keep me in pocket money when he publishes all his photos in magazines.’

  ‘Aye he’d need to apply himself more. Because if our Martin applied himself he could get into anything he wanted. Last year was a bit of a hiccup but it isn’t going to be like that this year, is it?’ Martin raised the spoon to his mouth and nodded his head rhythmically from side to side to the chant of his mother’s voice. ‘Our Martin has brains to burn, what he lacks is application.’

  ‘Oh, not to worry Mrs Brennan. We’ll get him through this year — by hook or by crook.’ Kavanagh threw back his head and laughed. Mrs Brennan smiled.

  ‘Good for you. It’s a real pleasure to meet you eh …I must be off back to my kitchen again. And don’t leave it so long the next time.’

  ‘If the soup’s as good as this I’ll be back.’ Even as he cradled his soup bowl Kavanagh made an attempt to rise from his chair but Mrs Brennan stopped him with her outstretched hand. ‘No need,’ she said. Martin was pushing bread into his mouth. ‘I’ll leave you both to it. Martin! You may be in a hurry but there’s no need to stuff like that.’

  When she had gone Martin rolled his eyes. Kavanagh said, ‘She’s OK.’

  ‘Let’s get outa here,’ said Martin. He lifted the remains of the buttered bread from the plate and they went down the road to buy a bag of chips and made chip sandwiches. In the chippy there was a new girl. She was fat and wore new white overalls. She blushed deeply when she looked up and saw Kavanagh. She made the other older woman serve him and ran laughing into the back.

  ‘She fancies you,’ said Martin when they were outside.

  ‘I’m deeply flattered,’ said Kavanagh, ‘but I’ll allow you to take her off my hands. Frying tonight, eh? What about it?’

  ‘Piss off.’ Martin wiped his fingers on his hanky before he took some pictures of Kavanagh biting into his bread; chewing with his mouth wide open; spitting out like a drunk.

  ‘That’s the bolus,’ Kavanagh said. ‘The chewed mass just before you swallow it is called a bolus.’

  ‘A bolus soup.’ Martin came to the end of his film. ‘I’m really glad to know that.’

  ‘If you’d no teeth in the old days they gave you bolus sandwiches. Nothing nicer.’

  Martin lit one of his cigarettes.

  ‘Do you know what those things can do to you?’ said Kavanagh.

  Martin wound back the film and put it in his pocket. They sat on a concrete block until Martin finished his smoke. Then they both walked towards the school.

  ‘Oh-oh,’ said Kavanagh, ‘something’s going on.’ There were policemen gathered opposite the school gates.

  ‘Maybe somebody’s murdered Condor?’

  ‘We should be so lucky.’

&n
bsp; When they got to the school gates the interest seemed to be on the other side of the road by the wall. Martin and Kavanagh crossed over. There was a crowd, mostly from the school, being held back by the police. Kavanagh had the height to see over the other people.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Martin.

  ‘I dunno.’ Kavanagh turned his head. ‘There’s a guy in the hole.’

  Martin burrowed his way to the front of the crowd. He asked a first-year, ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘How the hell would I know?’ There was some green canvas with sticks lying on it beside the trench which had been dug. A workman’s head appeared above the level of the pavement. A policeman rested his hands on his thighs and stared down into the hole. Then the new guy, Blaise, elbowed his way to where Martin was.

  ‘They’re bones,’ he said. ‘They’ve dug up a pile of fucking bones.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘It’s not really surprising. A couple of feet under that wall is the graveyard.’ Blaise did not seem to be talking directly to Martin but to anyone who would listen. ‘At first they thought they were on to a murder. But anyone could have told them who they’ve got there.’

  ‘Who?’ said Martin.

  ‘Henry Joy McCracken,’ said Blaise. Everybody laughed.

  ‘Away and feel your head.’

  ‘I kid you not. Those are the bones of the most famous United Irishman of them all.’

  ‘Your arse.’

  ‘His grave is right there on the other side of that wall. I’ve been to it. There’s been a bit of movement …’