The Anatomy School

by Bernard Maclaverty

  ‘Who?’ Martin shrugged. ‘Which one?’ Kavanagh scanned the room. Martin smiled and shook his head. ‘Who would Brennan fancy?’

  ‘Brennan is remaining silent on this point.’

  But for the rest of the evening Martin contrived, several times, to walk to the filing cabinets opposite where she sat and riffle through the cards, his brow knitted at the elusiveness of the volume he was looking for.

  At about eight o’clock she stood and packed her books and left. He watched the white of her blouse and the tilt of her head all the way to the door. He wanted to run after her, to say Fancy a coffee? Or Even a tea? but the fear of her reply stopped him. With you? Incredulous voice. Are you serious? Laughter.

  Just as if to show him how it was done, Kavanagh got up and went over to talk to Pippa again. He looked so easy, so relaxed, leaning his hip on her desk, bending over to point out something on her page. A wink in Martin’s direction, a smile, a tilt of the head.

  Martin hoped that the ghost woman would come back again. I forgot my purse. Thank you so much. Not many are so honest nowadays. Oh, you had considered the priesthood, had you? I don’t think it would be for you, either. Yes, a coffee would be nice. Let me pay, now that I’ve got my money back. He kept looking between Kavanagh and the door. Instead of the ghost woman, he was amazed to see Blaise come in. And the coincidence reminded him of the line which accompanies Macbeth’s first entry into the court: ‘He was a gentleman on whom I built an absolute trust.’ Blaise was wearing a dark sweater and trousers. He stood looking around him, his hands in his pockets. He saw Kavanagh talking to the girl but continued to scan the silent room. Then he came walking over to Martin.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hi,’ Martin said. He could feel a blush rising into his face but there was nothing he could do about it. Blaise had chosen to come to him first. ‘You shouldn’t be here. You should — at this very moment — be locked up.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Blaise. ‘I went to the pictures.’

  ‘What about evening study?’

  ‘I don’t enjoy it.’ Martin smiled and said,

  ‘What was the movie?’

  ‘It was brilliant. A thing called The Killing. With Sterling Hayden in it — always chewing a match. It’s a scam to rob money from the bank at a racing track. And they distract attention by shooting the bloody horse that’s winning the race.’

  ‘Sounds good.’ Martin felt that Blaise was actually talking to him, as opposed to making statements in his presence.

  ‘But it was the way it was done. Jumping about backwards and forwards in time. Building the story up in bits of scenes. Totally brilliant.’

  ‘Had they bet on the horse?’

  ‘No — why would you fuckin bet on a horse if you were going to shoot it?’

  ‘Well then had they bet on the horse running second?’

  ‘No! it was a fucking diversion — to get the cops out of the way. And it had this great actor in it, the wonderful Elisha Cook Junior. You’d know him if you saw him. The Patron Saint of Cowards. A man with sweat always on his upper lip.’

  Martin was almost afraid to say anything else. ‘I thought you guys might still have been around here.’

  ‘And we are.’

  ‘I’d better get back. Are you walking up the road?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  ‘Get Kavanagh — I don’t want to interrupt his dalliance.’

  ‘His what?’

  ‘Just get him,’ said Blaise. He slid into the chair next to Martin and began to inspect his book. ‘Cartier-Bresson — not much work being done tonight, eh?’

  The three of them went for a coffee and afterwards walked up Clifton Street towards Carlisle Circus strung out across the pavement. Martin and Kavanagh had bags slung over their shoulders. They were talking and walking so slowly that they seemed to have no purpose or direction to their steps. Kavanagh would make some point and lean on a lamp-post, then swing around it. Martin would brush his shoulder along the black stones of the wall of the Old Poor House. Blaise was in the centre putting his feet firmly on the square sets, as if avoiding the cracks. The sun had gone down and the light was beginning to fade. A blackbird was singing its head off at the top of a tree in the Old Poor House gardens. At one point Martin found himself in the middle. He dropped his bag on to the pavement,

  ‘Steady the buffs,’ he said and put a hand on Kavanagh’s shoulder, then on Blaise’s shoulder. He jumped and tried to heave himself into the air by straightening his arms — but Kavanagh was too tall — and, instead of walking forward the two boys moved out sideways, so that Martin barely got off the ground.

  ‘Thanks — thanks a million,’ he said. The other two were laughing. They seemed pleased they had both come up with the same strategy at the same moment.

  ‘What kind of music do you like?’ Kavanagh asked Blaise.

  ‘All sorts. Everything. I like all kinds of music.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘German baroque, eighteenth-century classicism, modern,’ he shrugged. ‘You name it. Even some Vaughan Williams, given the right circumstances.’

  ‘What about the Stones?’ said Martin.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Do you like the Stones?’

  ‘I thought you asked me about music.’

  ‘Fuck off. What about Dylan?’ Martin began to sing — The times they are a-changing. Blaise pulled a face. It was difficult to know whether he was taking the piss or not. Martin began to take slow giant steps away from the other two.

  ‘Come back,’ Kavanagh made a mock and mournful cry. Martin stopped giant stepping. Kavanagh bumped into his back and said, ‘So you’re not going to tell us who this wonderful woman is?’ Martin shook his head.

  ‘I can’t. I don’t know who she is. I just saw her tonight.’

  ‘What about Pippa?’ said Blaise.

  ‘She seems distinctly saved,’ said Martin.

  ‘She’s not as bad as all that.’

  ‘No make-up. V-necked drawers.’ Kavanagh made as if to kick Martin on the backside. But Martin evaded the swipe.

  ‘Anyway what’s wrong with that?’ said Kavanagh. ‘It makes her even more gorgeous. I kid you not. The ice maiden, the unattainable one. Ere long the lovely Pippa will succumb to my not inconsiderable charms.’

  ‘Women only interfere with good friendships,’ said Blaise.

  ‘Overheard one night in a Belfast entry,’ said Martin. ‘Hold my bible and I’ll take them off myself.’ This time Kavanagh grabbed Martin in a stranglehold from behind.

  ‘Fucking bastard. Besmirching the woman I love. Retract.’

  ‘Ahh — ahhhhh — you’re choking me.’

  ‘This is no behaviour for the sons of gentlefolk. Desist ere I smite you both.’

  ‘Unhand me.’

  Kavanagh let Martin go and he staggered across the pavement. Kavanagh said to Blaise, ‘Are you one of the gentlefolk?’

  ‘Yes — if you’re referring to a working-class intellectual background.’

  ‘So what does your old man do — for a living?’ Kavanagh asked.

  ‘He falls off logs.’

  ‘What?’ Martin screwed up his eyes.

  ‘It’s not a difficult job.’

  ‘What are you on about?’ said Martin. Kavanagh was laughing.

  ‘As in It’s as easy as …’ said Kavanagh. ‘He falls off logs.’

  ‘No — I can never make out,’ said Blaise, ‘whether he’s a physicist or a mathematician. He’s away most of the time — Australia, America. It’s probably why I want to do Philosophy.’

  ‘Because your da’s away, you want to do Philosophy?’

  ‘Learn to make connections, Martin,’ said Blaise. ‘Don’t be such a dumbfuck.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’ He bowed and kowtowed.

  ‘Maths and Philosophy are governed by the same logic.’ Kavanagh pushed Martin’s crouching body onwards with a shove from his knee.

  Martin said, ‘What precisely is a dumbfuck?�
�� Blaise looked at him in the heavy-lidded way he had.

  ‘You are, Martin.’ Blaise continued to stare at him. ‘You are.’

  ‘Cut the niggle,’ said Kavanagh. ‘How do you do philosophy?’

  ‘By thinking. You take a problem or an idea or a statement and examine it.’

  ‘For example?’

  ‘We are doing it at this very moment.’

  ‘What? It can’t be as easy as that.’

  ‘OK. If the Barber of Seville shaves all the men in the town, except the ones who shave themselves — what’s the situation?’ Blaise put his head to one side and raised his eyebrow.

  ‘The Barber of Seville makes a fortune,’ said Martin.

  ‘Wait, there’s a catch,’ said Kavanagh. Blaise smiled and went on,

  ‘If the Barber shaves himself, he is not to be shaved by himself. If he doesn’t shave himself then the only one who can shave him is himself. It’s a paradox.’

  ‘That’s not a para-dox — it’s boll-ox,’ said Martin.

  ‘Say that again slowly,’ said Kavanagh to Blaise.

  Martin and Kavanagh were walking on towards the school driveway when Blaise stopped. The school had taken to closing the big gates in the evenings. Blaise nodded his head up the side street to a row of converted red brick houses. This row had been bought over by the diocese to house university students who were going on for the priesthood. The row was attached by an extension to the school.

  ‘I’m going in through the Wing,’ said Blaise.

  ‘This I must see,’ said Kavanagh. ‘What about getting caught?’

  ‘The Wing is for apprentice priests. It’s designed to stop people getting in, not getting out.’ All three of them walked up the street.

  ‘So how do you get back in?’ said Martin.

  ‘Through my cat flap.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  Blaise stopped in front of a window and sat down on the stone sill. He began to fumble in his pockets. He said, ‘This window is opposite the Spiritual Director’s room — and it is open.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because it’s the one I came out of.’

  ‘And you left it open?’

  ‘Yeah. I believe Father Barry is away for the evening.’

  ‘What if somebody has noticed it was open, and closed it.’

  ‘Yeah — that’s happened before now.’ It was the first time Martin had heard a note of regret in Blaise’s voice. ‘In the last school but one I had to stand on a second floor windowsill until dawn. Five fucking hours. So never again, says I. In this case they couldn’t,’ said Blaise.

  ‘Why not?’

  He took a brass window lock and two screws from his pocket and showed them. Then a small screwdriver.

  ‘How many schools have you been to?’ asked Kavanagh. Blaise shrugged.

  ‘This one’s the worst.’

  He reached round behind him and inched the window up. He did not even drop his voice.

  ‘See you tomorrow.’ Then he stepped over the sill into the darkness. Martin and Kavanagh waited. The window frame slid back down with a thud and they saw Blaise’s shadowy figure screw the window catch back into place. They laughed a bit and made signs of goodbye to him with the flat of their hands pressed up against the frosted glass, including a V-sign.

  One Saturday, about lunch time, there was a ring at Brennan’s front door.

  ‘Martin, get that. My hands are all wet.’ Martin went to the door. He didn’t recognise the shadow beyond the dimpled glass as the bread-man or the man who collected the rent. He opened the door and Kavanagh was standing there, stooped, trying to look a bit smaller.

  ‘What about you, Martin?’

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘What are you up to?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Martin felt a blush rising in his face.

  ‘Fancy going into town?’

  ‘OK.’ He felt the reddening of his cheeks so intensely that he had to duck back into the hall leaving Kavanagh propping up the wall outside. He could hardly believe it. Kavanagh had called for him. He plucked his jacket off the hall stand.

  ‘Who is it?’ his mother shouted.

  ‘It’s for me,’ Martin rushed into the kitchen. ‘Any money?’

  She was standing at the sink in pink rubber gloves washing dishes.

  ‘What’s it for?’

  ‘Spending.’

  ‘Do you think I’m made of money? Who was at the door?’

  ‘Kavanagh.’

  ‘Ooooh — why didn’t you bring him in?’

  ‘He’s in a hurry.’

  ‘You look a bit flushed. Are you OK?’ He nodded. ‘Get me my purse.’ He brought it to the draining board. ‘Open it.’ He undid the catch and took what money she allowed him. And he was away pulling on his jacket, dashing out the door on to the street. With Kavanagh for the whole of Saturday afternoon.

  Martin sat at the kitchen table trying to make a start on his essay. His mother was in the scullery baking, preparing for one of her supper evenings. Different kinds of bread: soda, wheaten, currant bread. When the flat sodas were cooked she leaned them up against each other on a wire cooling grid. They slithered together with a dry, floury sound. She kept dashing in and out, all energy. Sometimes talking to herself.

  ‘Now buns,’ she said. She put a hard block of margarine in a baking bowl and covered it with a hill of sugar. She set it on the hearth with the heel of the bowl up on the fender so that its open face was to the fire. ‘Keep your eye on that, Martin. I’m way behind — chop that up a bit for me.’ He put down his pen and cut the margarine into smaller pieces with the wooden spoon. It melted and he saw the sugar go clear. He called her when it was ready. She came in from the scullery and beat the mixture furiously with her right hand, holding the bowl on her left hip. When it was the consistency she wanted she dashed back into the scullery. Martin followed her. She lifted dollops of the mixture on the end of the spoon and plopped the right amount into fluted papers set in the recesses of a black oven tray. Martin ran his finger round the bowl and put it in his mouth.

  ‘That’ll kill you with indigestion,’ she said. ‘What on earth is the time?’

  ‘Almost seven.’

  ‘Oh Holy Frost! They’re coming at eight. Help me, Martin. Bring some of that fire into the parlour. It’s like bloody winter. I want it looking red and comfy when they come — not all yellow blazes. And be careful.’

  Martin pulled all the chairs back to clear the shortest path. With tongs he picked up blazing coals and set them on the shovel. They had welded together and sounded dangerous — gritty, cindery, tinkling. The heat wafted upwards. Both the kitchen door and the parlour door were open as wide as possible. When the shovel was full but not too full he made a dash from one fireplace to the other, his face screwed up against the coal smoke and the flame. His mother shouted, ‘Watch that mat.’

  Once the burning coal was in place it had to be covered with fresh coal. The coal house was in the yard next to the lavatory. It had no door and there was no light in it. In the black hole Martin had to work by radar. He put the shovel flat to the uneven ground and pushed forward until it met resistance. He made shovelling motions until he heard the rumble of falling coal and the shovel felt sufficiently heavy. Then he reversed out. When it rained the water ran off the yard into the coal house. There was a kind of black soup on the floor which he had accidentally scooped up with the shovel.

  The fresh coal caught and with the bellows he pumped the fire to a blazing pyramid. After the dash from one room to the other the air was full of motes, leaving pinpoint flecks in the air and on the mantelpiece. His mother came round after him with a damp cloth inspecting and wiping cream surfaces.

  ‘Look what you’ve done,’ she yelled. ‘Dribbling that black stuff all over the hall lino. Martin, love, wipe that mess up and give it a wee polish before they come. Just a wee rub over.’

  ‘I’ve a lot of homework.’

  ‘When there’s something to be done, you a
lways have a lot of homework.’ Martin moved towards the scullery where the basket of polishing things was kept. ‘And you’re too old to be putting on that lip, boy.’

  He knelt on the hall rug and rooted among the dusters and canisters of Pledge for the Mansion floor polish. There was a tiny metal butterfly at the side of the tin, to lever open the lid. It was a new tin and the waxy, brick red surface was untouched — unbroken like fresh snow. He wiped the cloth on it and ruined the smoothness. The lino was a squared pattern and he did it in areas. Dulling it with polish, letting the polish dry before wiping off with another drier cloth. Seeing each area as a small accomplishment — accumulating a shine. He remembered doing this job when he was just a kid, being resentful. He thought about informing someone from the government — somebody from the Cruelty, as Nurse Gilliland always called them. He was far too young to have to work this hard. His mother was treating him like a slave. He was being abused. They’d take him away and he’d have an easy life in a home somewhere and they’d put his mother in jail.

  ‘Don’t polish under those rugs,’ his mother said, stepping over him with the good plates from the china cabinet. ‘For fear people would slip. Can you imagine what would happen to Mary Lawless’s bones?’

  The newness had gone off the fire when the doorbell rang and Martin’s mother shouted for him to answer it. She was upstairs, in the middle of getting dressed. Mary Lawless looked quite pale and shaken. Martin took her coat and hung it on the hall stand. It was the size of a black circus tent.

  ‘Thanks be to God for the growing boy. What I have just seen …’ she kept saying over and over again and shaking her head. Martin’s mother was coming down the stairs.

  ‘What’s wrong with you, Mary? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.’

  ‘I wish I had, Mrs Brennan. I wish I had. It would’ve been a thousand times better than what I have just seen.’

  ‘Darling dear — what was it?’

  ‘A boy, not that much older than Martin here, coming blundering out of a pub. And he proceeded to throw up in front of me. I’m sure my shoes are ruined.’ She had to bend over quite a distance to be able to see her feet.