The Anatomy School

by Bernard Maclaverty

  ‘All over Cromwell, is my name for him,’ the shopkeeper had said. ‘He was like a plague all over Ireland. In Drogheda he put three thousand to the sword — then when he discovered people hiding from him in a church, claiming — what is it you claim in a church? — men, women and childer — what did he do? He set alight to it. It was “all over” for them, right enough. The wart-faced bastard. The cruelties of Cromwell …’ and he’d shake his head as if it was beyond words.

  For something to do Martin flushed the toilet. He wondered what time it was now. He was failing miserably to pass the time. He was probably the only guy in the school without a watch. But his mother kept insisting, ‘You’ll get a watch on your eighteenth birthday and not an hour before.’

  ‘How would I know,’ he asked, ‘if it was an hour before or not? In Paradise Lost God sees everything at once — the past, the present and the future. He’s the only one around here who doesn’t need a watch.’

  ‘Away and give my head peace.’

  Sanctuary. That was what it was called, hiding in a church. Martin wondered if he should go up to the college chapel. Nobody would be there. If he was caught, they couldn’t do a thing. It would be a matter between him and his God.

  ‘You can’t punish me for praying. I was in the midst of a major spiritual crisis. I had to get it sorted out with my Saviour, English class or no English class.’

  It would be more interesting in the chapel. Not that it was entirely uninteresting here.

  The only problem was the route, the miles of corridor. He had no way of knowing where Condor was, whether he was on the prowl or not. Or he could be nabbed by another teacher who would then report him to Condor. He was safe enough here. He would be safe enough in the chapel. It was the dash from the sand dunes to the sea was the problem. He’d seen this thing about turtles hatching from the sand in their millions and trying to get into the water before being swallowed by seagulls. He could go along the main corridor but then he could take the first staircase. The big disadvantage of this was that he’d have to pass the Reverend Head’s door. If he took the far staircase he’d have to pass the staff room on the first floor, which was worse. Teachers were always coming and going and they’d want to know why he was trailing about the place when he should be in English. In all his years at the school he’d only been to the staff room once with a message. The French teacher, Wee Clo, had opened the door.

  ‘Un moment,’ he said. Behind him the air was blue with cigarette smoke. Father McGrady was leaning over the billiard table, about to take a shot. Wee Clo snapped the door closed. It was like a photo it was so brief — like the door was the shutter. From inside Martin heard the balls click as Father McGrady played his shot.

  Once he was past the Reverend Head’s room it was all over — straight into the chapel. He would see the time in the main corridor and that would be a help.

  Jesus, he was like Hamlet. Why didn’t he just do the thing?

  ‘Right,’ he said out loud. He reached to unbolt the lavatory door. It was stiff and when he put pressure on it suddenly it snapped back with a loud metallic crack. It sounded like a gunshot. He put his head out and looked all around. Nobody stirred. The place must have been empty. He climbed the stairs back up out of the Wing, then through the door and into the school corridor. This must have been the route Blaise took the other night.

  The fucking clock must have stopped. What was wrong with the bastard? It was only twenty past. He had still ages to put in.

  There was nobody about. He walked as quietly and as casually as he could. He could hear Ding-dong’s voice teaching History to the first-years. Ding-dong had once sent a first-year boy to the office to ask for a new exercise book. Cuntyballs, the school secretary, had slid the hatch open.

  ‘Who’s it for?’

  ‘Mr … eh Mr Dong.’

  ‘The reason his nickname is Ding-dong is because his name is Bell. Mr Bell to you. Here.’ And he handed over the new exercise book.

  Mr Dong — forfuck sake.

  Martin heard the clack of a pointer on a blackboard from the next room, then Ned Kelly’s voice shouting, ‘It’s about time … I do not believe this.’

  Walking along the corridor past the classrooms was like turning the tuning knob of a radio — you heard only bits and pieces. Martin passed another door. There was nothing but silence. Either the room was empty or it was Condor in charge. In his class boys cowered in their desks. You never knew what he was going to do next. You got the feeling that he would slap you down like a wasp if you annoyed him, even slightly. A door slammed somewhere. Footsteps.

  Martin climbed the first staircase two at a time and was out of sight before the person turned on to the main corridor. The upper floor was covered with lino and smelled of polish. All along the right hand side were windows. Martin looked down on to the front quad. In the centre of the tarmac was a fenced-off garden space with a weeping willow in the middle of it. A car was turning. How could he have been in the Wing for only ten minutes? It had seemed like half an hour, at least.

  The Reverend Head’s room was on his left. Martin found himself holding his breath. He was behaving like a first-year kid. He breathed out. Beside the door stood a large trophy case. There were a lot of silver platters and cups, and medals pinned to boards of green plush. The trophy standing in the centre of the case was Gaelic football’s biggest school prize, the McCrory Cup. Beyond the case were framed photographs of winning teams, going back to the beginning of the school. A short flight of stairs and he pushed open the chapel door. The place was empty. The swing door closed behind him with a breathing sound. Made it.

  He slid his behind on to the bench seat at the back. There was a kneeler, topped with a rubber pad, which ran the length of the row.

  ‘They have it easy nowadays,’ was the kind of thing Mary Lawless would say. ‘In my day they made you suffer. Good hard wooden kneelers. Toughen up the oul knees — although they were fierce on the nylons.’

  ‘Sure what would be the point, Father,’ said Nurse Gilliland, ‘of going to Lough Derg to do penance if it was easy?’ Father Farquharson nodded and smiled.

  ‘You might as well go and stay at Mrs Kelly’s boarding house in Portstewart,’ said Father Farquharson. ‘Which reminds me, Mrs Brennan, I have a friend from Dublin coming on a bit of a holiday — he’s an Order priest — a Seven Sorrows man. Very quiet. I wonder would you mind … it would only be for a few nights.’

  ‘Oh Father. You know we can’t …’ Father Farquharson waited to hear the reason why.

  ‘The parochial house will be full that week. I must get a No Vacancies sign for the window,’ he said.

  ‘Now you’ve embarrassed me,’ said Mrs Brennan. Still Father Farquharson stared at her waiting for an explanation. ‘You know I’d be delighted. But we don’t have the best of facilities.’

  ‘Goodness gracious, don’t let a thing like that worry you. This is a man more of the spirit than the body. And, goodness knows, if he wants a bath he can come round to the parochial house, can’t he? He is a great fan of the Desert Fathers. Not too much water there. His name is Father O’Hare — Father Estyn O’Hare.’

  ‘Oh, Father Farquharson, before I forget. I have a wee mass card I want you to sign.’

  Father Farquharson gave a brief nod and looked, first down at his shoes, then up to the ceiling. Martin’s mother stood in the middle of the room her hands dancing, trying to remember where she’d left the mass card. It was as if her body was going back, doing again all the things she’d done during the past hour. Lifting and laying. Then she dashed off to the kitchen.

  ‘When are the next clerical changes due, Father?’ asked Mary Lawless.

  ‘There’ll be nothing now till next spring, I’m thinking. Thank God.’

  ‘Are you settled here, Father?’

  ‘As much as I’ll ever be.’

  The door opened and Mrs Brennan came back in again with the mass card. She handed it to the priest. He unclipped a fountain pen from his
inside pocket. The lining of his black suit was silk. He opened the card carefully to sign it and a five pound note nearly slipped off into the hearth. His hand barely touched it but guided it into his trouser pocket. He unscrewed the pen top and added his signature to the inside of the card. He blew a little on the scribbled ink, folded it shut and gave it back to Mrs Brennan.

  ‘Thank you, Father. It’s very good of you.’

  Father Farquharson didn’t say anything. He just gave a kind of embarrassed grin and tried to change the subject by answering Mary Lawless.

  ‘This has been a very good parish for me. By and large.

  Martin knelt down on the rubber kneeler. He tried to pray but it was difficult, knowing that he was skiving class — something he knew to be a sin, however venial. He sat up on the seat again, leaned forward and covered his face with his hands trying to think of words to pray in. He knew his prayer was bad when it had a bargaining element. Just let me get through this forty-minute period and I’ll never do this again. Protect me God in Your own house. From those that would persecute me. And beat the living daylights out of me. Allow me this small sin and I will be the better person afterwards. Sanctuary. The sanctuary lamp was lit as always and its flame wavered through the red glass which contained it. Ruby. Red for danger.

  Father O’Hare was the most seriously weird priest he had ever met. He had arrived to stay when Martin was ten. Martin remembered that because it was just after he had done the eleven-plus and everybody was saying how young Martin was to be doing it, and him not even eleven yet. Martin’s mother had lived in a state of suppressed delight before the visit. She was a great woman for priests. Nothing was too much trouble. Meals were a pleasure to cook, errands were run with gusto, jokes were laughed at. The Victorian jug and basin were resurrected from a back cupboard and Martin was made to carry hot water and soap to the priest’s room. The priest remained in bed with the covers up to his chin until Martin left the room.

  Martin wasn’t sure why but he knew there was nothing his mother liked better than the thought of a priest sleeping in the house. Her happiness was obvious as she moved about, humming a hymn — making the bed, folding pyjamas and tucking them under the pillow, carrying his wash bowl down the stairs and emptying it in the sink.

  He was a thin, grey man in his early sixties — barely there. Mary Lawless said of him that if he turned sideways he’d disappear. Martin’s mother said she thought that Father Farquharson had invited him on this wee holiday ‘to get him out of himself’. The old priest would sit in the corner, his elbows resting on the wooden arms of the armchair and leaning his chin on his joined knuckles. He seemed to be staring at nothing. A total weirdo. Occasionally his jaw moved and he made a little clumping noise with his false teeth. He never read a paper or watched TV. Mrs Brennan wondered if it was saintliness or vacancy. In the end she decided it was depression. Nurse Gilliland agreed with her and for months after his visit she added a prayer to the trimmings of her nightly rosary that it would soon lift.

  At the back of the chapel was a painting of the Crucifixion with Our Lady and Mary Magdalene standing at the foot of the cross. It was very old and painted on panels — you could see where they joined halfway up the painting. The varnish had dulled but you could still see the feature the artist had made of Mary Magdalene’s yellow hair — full of curls and twists, cascades of it falling over her shoulders.

  One year when he was doing art, the art teacher Tommy Cooper had given him the key for the book cupboard in the art room.

  ‘Have a look through some of that stuff, see if it gives you any ideas.’ Martin flicked through a book on the history of art. There was a statue of David but he was wearing Indian ink bathing trunks. He tilted the face of the page to the light to see if the ink was thin enough to be transparent. It was matt black, opaque and all he could see was the pattern of the brush marks. On other pages whole pictures were obliterated.

  ‘Sir, what’s all this?’ he asked, showing a black page.

  ‘It’s none of my doing,’ said Tommy Cooper.

  Martin flicked backwards and forwards.

  On the next page there was a print of a strange figure, not covered by ink. It was a naked woman but you couldn’t see anything because her body was covered in hair. For a moment he thought it was shading, but no, it was definitely hair. She was surrounded by angels — four of them. On the page following she was there again, held up by two angels this time. He looked at the text below the picture

  Mary Magdalene borne aloft by two angels.

  Press of Gunter Zaimer, Augsburg 1470—73.

  Mary Magdalene wasn’t hairy. She was a fallen woman. You had to be normal to be a fallen woman — or nobody would have fallen for you. He looked back at the first print.

  Mary Magdalene borne aloft by four angels —

  Artists Michael Wolgemut & H. Pleydenwurff.

  Press of Anton Kobenberger, Nuremberg 1493.

  What was this all about? It said nothing about this in the scriptures. She washed Christ’s feet, dried them with her long hair and put ointment on them. But it was a big jump from this to looking like a gorilla.

  ‘Sir, why is Mary Magdalene all hairy?’

  ‘Let me see.’ Tommy Cooper leaned over the book and looked.

  ‘Maybe it’s shading — cross-hatching. To darken the figure down a bit.’

  ‘They could have used Indian ink — like on the rest of them.’

  ‘Nothing to do with me, Brennan. That’s the powers-that-be.’

  ‘Hairy Mary full of grace.’

  ‘There’s no need to mock, Brennan. If you want to know more ask one of the priests.’

  Outside the sun came out. The chapel’s stained glass windows were magnificent. He had never seen such intensity in colour. Someone had said that the colour had such quality because it was layered. A double thickness — blue glass against red glass gave an intense purple. Blue sandwiched with yellow gave a voluptuous green. When the sunlight came through the chapel windows it picked up the colour from the glass and laid it on the floor. Undersea blues, intense ruby reds, violets, celery greens were vivid on the parquet tiles. There was a window depicting St Paul on the Road to Damascus. Saul had fallen and was propped up on one hand, shielding his face with the other from the brightness of the rays coming from around the face of the Lord. From persecutor to apostle in an instant. These windows were so highly prized they had been buried during the war.

  There was the loud slam of a door and Martin froze. Fuck. Footsteps pacing to and fro on the wooden boards in the sacristy. Vamoose. Get the hell out. Still he didn’t move. It could be Condor or the Reverend Head. Earlier he had thought of a number of things to say if he was caught in the chapel but all of these now deserted him. He would mumble and blush, stammer something stupid. Probably end up admitting that he was mitching the English class because he hadn’t done the homework. Why couldn’t he be more like Blaise?

  ‘What are you doing here, boy?’

  ‘I’m checking the stained glass for the efficacy of its waterproof seal,’ Blaise would have said. ‘For a chemistry experiment. The lead surrounds denature in acid rain.’ Or some such.

  It wasn’t that Martin couldn’t think the things up — it was just that he couldn’t carry them off. He was a totally bad liar. There was no need to attach him to a lie detector. He just gave the game away. He couldn’t make eye contact with whoever was questioning him, his shoulders drooped, his voice shook. His grammar went to pieces and his sentences stumbled and sounded stupid.

  Martin stood. The daffs was the only place left. He tiptoed to the back of the chapel past the Crucifixion and as quietly as he could, opened the door and left. He held the handle from the outside to prevent the door making any noise as it flopped back into place. Still the staircase and corridors were quiet. He would need to get a look at the clock, to see how long he had to go before the bell. When he saw that it was just after half past he could hardly believe it. Another twenty fuckin minutes mooching about
. Being a sitting duck.

  Walking the corridor like this, if anybody pounced, he was going to the toilet. Or going to the water fountain to get a drink because he felt slightly ill.

  When he crossed the yard to the toilets he kept as close as he could to the wall. No one saw him. The daffs, when it was empty, was a strange place. Around the walls were toilet cubicles; in a central island stood a bank of full-length upright urinals. Martin went into a cubicle and closed and barred the door. The one most likely to be around was Joe Boggs — but he was no threat. He was a general handyman and one of his jobs was to keep the toilets clean. He had painted the cubicle doors again and again to cover the obscenities but what had been deeply gouged into the wood with knives and compass points still showed through. Big dicks, huge tits.

  The toilet seats had long ago been smashed or pulled off and not replaced. There was no toilet roll left so he used the cardboard tube to wipe the delf rim thoroughly before sitting down. It gave him a strange feeling, a kind of nausea, which made him think he was sitting on a toothless lower jaw. Really squeamish guys squatted on top of the toilet like some kind of shitting bird. He had never actually seen a boy do this but he had seen shoe prints on the delf and had seen the disgusting results of a poor aim.

  Martin sat on the toilet, his trousers down, staring around him. Every so often, Condor patrolled the daffs, bending at the waist, checking beneath each cubicle door. If he saw you sitting there with your trousers up he would have every right to demand an explanation. So it was better to have your trousers about your ankles.

  When the truly weird Father O’Hare had arrived to stay in their house he had said to Martin, ‘I believe you’re an altar boy.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Will you serve my mass in the morning?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Seven o’clock. An early start — but it leaves the rest of the day free.’

  ‘But for what?’ said Mrs Brennan afterwards to Martin.