The Anatomy School

by Bernard Maclaverty

  ‘What’s the food like?’

  ‘They’ve these teapots with a handle fore and aft. They put the sugar and milk in first — it’s totally disgusting.’

  Just then two young mothers with pushchairs approached along the path. Kavanagh came up off his elbow and Martin’s neck lengthened. Both boys followed them with their eyes. Blaise remained flat out. The women were wearing short skirts and both had good legs. They were only a few years older than the boys.

  ‘Hey Blaise, wait till you see this.’ Blaise raised his head, bent his neck only.

  ‘Women with prams?’ He sounded incredulous.

  ‘The one nearest us is a beaut,’ said Martin.

  ‘They’re both beauts,’ said Kavanagh.

  When they had gone past on the path above, the women stopped and the boys clearly heard one of them saying, ‘Would you look at the state of that?’ She bent over and wiped her baby’s face with a white handkerchief. ‘I don’t know how he does it. A mucky wee pup.’ Bending, she bared the backs of her thighs.

  ‘Jesus …’

  ‘Fuck me …’

  Blaise did not move. He said, ‘You guys are pathetic.’ The women did not even glance at the schoolboys sprawled on the grass by the water.

  ‘Oh I just love that H women have at the back of their knee — like goalposts,’ said Kavanagh. ‘It’s truly beautiful.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Martin laughed, recognising what he was saying.

  ‘The only truly beautiful thing I ever saw was …’ Blaise waited.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘… a boy called McAllister.’

  ‘Steady on.’

  ‘Explain yourself, young man.’

  ‘I was in the gym one day in my last school,’ said Blaise, ‘skiving as usual — they put you on top of the wall-bars when you have an excuse. Jesus I hate gym. Anyway there was this boy McAllister and he was beside a vault horse — one of those incredibly ugly things, square leather body, four legs, one sticking out of each corner — and sunlight came in the upper windows and hit him. He was blond with brown eyes. He was wearing a white T-shirt. And I think that was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Him in the sunlight.’

  ‘Hey, I think we have to be wary of this guy,’ said Martin.

  ‘No — no, you’ve got it all wrong. It wasn’t sexy. It was just simply beautiful. If you can’t distinguish those two things then …’ Blaise shrugged, ‘you’re a dumbfuck.’

  ‘It takes all sorts,’ said Kavanagh.

  ‘If you were given the choice of going to bed with one of those women who just went past — the beaut, if you fancied her — or that guy McAllister — which would it be?’

  ‘You don’t need to ask.’

  ‘Which would it be?’

  ‘If you have to ask the question,’ said Blaise, ‘you wouldn’t understand the answer.’

  ‘You are a homo.’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘Gendemen, gentlemen,’ said Kavanagh. He drew himself up to make a statement. ‘There is no man in the world however handsome or attractive I would ever go to bed with. And there is no woman under — say thirty — no matter what state she was in that I wouldn’t go to bed with — apart from my immediate family.’

  ‘Why?’ said Blaise. ‘What’s wrong with them?’

  ‘Fuck off, Mr Foley.’ Kavanagh waved his arms and shouted at the top of his voice: ‘Your wives, your daughters, your matrons and your maids could not fill up the cistern of my lust.’

  ‘Steady on, man. Maybe that’s what the H at the back of the knee stands for,’ said Martin.

  ‘Hoor?’ said Kavanagh.

  ‘Only if you can’t spell properly,’ said Blaise.

  ‘Holiness, probably.’

  ‘It’s not long since those girls were at St Dominic’s.’

  ‘Aye, that’s probably where they got pregnant,’ said Martin. ‘My dearly beloved mother says if there were no bad women then there’d be no bad men.’ He put on a scrawny voice to imitate her. He plucked a yellow dandelion and looked at the stem. Almost immediately it oozed a circle of milky stuff.

  ‘Thee most important event in the life of a young man is the loss of his virginity.’ Kavanagh winked at Blaise. ‘It certainly was for me.’

  ‘You’re taking the piss,’ said Martin.

  ‘I am not.’

  ‘Who was it then?’

  ‘It would be ungallant of me to reveal the lady’s name.’ Kavanagh paused. ‘Or names.’

  ‘She had several names?’ said Blaise. Kavanagh laughed and shook his head. ‘The best loss of virginity story I know also concerns a woman with many names. St Wilgefortis or Uncumber or Liberata — it’s not recorded why she had so many names. She was the daughter of the king of Portugal and had taken a vow of virginity. Anyway her old man wanted her to marry the king of somewhere else and she prayed like mad. God’s answer was to make her grow a beard overnight. And seeing his fiancée with a beard made the king of somewhere else fuck off back home. Pronto.’

  ‘Nice one.’

  ‘And the king of Portugal was so mad at his daughter he had her crucified.’

  ‘Even nicer one.’

  ‘So if you ever see a crucifix with a bearded woman on it — that’s who it is. If you can remember one of her bloody names.’

  The sun was hot. Kavanagh stripped off his shirt and lay back. His body was white except for the darker red in a V at his throat. He joined his hands behind his head.

  ‘This is the life.’

  ‘Speaking of hair. Look at the armpits.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Italian women don’t shave under their arms,’ said Martin. ‘It’s weird.’

  ‘I think it’s sexy,’ said Kavanagh. ‘Like going about with a couple of spare cunts.’

  Blaise smiled. ‘That’s what I have to do,’ he said. ‘Knock about with you two.’ They all rolled about laughing in the grass. Martin raised his head and looked for the women with their babies. They had reached the far side and he could still hear their voices faintly across the water and the squeak of the springs of one of the pushchairs.

  ‘How do you know … you know …?’

  ‘I’m not with you, young Brennan.’

  ‘How do you know … how?’

  ‘How to what?’

  Martin nodded at the two women.

  ‘To do it?’ Kavanagh chuckled and plucked a stalk of grass for himself. ‘Instinct. The old stag in all of us. Nature just takes over — at least that’s what I’ve always found.’

  ‘You’re taking the piss.’

  ‘A bit of advice, Brennan, from a more experienced man. When you’re doing it don’t forget the face,’ said Kavanagh. ‘Pay attention to her face — and the rewards will be rich.’

  ‘Gee thanks,’ said Martin. He made snorting noises and went on chewing his grass. ‘Who taught you to wipe your arse?’ Blaise and Kavanagh both looked at him. ‘It’s a serious educational question,’ said Martin. ‘It was a great-aunt of mine who taught me.’

  ‘She was great if she taught you that.’

  ‘To double over the paper,’ Martin went on, ignoring what the others said. ‘To wipe up and not down. How many sheets. Did you ever meet anyone who used just the one slice? A single sheet of Medicated with Izal Germicide. Of course you never. Everybody always doubles it — folds it over. Are you going to be the one brave enough to say that’s strong enough just by looking at it. That’s safe?’

  ‘Safe?’

  ‘To stop the old finger going right through. Because that’s the fear. The brown finger. Aw fuck. And the scrubbing with the nailbrush.’ He squirmed and writhed on the grass holding his right hand at arm’s length with his left. ‘And the staying as far away from the finger as possible. You don’t want to be on the same side of the street as your hand for most of the week. Did anybody ever teach you?’

  ‘I can’t remember,’ said Kavanagh. ‘I’m sure my technique has improved since I was a two-yea
r-old. But I don’t remember diagrams or anything. What about you, Foley?’

  ‘I haven’t passed a motion since I was born.’ Blaise didn’t raise his head. ‘And did you know that Arabs wipe their arses with stones?’ He paused for a moment. ‘Maybe it’s more correct to say “Arabs wipe their arse — singular — with stones.” Any Arab has only one arse.’

  ‘Of course the stones would be plural, too.’ Kavanagh scratched his armpit. ‘As the lad said, who ever heard of anybody using just the one slice of paper.’

  ‘They’d be very hard to flush away,’ said Martin.

  ‘Aye, I’ve done ones like that too,’ said Kavanagh.

  ‘Anyway — this was not the question I was asking,’ said Martin. ‘What I want to know is how do you know about the big one?’ There was silence. ‘Have you done it yet, Kavanagh?’

  ‘You’re always asking me that.’

  ‘Because you never tell me the answer.’

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

  ‘Aw fuck — you sound like one of my mother’s oul-biddy friends. Blaise?’

  ‘No — whatever it is you’re talking about.’

  ‘It’s a matter of definition,’ said Kavanagh. ‘How you define it.’

  ‘You know what I mean. For fucksake …’

  ‘We’ve all had a range of experience. The day you first touch mammary, the day you first get your hand on it. Did I tell you about the nosy bastard of a priest quizzing me in confession? After I said I touched this girl one night he says, “Was she wet?” nearly panting through the grille, he was. Slavering like. And I says, “No, Father, we had an umbrella.” They all laughed but Martin wasn’t too sure about what was funny. And he didn’t want to ask any more questions. To betray himself.

  ‘OK. I tell you what,’ said Kavanagh. ‘The night we get it — inside — lock, stock and barrel — we phone each other.’

  ‘So you haven’t got it yet,’ said Martin, pointing dramatically at him. ‘You could always start with the fat girl in the chippy.’

  ‘Isobel?’

  ‘She adores you.’

  ‘I think I’ll leave her for you, Martin. But I’m beginning to agree with Blaise,’ said Kavanagh. ‘You just don’t listen. After the full works — on the phone.’

  ‘That’s probably what I’d have done anyway,’ said Martin.

  ‘So the pact is — when you get off her — you get on the phone. Dismount and dial. Within reason, manners permitting. I kid you not. Any time of the day or night — even if it’s three in the morning — wherever you are in the world.’ Kavanagh kicked Blaise’s shoulder. ‘Whatever age you may be.’

  ‘I’m on,’ said Martin. Blaise just snorted. Kavanagh started laughing.

  ‘I can just imagine the scene. My old man has answered the phone, the mother is in her nightie on the landing, listening over the banisters. Jesus Mary and Joseph — somebody’s dead. Why else would anybody be phoning at this hour.’ He made as if to cover the mouthpiece with his hand and look up at Mrs Kavanagh on the landing: ‘It’s Martin. He’s just got his hole.

  Oh thanks be to God, says the mother.’

  ‘And maybe when you phone to tell me I’m out and there’s one of my ma’s supper evenings going on with Father Farquharson and all. I’m afraid Martin’s out — my mother has a very polite voice on the phone. Can I take a message?

  Yeah — just tell him I got my hole.

  Who’ll I say called?

  Cardinal Kavanagh.’

  Kavanagh interrupted, ‘Fuck you. At least give me some credit — His Holiness, the Pope.’

  ‘Would you like Martin to phone you back, Holy Father?’

  ‘Naw,’ said Kavanagh. ‘I’m saying seven o’clock mass in St Peter’s in the morning. I need to get some shut-eye. If he’s free, maybe Martin would like to be altar boy?’

  ‘Night on a Bare Mountain Lassie,’ said Blaise. He was lying on his back squinting through one eye at the hills. ‘It really does look like Napoleon’s nose from this angle. The Emperor. So, speaking of pacts — are you gentlemen game for this exam thing? How to cheat the system that cheats you.’ Nobody answered him. Martin felt his stomach sink. He didn’t want to lose face. He was continuing because he didn’t know how to stop continuing. ‘Well?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Kavanagh, ‘provided we don’t get caught.’

  ‘Is there any way we could cover ourselves?’ said Martin. ‘Make out like it was a joke — a student prank? Maybe write a letter to the authorities and post it just before we do the business. If we get caught we can say it was a joke — we’re stealing these papers because we want to point out it’s an unfair system.’

  ‘Crap,’ said Blaise. ‘Then they’d know and they’d cancel the exam. Everybody’d have to re-sit. We’ll do it so that nobody’ll know a thing about it. Except us. And we’ll get good results. We’ll get the best fucking results ever seen. Which is no more than we deserve. Being bright boys. Eh, Martin?’

  ‘Quit taking the piss.’

  ‘But how do we get into that room?’ said Kavanagh. The sun had gone behind a big cloud. Kavanagh’s skin had come up in goose-bumps. He put his shirt back on again but didn’t button it.

  ‘How do you get into any room?’ said Blaise.

  ‘Open the door.’

  ‘You need a key. Who has keys for that room?’

  Martin and Kavanagh shrugged.

  ‘Joe Boggs,’ said Martin. ‘That’s where he keeps his cleaning stuff.’

  ‘So what do we do? Pinch that huge big bunch of keys off him? And then stand in the corridor trying each one till we get the right one?’

  ‘I’ve been in Condor’s room. He has a key cupboard on his wall.’

  ‘Tell us more.’

  ‘Every key in the school should be in it.’

  ‘How do we get in there?’ said Blaise.

  ‘Fucking Condor’s room?’

  ‘He takes you in there to thump you; for smoking. At least he did me. He raided the daffs last year. About ten of us. Up to his room. And …’

  ‘Wait till you hear this,’ said Kavanagh.

  ‘… the bastard lights his pipe and says I will go on caning you until this goes out and he walks up and down the line thumping us, puffing away at this fucking Sherlock Holmes pipe.’

  ‘The man’s a psychopath. Get to the point,’ said Blaise.

  ‘Condor scares the shit out of me — he’s a complete bastard and he was working his way round to me. Thump — thump — thump. I remember every fuckin detail. I was so angry. The smell of that tobacco — I usually like tobacco but as he was reading us the riot act, giving us the oul fuckin tired dressing down, he was hoaking out the pipe into an ashtray with this wee bloody implement thing he has. Like wet stinking black straw. Fucking stinking. You could smell it across the room. I was staring at the key cupboard, with its wee ordinary key in the lock. Inside all the hooks, numbered and all. I remember he opened his room with a Yale key with a wee yellow plastic cover thing on it.’ Martin suddenly spat out his chewed stalk of grass and straightened. ‘Does he ever say mass in the mornings?’

  ‘All priests do,’ said Kavanagh.

  ‘In school?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Blaise shrugged. ‘What difference would that make?’

  ‘Find out,’ said Martin. He became restless at the thought which had come into his head. He stood and moved up to the tarmac path. Here and there the old surface had broken into potholes. It had been loosely filled in with stones. Martin bent and picked up the largest one. He turned and threw it as high as he could into the air over the water. It soared and slowed, then began to fall. When it hit the water it made a muted sound. Fudge! He lifted a handful of stones and went down the short slope to the water’s edge.

  ‘Thirty-two feet per second per second.’

  ‘We call that a dead man’s fart.’

  Kavanagh saw what Martin was doing and went up and gathered a handful of stones for himself. Blaise watched them.

>   ‘The higher the better,’ said Martin. Kavanagh prepared to throw, his body bent back, his throwing hand almost to the ground behind him. He whipped his hand through and the stone disappeared up into the blue. Martin shaded his eyes. Squinting up at the brightness. Chuff! The stone hit the water some way out. The water was fretted enough for there to be no spreading rings — just a little irruption. The little wind died away.

  ‘It’s the sound of bursting from one element to another,’ said Blaise. ‘Breaking the sound barrier.’ Martin threw again. Then Kavanagh. Each time the stone made the plunge into the water there was the satisfying noise. The swans began to swim towards them, thinking there was food on the go. The wind had dropped enough for each swan to leave a wake.

  ‘It goes in a kind of parabola,’ said Kavanagh.

  Martin threw again and said, ‘Like shooting an arrow straight up.’ They ran out of stones and couldn’t be bothered going back up on to the path to get more.

  ‘Did you ever hear of Zeno’s paradoxes?’ said Blaise.

  ‘Nope,’ said Kavanagh. Blaise didn’t even wait for an answer from Martin. And Martin was aware of it.

  ‘They’re arguments against motion,’ said Blaise. He made the other two stand up and placed them a couple of feet from each other, both facing in the direction of the Cave Hill. ‘Just say there’s a race and you are Achilles …’ He reached out and put his hand on Kavanagh’s shoulder.

  ‘Aw, fuck. My heel.’ Kavanagh made a grab for it as if he was in pain. Blaise straightened him up and made him stand to attention. He took two paces and beckoned Martin.

  ‘And you are the dumbfuck tortoise.’ Blaise positioned Martin a distance in front of Kavanagh. ‘So Achilles is so confident he gives you a start.’

  ‘Does he not have to fall asleep?’ said Martin.

  ‘Shut up,’ said Blaise. ‘When I say Go …’ Kavanagh was away running, exaggeratedly lifting his knees. ‘For fucksake …’ Kavanagh heard the irritation in Blaise’s voice but continued mock running in a great loop over the grass until he came back. Blaise continued:

  ‘When Achilles reaches the point where dumbfuck here started, dumbfuck will have moved on a bit — right?’