Collected Stories

by Bernard Maclaverty

  Mary I love you as much as ever – more so that we cannot be together. I do not know which is worse, the hurt of this war or being separated from you. Give all my love to Brendan and all at home.

  It was signed, scribbled with what he took to be John. He folded the paper carefully into its original creases and put it in the envelope. He opened another.

  My love, it is thinking of you that keeps me sane. When I get a moment I open my memories of you as if I were reading. Your long dark hair – I always imagine you wearing the blouse with the tiny roses, the white one that opened down the back – your eyes that said so much without words, the way you lowered your head when I said anything that embarrassed you, and the clean nape of your neck.

  The day I think about most was the day we climbed the head at Ballycastle. In a hollow, out of the wind, the air full of pollen and the sound of insects, the grass warm and dry and you lying beside me your hair undone, between me and the sun. You remember that that was where I first kissed you and the look of disbelief in your eyes that made me laugh afterwards.

  It makes me laugh now to see myself savouring these memories standing alone up to my thighs in muck. It is everywhere, two, three feet deep. To walk ten yards leaves you quite breathless.

  I haven’t time to write more today so I leave you with my feet in the clay and my head in the clouds. I love you, John.

  He did not bother to put the letter back into the envelope but opened another.

  My dearest, I am so cold that I find it difficult to keep my hand steady enough to write. You remember when we swam the last two fingers of your hand went the colour and texture of candles with the cold. Well that is how I am all over. It is almost four days since I had any real sensation in my feet or legs. Everything is frozen. The ground is like steel.

  Forgive me telling you this but I feel I have to say it to someone. The worst thing is the dead. They sit or lie frozen in the position they died. You can distinguish them from the living because their faces are the colour of slate. God help us when the thaw comes . . . This war is beginning to have an effect on me. I have lost all sense of feeling. The only emotion I have experienced lately is one of anger. Sheer white trembling anger. I have no pity or sorrow for the dead and injured. I thank God it is not me but I am enraged that it had to be them. If I live through this experience I will be a different person.

  The only thing that remains constant is my love for you.

  Today a man died beside me. A piece of shrapnel had pierced his neck as we were moving under fire. I pulled him into a crater and stayed with him until he died. I watched him choke and then drown in his blood.

  I am full of anger which has no direction.

  He sorted through the pile and read half of some, all of others. The sun had fallen low in the sky and shone directly into the room onto the pages he was reading making the paper glare. He selected a letter from the back of the pile and shaded it with his hand as he read.

  Dearest Mary, I am writing this to you from my hospital bed. I hope that you were not too worried about not hearing from me. I have been here, so they tell me, for two weeks and it took another two weeks before I could bring myself to write this letter.

  I have been thinking a lot as I lie here about the war and about myself and about you. I do not know how to say this but I feel deeply that I must do something, must sacrifice something to make up for the horror of the past year. In some strange way Christ has spoken to me through the carnage . . .

  Suddenly the boy heard the creak of the stair and he frantically tried to slip the letter back into its envelope but it crumpled and would not fit. He bundled them all together. He could hear his aunt’s familiar puffing on the short stairs to her room. He spread the elastic band wide with his fingers. It snapped and the letters scattered. He pushed them into their pigeon hole and quickly closed the desk flap. The brass screeched loudly and clicked shut. At that moment his aunt came into the room.

  ‘What are you doing, boy?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He stood with the keys in his hand. She walked to the bureau and opened it. The letters sprung out in an untidy heap.

  ‘You have been reading my letters,’ she said quietly. Her mouth was tight with the words and her eyes blazed. The boy could say nothing. She struck him across the side of the face.

  ‘Get out,’ she said. ‘Get out of my room.’

  The boy, the side of his face stinging and red, put the keys on the table on his way out. When he reached the door she called to him. He stopped, his hand on the handle.

  ‘You are dirt,’ she hissed, ‘and always will be dirt. I shall remember this till the day I die.’

  Even though it was a warm evening there was a fire in the large fireplace. His mother had asked him to light it so that she could clear out Aunt Mary’s stuff. The room could then be his study, she said. She came in and seeing him at the table said, ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you.’

  ‘No.’

  She took the keys from her pocket, opened the bureau and began burning papers and cards. She glanced quickly at each one before she flicked it onto the fire.

  ‘Who was Brother Benignus?’ he asked.

  His mother stopped sorting and said, ‘I don’t know. Your aunt kept herself very much to herself. She got books from him through the post occasionally. That much I do know.’

  She went on burning the cards. They built into strata, glowing red and black. Now and again she broke up the pile with the poker, sending showers of sparks up the chimney. He saw her come to the letters. She took off the elastic band and put it to one side with the useful things and began dealing the envelopes into the fire. She opened one and read quickly through it, then threw it on top of the burning pile.

  ‘Mama,’ he said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Did Aunt Mary say anything about me?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Before she died – did she say anything?’

  ‘Not that I know of – the poor thing was too far gone to speak, God rest her.’ She went on burning, lifting the corners of the letters with the poker to let the flames underneath them.

  When he felt a hardness in his throat he put his head down on his books. Tears came into his eyes for the first time since she had died and he cried silently into the crook of his arm for the woman who had been his maiden aunt, his teller of tales, that she might forgive him.

  THE MIRACULOUS CANDIDATE

  AT THE AGE of fourteen John began to worry about the effects of his sanctity. The first thing had been a tingling, painful sensation in the palms of his hands and the soles of his feet. But an even more alarming symptom was the night when, as he fervently prayed himself to sleep, he felt himself being lifted up a full foot and a half above the bed – bedclothes and all. The next morning when he thought about it he dismissed it as a dream or the result of examination nerves.

  Now on the morning of his Science exam he felt his stomach light and woolly, as if he had eaten feathers for breakfast. Outside the gym some of the boys fenced with new yellow rulers or sat drumming them on their knees. The elder ones, doing Senior and ‘A’ levels, stood in groups all looking very pale, one turning now and again to spit over his shoulder to show he didn’t care. John checked for his examination card which his grandmother had carefully put in his inside pocket the night before. She had also pinned a Holy Ghost medal beneath his lapel where it wouldn’t be seen and made him wear his blazer while she brushed it. She had asked him what Science was about and when John tried to explain she had interrupted him saying, ‘If y’can blether as well with your pen – you’ll do all right.’

  One of the Seniors said it was nearly half-past and they all began to shuffle towards the door of the gym. John had been promised a watch if he passed his Junior.

  The doors were opened and they all filed quietly to their places. John’s desk was at the back with his number chalked on the top right-hand corner. He sat down, unclipped his fountain-pen and set it in the groove. All the desks had an empty ho
le for an ink-well. During the Maths exam one of the boys opposite who couldn’t do any of the questions drew a face in biro on his finger and put it up through the hole and waggled it at John. He didn’t seem to care whether he failed or not.

  John sat looking at the wall-bars which lined the gym. The invigilator held up a brown paper parcel and pointed to the unbroken seal, then opened it, tearing off the paper noisily. He had a bad foot and some sort of high boot which squeaked every time he took a step. His face was pale and full of suspicion. He was always jumping up suddenly as if he had caught somebody on, flicking back his stringy hair as he did so. When he ate the tea and biscuits left at the door for him at eleven his eyes kept darting backwards and forwards. John noticed that he ‘gullied’, a term his grandmother used for chewing and drinking tea at the same time. When reading, he never held the newspaper up but laid it flat on the table and stood propped on his arms, his big boot balanced on its toe to take the weight off it.

  ‘If you ever meet the devil you’ll know him by his cloven hoof,’ his Granny had told him. A very holy woman, she had made it her business to read to him every Sunday night from the lives of the Saints, making him sit at her feet as she did so. While she read she let her glasses slip down to the end of her long nose and would look over them every so often, to see if he was listening. She had a mole on her chin with a hair like a watch-spring growing out of it. She read in a serious voice, very different to her ordinary one, and always blew on the fine tissuey pages to separate them before turning over with her trembling fingers. She had great faith and had a particular saint for every difficulty. ‘St Blaise is good for throats and if you’ve ever lost anything St Anthony’ll find it for you.’ She always kept a sixpence under the statue of the Child of Prague because then, she said, she’d never be without. Above all there was St Joseph of Cupertino. For examinations he was your man. Often she read his bit out of the book to John.

  ‘Don’t sit with your back to the fire or you’ll melt the marrow of your bones,’ and he’d change his position at her feet and listen intently.

  St Joseph was so close to God that sometimes when he prayed he was lifted up off the ground. Other times when he’d be carrying plates – he was only smart enough to work in the kitchen – he would go into a holy trance and break every dish on the tiled floor. He wanted to become a priest but he was very stupid so he learned off just one line of the Bible. But here – and this was the best part of the story – when his exam came didn’t God make the bishop ask him the one line he knew and he came through with flying colours. When the story was finished his Granny always said, ‘It was all he was fit for, God help him – the one line.’

  The ingivilator squeaked his way down towards John and flicked a pink exam paper onto his desk. John steadied it with his hand. His eyes raced across the lines looking for the familiar questions. The feathers whirlpooled almost into his throat. He panicked. There was not a single question – not one – he knew anything about. He tried to settle himself and concentrated to read the first question.

  State Newton’s Universal Law of Gravitation. Give arguments for or against the statement that ‘the only reason an apple falls downwards to meet the earth instead of the earth falling upwards to meet the apple is that the earth, being much more massive exerts the greater pull.’ The mass of the moon is one eighty-first, and its radius one quarter that of the earth. What is the acceleration of gravity at its surface if . . .

  It was no use. He couldn’t figure out what was wrong. He had been to mass and communion every day for the past year – he had prayed hard for the right questions. The whole family had prayed hard for the right questions. What sort of return was this? He suppressed the thought because it was . . . it was God’s will. Perhaps a watch would lead him into sin somehow or other?

  He looked round at the rest of the boys. Most of them were writing frantically. Others sat sucking their pens or doodling on their rough-work sheets. John looked at the big clock hung on the wall-bars with its second hand slowly spinning. Twenty minutes had gone already and he hadn’t put pen to paper. He must do something.

  He closed his eyes very tight and clenching his fists to the sides of his head he placed himself in God’s hands and began to pray. His Granny’s voice came to him. ‘The Patron Saint of Examinations. Pray to him if you’re really stuck.’ He saw the shining damp of his palms, then pressed them to his face. Now he summoned up his whole being, focused it to a point of white heat. All the good that he had ever done, that he ever would do, all his prayers, the sum total of himself, he concentrated into the name of the saint. He clenched his eyes so hard there was a roaring in his ears. His finger-nails bit into his cheeks. His lips moved and he said, ‘Saint Joseph of Cupertino, help me.’

  He opened his eyes and saw that somehow he was above his desk. Not far – he was raised up about a foot and a half, his body still in a sitting position. The invigilator looked up from his paper and John tried to lower himself back down into his seat. But he had no control over his limbs. The invigilator came round his desk quickly and walked towards him over the coconut matting, his boot creaking as he came.

  ‘What are you up to?’ he hissed between his teeth.

  ‘Nothing,’ whispered John. He could feel his cheeks becoming more and more red, until his whole face throbbed with blushing.

  ‘Are you trying to copy?’ The invigilator’s face was on a level with the boy’s. ‘You can see every word the boy in front of you is writing, can’t you?’

  ‘No sir, I’m not trying to . . .’ stammered John. ‘I was just praying and . . .’ The man looked like a Protestant. The Ministry brought in teachers from other schools. Protestant schools. He wouldn’t understand about saints.

  ‘I don’t care what you say you were doing. I think you are trying to copy and if you don’t come down from there I’ll have you disqualified.’ The little man was getting as red in the face as John.

  ‘I can’t sir.’

  ‘Very well then.’ The invigilator clicked his tongue angrily and walked creak-padding away to his desk.

  John again concentrated his whole being, focused it to a prayer of white heat.

  ‘Saint Joseph of Cupertino. Get me down please.’ But nothing happened. The invigilator lifted his clip-board with the candidates’ names and started back towards John. Some of the boys in the back row had stopped writing and were laughing. The invigilator reached him.

  ‘Are you going to come down from there or not?’

  ‘I can’t.’ The tears welled up in John’s eyes.

  ‘Then I shall have to ask you to leave.’

  ‘I can’t,’ said John.

  The invigilator leaned forward and tapped the boy in front of John on the shoulder.

  ‘Do you mind for a moment?’ he said and turned the boy’s answer paper face downwards on the desk. While he was turned away John frantically tried to think of a way out. His prayer hadn’t worked . . . maybe a sin would . . . the invigilator turned to him.

  ‘For the last time I’m . . .’

  ‘Fuck the Pope,’ said John and as he did so, he plumped back down into his seat skinning his shin on the tubular frame of the desk.

  ‘Pardon. What did you say?’

  ‘Nothing sir. It’s all right now. I’m sorry sir.’

  ‘What is wrong with you boy?’

  ‘I can’t do it, sir – any of it.’ John pointed to the paper. The invigilator spun it round with his finger.

  ‘You should have thought of that some months ago . . .’ The words faded away. ‘I’m very sorry. Just a minute,’ he said, limping very quickly down to his desk. He came back with a white exam paper which he put in front of John.

  ‘Very sorry,’ he repeated. ‘It does happen sometimes.’

  John looked for the first time at the head of the pink paper. ADVANCED LEVEL PHYSICS. Now he read quickly through the questions on the white paper the invigilator had brought him. They were all there. Archimedes in his bath, properties of NaCl, allotropes of su
lphur, the anatomy of the buttercup. The invigilator smiled with his spade-like teeth.

  ‘Is that any better?’ he asked. John nodded. ‘. . . and if you need some extra time to make up, you can have it.’

  ‘Thank you sir,’ said John. The invigilator hunkered down beside him and whispered confidentially.

  ‘This wee mix-up’ll not go any farther than between ourselves, will it . . .’ He looked down at his clip-board. ‘. . . Johnny?’

  ‘No sir.’

  He gave John a pat on the back and creaked away over the coconut matting. John put his head down on the desk and uttered a prayer of thanksgiving to St Joseph of Cupertino, this time making sure to keep his fervour within bounds.

  BETWEEN TWO SHORES

  IT WAS DARK and he sat with his knees tucked up to his chin, knowing there was a long night ahead of him. He had arrived early for the boat and sat alone in a row of seats wishing he had bought a paper or a magazine of some sort. He heard a noise like a pulse from somewhere deep in the boat. Later he changed his position and put his feet on the floor.

  For something to do he opened his case and looked again at the presents he had for the children. A painting by numbers set for the eldest boy of the ‘Laughing Cavalier’, for the three girls, dolls, horizontal with their eyes closed, a blonde, a red-head and a brunette to prevent fighting over who owned which. He had also bought a trick pack of cards. He bought these for himself but he didn’t like to admit it. He saw himself amazing his incredulous, laughing father after dinner by turning the whole pack into the seven of clubs or whatever else he liked by just tapping them as the man in the shop had done.

  The trick cards would be a nice way to start a conversation if anybody sat down beside him, so he put them on top of his clothes in the case. He locked it and slipped it off the seat, leaving it vacant. Other people were beginning to come into the lounge lugging heavy cases. When they saw him sitting in the middle of the row they moved on. He found their Irish accents grating and flat.