The Anatomy School

by Bernard Maclaverty

  When it came to the hand washing, he folded the linen towel over his wrist, took the water cruet in his right hand, the silver bowl in his left and approached the altar. Condor came to him and extended his fingers over the bowl. His nails had a rim of black — pipe smoker nails. The finger and thumb of each hand were together, the rest of the fingers fanned out. It was as if he was making two shadow rabbits. Martin poured the water from his cruet. The fingers were awful, chubby, knuckled, each one with a tuft of black hair on the back. Martin stared as Condor dried his hands and recited the prayer. He folded the linen towel and draped it back over Martin’s wrist. The fingers looked no cleaner and he still smelled of tobacco.

  After mass Father Albert was waiting for them in the sacristy. He clapped his hands together and beamed.

  ‘That was well served, Mr Brennan. No faults whatsoever. Not even foot faults. Rod Laver would have been proud of you.’

  The day was taken up with sermons and talks and prayers. In between times there were opportunities for spiritual reading and self-examination. Occasionally Martin went down behind the yew trees for a smoke. The gravel there was littered with cork tips. Walking in the grounds was strange. Normally the boys would walk in twos or threes but because of the silence everyone was alone. They stood, their hands in their pockets, looking away from one another. Out to sea, mostly. It was good for pictures, everyone being on their own — with guys standing here and there all over the gardens. Like statues. Martin went back inside for his camera. There was still some snow where it had blown into corners. The whirr and clunk of the shutter mechanism was satisfying as he took picture after picture. Suddenly Father Albert was beside him, his hands joined behind his back.

  ‘Mr Brennan at work, eh?’ Martin nodded. He was unsure whether to speak or not. This had nothing to do with the business of the Lord.

  ‘You realise it is somehow breaking the silence, to take pictures?’

  ‘But you said I could.’

  ‘I know, I know. But it distracts — the noise of the shutter. The activity. The purpose of what you’re about.’

  ‘Do you want me to stop?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  Martin nodded and put the camera away.

  Before the evening sermon and devotions Condor came striding out on to the altar.

  ‘It saddens me to have to say this but today I’ve had a complaint from the people directly below this place. It seems some boy or boys have been throwing stones.’ A ripple of amusement went through the congregation. ‘THIS IS NOT FUNNY,’ he roared. Faces straightened — everybody went still. ‘When are you ever going to grow up? I had the indignity of being summoned to inspect this gentleman’s property — a gentleman, I might add, who is not of our faith. A number of panes of glass in his greenhouse have been smashed. He assures me they were intact yesterday. The stones could only have come from here. The school will be obliged to make good the damage. I’d like the boy or boys involved to own up. You are now supposed to be mature individuals, God help us. The whole school should not be tarnished for the evil-doing of a few.’ Boys at the front looked around to see if anyone was going to own up. No one did. ‘This gentleman was extremely upset and was threatening to involve the police. But I wouldn’t want them here on Church property. Those particular gentlemen would be the last people I’d involve in a matter of law and order. Lorranawda, according to our friends in England — so we will have to police this one ourselves. If anybody saw anything Father Albert and Father Valerian will be available at any time. A word in either of their ears … would be sufficient.’

  After Condor left the altar, Father Albert came out.

  ‘A word in either of our ears,’ he began. ‘But if you’re coming to me my left ear is my best.’ He cupped his hand behind his left ear and smiled. The boys laughed. To have Condor reprimanded for his grammar … Indeed, let off the leash like this, the boys made more of the joke than they should have. Father Albert spoke loudly across the laughter to stop it: ‘If anyone saw anything, or anybody who was involved in this … then it would be the right place to become a man. For truth is a manly thing.’ The boys went quiet. Father Albert stopped and cleared his throat, then looked up into the rafters. There was a pause, to prepare them for his sermon. ‘And purity is a manly thing. Looking around me at your bright and handsome faces …’ he coughed artificially. ‘A-hem! I can tell that none of you are strangers to a good white tablecloth. The first day that tablecloth comes out of the drawer, it is crisp and white — a thing of beauty — it’ll have the little ridged creases where it was ironed — if your mother was anything like mine.’

  There was no pulpit. Father Albert seemed to prefer it that way — to be on a level with the boys. Once or twice he moved down off the altar to be among them. To clip a boy round the ear for fun, draw a halo in the air above someone’s head to make a mockery of him. There was something about this Martin didn’t like — like in a Western when the female singer came down off the stage and toyed with the cowboys. It embarrassed him for some reason he couldn’t put into words. Martin felt his eyes begin to be heavy.

  ‘That, boys, is like your soul the day you were born. God given. Pristine. And you keep it like that for some time — until the first food arrives. The hors-d’oeuvre. The starters, as they like to call them nowadays. The horses doovers. But as the meal of our lives proceeds things begin to go wrong — small things — maybe a slip here, a slip there — a sprinkling of salt, a scattering of breadcrumbs, the carafe of water slops over. The venial sins have begun. But we can cope with that. With the flick of a serviette, with a little brushing here and there, maybe a rub with a damp cloth. These are tools, boys — like the sacraments, daily mass and communion, prayer and devotions — ways to keep the soul spotless. We can say an Act of Contrition and, provided we have a firm purpose of amendment, our tablecloth will be … almost as good as the day we took it from the linen cupboard.’ Martin closed his eyes. He could hear what was being said just as well. Better indeed because he could concentrate more, not having any visual distraction. ‘But the meal goes on, boys, and we get more and more dangerous things coming to the table — gravy, blackcurrant jam, tomato sauce, maybe that soiler of everything, that spoiler of everything, red wine — with beaded bubbles winking at the brim. We get careless and eventually an elbow will hit something. And, before we know where we are, mortal sin has entered our lives. Our tablecloth is stained, ruined. What’s to be done? A visit to the laundry. Why else do you think the Church has the Sacrament of Confession …’

  Because he had slept so badly the night before and because of the early start that morning Martin began to drift … The chapel was hot and he was conscious of the boys’ shoulders on either side of him keeping him upright … At the moment he was about to go, his head JERKED up. And he was awake again. Then the same heavy eyelids, the same falling asleep sensation and again he would JERK himself awake. He was ashamed. As Christ in the Garden said, ‘Can you not watch one hour with me?’ He concentrated, dug his fingernails into the back of his hand so that he hurt himself awake. ‘Then comes the day when we have to die. And we have to display our tablecloth for inspection, for examination. You’re at that stage in your lives when you are totally taken up with examinations. Well, believe me, boys, this is the only examination that matters — and if we fail it, we fail everything. And what’s more — there are no re-sits. On the Last Day, Judgment Day, the conduct of each one of us will be held up to scrutiny by Our Lord. The secrets of our hearts will be brought into the light. What we are considering here are, as St Paul says, things that no eye has seen and no ear has heard, things beyond the mind of man, all that God has

  prepared for those who love him.’ The resurrection of the body. The Last Day. The Apocalypse

  John

  there

  are . . . . . .might . . . . . .Jesus Christ . . . . unconditionally frangwine

  melopites caringe St Paul smee gloofort

  mong

  JERK!


  ‘… Matthew’s memorable words “But when the Son of Man shall come in his majesty and all the angels with him, then he will sit upon the throne of his glory; and before him will be gathered all nations, and he will separate them one from another, as the shepherd separates the sheep from the goats.” The examination to end all examinations. A levels will be chicken-feed compared to the Last Judgment. Every action, every thought, even the ones you tried to hide — ESPECIALLY the ones you tried to hide — will be pulled out and examined before the Court of Heaven — and sitting in that court will be the ones you love — your mother, your father, your brothers and sisters. Your friends. The ones you deceived. The ones you disobeyed, the ones you had your impure thoughts about.

  fuckface Fuckface? Can’t be Can’t possibly

  sep farnick barglish …

  sin day

  On Good Friday after the Stations of the Cross they were all asked to write out questions. ‘They can be anonymous,’ said Father Valerian, ‘and can be about anything.’ A ripple of amusement went through the boys and, recognising the drift of their thinking, the priest rolled his eyes to heaven. ‘Yes, even that.’

  Cut squares of paper and halved pencils had been left around the large sitting room. A wooden box with a slit stood on a table at the centre. It was locked with a small brass padlock. The silence was still being kept but there was a lot of winking and grinning at one another as everyone wrote on their squares of paper.

  After dinner it was dark and everyone moved into the sitting room. Some boys had to go to another part of the house for extra chairs. Both Father Albert and Father Valerian sat behind the table at the head of the room. Father Valerian produced a small key, opened the box and shook the papers on to the table.

  ‘Democracy,’ he said and smiled. The priests began to sort through them. Father Albert raised his head.

  ‘Normally in a situation like this I would say “Just talk among yourselves.” But given the circumstances of a silent retreat I will say no such thing.’ The boys watched the faces of the priests as they read the questions. Two piles of papers were gradually developing. Father Valerian patted one pile.

  ‘These are questions,’ he said. He patted the other pile, ‘and these are impertinences.’

  They took it in turns — Father Valerian answering a question about Original Sin, Father Albert answering one about whether or not it would be sinful to use force to make the British withdraw from Ireland. Martin was sure that that one had come from Sharkey. The question ‘Will Sunday mass be compulsory in heaven?’ made everyone laugh. As did ‘Is it true that Shakespeare founded the Legion of Mary?’ These were tossed to one side but on each serious question they talked for ages. Then, as if on a signal, they both stopped and eyed the pile they had not yet touched. They both sighed together.

  ‘I don’t think I’m even going to read these out,’ said Father Albert, ‘because they are all asking about the same old story. There’s a lot of talk nowadays about clean air and clean water — the environment. We all accept restrictions on our freedom to achieve these ends. But how many of us will go along with the censorship — how many of us will root out the hard core pornography. It’s everywhere we look, in plays and films, in magazines, on hoardings twenty storeys high. Everything nowadays is beyond the bounds of decency. To object to that kind of thing is not with it. There is a conspiracy to corrupt our youth and it’s all coming from across the water.’

  ‘But we must do all in our power, boys, to stop it,’ said Father Valerian. ‘An effort must be made to re-establish purity in our young men.’

  He picked up one of the written questions between his finger and thumb and held it well away from him.

  ‘Is it a mortal sin to be intimate with a girl you love? What kind of a question is that? We don’t serve God like employees — in expectation of our wages. We must be good for itself. Virtue is its own reward. Anyway is this the kind of thing boys of your age should be asking? You should be out playing football, enjoying yourselves, instead of getting into such occasions of sin.’

  ‘Sighing over women,’ said Father Albert. ‘Swoonsville.’

  ‘Pandering to your passions.’ The session had taken on the character of a Laurel and Hardy act. ‘None of you will be in a position to marry a girl for many’s a year. And there’s no point in getting all hot and bothered. A lot of it is showing off in front of your chums: aren’t I the one — I’ve got a girlfriend.’ Father Valerian inclined his head towards Father Albert and looked over his glasses at him. Albert responded by averting his face and patting his hair with his hand.

  ‘There is, of course, a serious point we are trying to make here. Chastity is a beautiful thing in a young man. A strong character is one who doesn’t give in to his passions. Failure to master oneself is to be in thrall to the most complete slavery imaginable. A boy has to be able to say no.’

  ‘It’s the same for a young woman.’

  ‘And if we dedicate our efforts to remain pure to the greater glory of God it will all be something worthwhile.’

  The first time Martin had kissed a girl was when he was twelve or thirteen. At a daylight party, on a summer’s evening. There were girls in dresses, perfume smells, the feeling of being tongue-tied, nervous. Music with a pounding beat was playing. Someone suggested a game. Martin sat on the sofa until his number was called by Pauline Lunny. She was older than the rest. She was standing close to the door of the room — which was wide open. There was a draught-excluding velvet curtain on the door which could become a dark tent. Martin stood, grinning — as if it was going to be some kind of a test he had to pass. Pauline had her hair in a ponytail. She stretched out her arms and beckoned him in behind the door. She lifted the curtain and when he was in she let it fall around them. There was a confessional darkness. He knew from the movies to put one arm around her neck. She was wearing lipstick. He moved his face towards hers, not knowing what to do next. She closed her eyes, allowing him to kiss her. His mouth came against her mouth. At first her mouth felt dry, then it adhered to his and became moist, became huge inside his mind, like a universe. He closed his eyes. The sound of the party went on vaguely pounding in the background. He was totally surrounded by the moistness and size of her lips. It was as if he was mesmerised by this one sensation — an enveloping bed, an extravagance of comfort he had never experienced before. And the scent of her. The taste of her mouth and tongue. The smoothness of the skin of her cheek and the lobe of her ear which touched against the finger of his right hand. He became aware that his other hand was resting against the tight feel of her waist, a muscle feel, a flickering live feel, faintly hidden by the cloth that was between his hand and her. Beneath it she was like an eel, a rippling body, a single muscle. But before he could relax into the sensation he was utterly startled to feel her tongue probe and flicker in his mouth — it tasted of acid, like a sucked penny, felt of rough skin — and he wanted to tell her that that wasn’t how it should be done. It was unhygienic. But he knew that she knew better than him. If Pauline was doing it then that was the way to do it. And because she was so good at it, he felt inadequate. He didn’t know how to respond. She was kissing him — and she quickly became bored with it because she broke from the kiss and moved out from behind the door curtain to look for someone else. Martin was startled to find that something was happening in his trousers. At a time like this. It happened unexpectedly on the top deck of a bus or when he was going to communion or when he fiddled with himself but why on earth it should happen when he was kissing a girl he hadn’t the faintest idea.

  And it was happening now — at a religious question and answer session. Father Valerian was talking about controlling bad thoughts — at the very moment Martin was enjoying them. He crossed his legs and hoped to crush the intruder out of existence. ‘Think of something,’ said Father Valerian, ‘which the Mother of God would approve of. Joyful pursuits — walking the hills, diving into the sea, a particularly exciting handball match you may have seen.’ Father Albert with
a large gesture looked at his watch then brought the question time to a close, saying that if anyone wanted to discuss any problem further then they could bring it up in confession. The proceedings ended with a prayer.

  The evening meal was rice with bits of smoked fish and hard boiled egg. It tasted like eating an ashtray. A Brother with a wavery voice did the reading.

  ‘He struck Job down with malignant ulcers from the sole of his foot to the top of his head. Job took a piece of pot to scrape himself, and went and shat in the ash-pit.’

  Martin wondered if he’d heard correctly. He didn’t dare look at anybody in case he’d take a fit of laughing. The reader paused and said, ‘I’m sorry — sat in the ash-pit.’

  Martin kept staring down at his plate. The bits of fish were brown. Eventually the urge to laugh went away and he ate enough to show he was trying. The guy beside him, a school boarder, finished Martin’s. The whole thing left a yellow stain on the plate. For afters the Brothers set before everyone a plate with a wedge of hard biscuit and a tinned plum on it. The biscuit did not yield to pressure from Martin’s spoon. He moved his elbow high and got the weight of his shoulder behind it but, instead of breaking, the thing scooted off to the side and fell on the floor. Everyone saw what happened.