‘You’ve put my mind at rest, Father,’ said Nurse Gilliland. ‘It may seem beyond the beyonds, but that one has kept me awake many’s a night.’
‘I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again — a cup of hot milk,’ said Mrs Brennan. ‘A cup of hot milk with a spoonful of honey in it — that’s the boy to get you over.’
Later as he helped his mother with the dishes he asked her about Mary Lawless and why it was she had hairy legs.
‘Never you mind,’ she said and made a lot of noise emptying the basin. ‘What a terrible question to ask a body. Maybe she doesn’t care. Or she’s probably too stout to bend over and shave them.’
‘Women shave their legs?’
‘Or they use special cream. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what am I doing talking about such things to a boy of your age?’
Just before the bell Wee Jacky, the priest who taught them English, gave back the homework he had marked. He stood at the top desk with the pile of exercise books, glancing down at each name.
‘Brennan.’ He spun the book through the air to land flat on Martin’s desk. ‘Coyle.’ Another accurate spinning throw. ‘Foley.’
Kavanagh opened his book just as soon as it flopped on his desk.
‘What did you get?’ Martin said.
‘A plus plus,’ Kavanagh made a circle out of his finger and thumb and held it up to Martin. ‘And you?’
‘B.’
‘By itself?’
‘I am nonplussed.’
‘What about you?’ Kavanagh turned to Blaise. Blaise smiled and slid his exercise book into his folder.
Martin disliked this secretiveness in Blaise. He also hated him for making fun of him about the rose window. How should he know a thing like that? He thought Blaise picked on him too much. Last week in the English class they’d been told to sit and read an essay. When he’d finished Martin turned to the Contents page and put a tick beside the title of the essay he’d just read. About four of the essays were already ticked.
Blaise was behind him. After class Blaise said, ‘What kind of people tick things off after they’ve read them?’
‘Me.’
‘Are you senile? Surely you can remember it without ticking it off.’
‘All I did was tick it off.’
‘In a couple of years if you come across that essay again and you see the tick you’ll say — ah, I’ve read that. I haven’t a clue what it’s about but it’s fucking-well ticked.’
‘You’re too smart by half,’ said Martin. ‘Too weird by half.’
There were many groups sauntering round the track, in both directions. On the left hand side of the Big Field, below the jail wall was a long jump pit of grey sand. There was a narrow run-up track and a take-off board across it, painted white at one time but now darkened. Kavanagh and Blaise were strolling along the narrow runway very close together — almost bumping into one another. When they reached the sand-pit they stepped apart and continued to talk and argue. Martin lagged behind on the narrow track.
‘Pray silence!’ he shouted. But they seemed to have no intention of doing anything but talking. Martin broke into a run, then hit the board and jumped, yelling at the same time. He landed in a heap between Kavanagh and Blaise.
‘For fuck sake.’
‘Get a grip, Martin.’
Martin liked this arrangement. A threesome was better than just being with someone else. With one other person you had to keep trying to think of something to say. Conversation was about taking your turn. With two he didn’t quite know when it was his turn, whereas with three — it seemed easier. You could butt in. Then duck out again. Things seemed to flow better. And you didn’t have to hold the floor.
Blaise said, ‘OK, OK I grant you that — but a thing which interests me more is these fucking exams. I was serious the other day: is there any way we can get a look at this year’s papers?’
Kavanagh and Martin shrugged. Blaise said, ‘The papers are printed. Right? So that means there must be a printing works somewhere — as we speak — grinding out our physics paper. It would seem reasonable to me that the same printer probably does the chemistry and the English. And the A level Sanskrit and Mandarin Chinese.’
‘What are you on about?’ said Kavanagh.
‘This is really interesting,’ said Martin, pretending to lean forward, lolling his tongue out, so great was his anticipation.
‘Then if you look up the printer in the phone book you discover their premises is at 43 Whittycombe Street or somewhere.’
‘So?’ said Kavanagh. ‘Get to the fucking point.’
‘Our exam papers will be there. In little piles. Big piles, probably.’
‘What do we do? Just go down to Whitty-whatever-ya-callit Street and ask to see the A level chemistry paper for this year.’
‘No, we don’t. We think.’
‘About what?’
‘About how to get in there — how to get a look at those papers without anybody knowing.’
‘You’re mad in the skull.’
‘At this moment somebody — who is earning a pittance — is putting them into sealed envelopes. They might be open to a bit of bribery and corruption.’
‘Is it so important to you to pass?’ said Kavanagh.
‘I’ve spent some time being educated by the inappropriately named Christian Brothers,’ said Blaise. ‘I’ve been to Derry and Armagh, to Garron Tower and now this fucking dump.’
‘Why were you chucked out of so many places?’
Blaise ignored Martin’s question.
‘If I louse this up the only place left is somewhere in England,’ he said. ‘Can you imagine anything worse? My old man says I’m intelligent and that he’ll continue to educate me until I pass. Until I succumb to success.’
‘But this method of passing is …’ Martin wasn’t sure of the word.
The next day at lunch time Blaise said very little. Martin and he were sauntering along the drive. Boarders were allowed out at lunch time — ‘down to the shops,’ as they called it. Martin hoped that Kavanagh would soon turn up. He didn’t know how to talk to Blaise by himself.
‘Where’s the big lad?’ asked Blaise.
‘He’s getting dressed. He had last period free and he was practising lay-ups in the gym.’
‘What are lay-ups?’
‘You know when you run in, bounce the ball off the board. The easiest shot in basketball.’
‘And he needs to practise that?’
‘Kavanagh does. He hasn’t got it perfect yet. He gets it about ninety nine point nine per cent right. But the point one per cent miss rate really annoys him.’
‘I hate all that stuff. Somebody should invent a sport without competition. Guys helping each other over the finishing line.’
‘After you, sir. No. After you.’
‘If I threw this javelin farther than the other guy he’d only be embarrassed so I’ll stick it in the ground at my feet. I’m hoping to avoid doing Gym ever again in my life. I told the gym teacher I’ve had open heart surgery but I don’t think he believed me. He wants me to get a note from my old man.’ They walked together silently.
After a while Blaise said, ‘I made a few calls yesterday.’ He sighed heavily. ‘It seems the papers — although they are made up here — are printed in England.’
‘What?’ Martin almost screeched. ‘Who did you phone?’
‘The Northern Ireland Schools Examination Authority or some such.’
‘Jesus — what did you say?’
‘Said I was doing a thesis. For a Diploma in Education. Put on a bit of a voice.’
‘You don’t have to do that.’
‘Thank you.’
They got some fish and chips. Kavanagh, running to catch them up, met them coming out of the chippy. His hair was still wet from the shower. He dug right into Martin’s paper and pulled out a handful of chips.
‘That’s all,’ said Martin. ‘Get your own fuckin dinner.’ They waited with him until Kavanagh got his fish s
upper. The fat girl in the white overalls still blushed but was able to serve Kavanagh.
‘Are you OK, Isobel?’
‘I’m fine,’ she said and laughed in a nervous sort of way as she wrapped his bag and gave him his change. Then they headed back up the road.
‘She’s really coming on,’ said Kavanagh. ‘Speech. Who knows what’ll be next.’
‘It’s because you used her name.’
‘Do you want me to call her somebody else’s name?’
‘This mad bastard,’ said Martin pointing to Blaise with a chip, ‘phoned the Northern Ireland Schools people and said he was doing a Dip.Ed. and found out the papers are printed across the water.’
‘By confidential printers,’ said Blaise. ‘It’s so fucking typical.’
‘Of what?’
‘Our luck.’
‘They must ship them over here at some stage,’ said Kavanagh.
‘Last year they arrived about two weeks before the exams started,’ said Martin.
‘You saw this?’ Blaise’s voice went up an octave and he cocked his head to one side.
‘Yeah. Everybody knows this. I was hanging around and this man comes along with all the brown envelopes, on a wheely thing. He got Joe Boggs to give him a lift with it up the stairs. They store them in that room beside the chapel. Where Joe Boggs keeps his cleaning stuff. Very hush-hush.’
‘Shit the bed,’ said Blaise. ‘When did you say this was?’
‘A week, maybe two, before the exams.’
‘It would be nice to know exactly when they arrive this year.’
‘People from outside school invigilate,’ said Martin. ‘They come in here half an hour before and pick up the exam papers for the day, then they go to the gym or wherever the exam hall is.’
‘I say, Philip,’ said Kavanagh. ‘I feel an adventure coming on. Shall we bring a length of rope and Lucy-Ann?’
‘Not forgetting Kiki the parrot.’
5. Forty Minutes
Martin sat at the back of the study hall trying to think of another sentence or two to add to his unfinished homework. But what was the point? He’d written only about half a page — about how Milton found it easier to create Satan than God — based on the quote: ‘But O how fall’n! how changed …’ He hated Milton. Organ-voiced Milton was a complete bollicks. He’d cobbled the half-page together from a critical book out of the library and his own puny efforts. Last night he’d sat for over an hour squeezing out one awkward sentence after another until he’d got a paragraph. Then he was so disgusted he gave up. He didn’t want to write more drivel, so he wrote nothing.
‘This great epic poem is characterised by a sonorous nobility of expression and a compelling moral fervour. It was written by John Milton at the height of his career as a poet even though he was blind. Often blind people can see the truth better than the rest of us. For his material he picked the fall of man, the fall of the whole human race since Adam and Eve began it. Or begat it, maybe. And the picture was further complicated by Milton’s intense conviction that his poetry must teach.’
He closed the exercise book. He would have another go at it tonight. Tonight he would get it finished.
Why did students have to put up with this? If you lined up everybody in Ireland and pointed a gun at their head and said How important is it to be able to discuss Milton’s Paradise Lost with a modicum of intelligence and insight? and there were two boxes marked IMPORTANT and NOT VERY IMPORTANT. If you shot everybody who ticked NOT VERY IMPORTANT it would be a lot worse than the Famine. In fact it would be a total fuckin wipe-out. The only ones left would be English teachers. Ireland would be a country run by English teachers.
In the meantime such a disastrous attempt at an essay meant he had to avoid the English class. Wee Jacky rarely called the roll. Last year Martin would have skipped off but he had made promises to his mother. He had to be there at registration. And after registration he had to find a way to keep out of sight for forty minutes. Now in the corridor he looked at the clock. It was only ten past. Thank God it wasn’t a double period. He had to have some excuse ready if he was stopped. ‘Just going to the toilet.’ Or coming from, depending on where he was nabbed. But that wouldn’t do if he was sitting down somewhere. He stowed his bag in the old locker room and walked down towards the Wing. This was where Blaise had got in through the window. It seemed like a good place to hole up.
He knew one of the apprentice priests to talk to, Alfie Gribben. His nick-name was the Big Alpha. Martin walked slowly down a narrow flight of stairs which led to the extension. He should have taken a book out of his bag. ‘I was asked to bring this to Big Alpha’s room.’ At the bottom he stopped and listened. Somebody was typing somewhere. He sat down on the last step. If nobody came past he could sit for ages. The Spiritual Director, Father Barry, his room was down here somewhere. If somebody caught him, he could always say that’s who he was looking for. ‘I need some spiritual direction.’
But he felt restless, so he stood and moved towards the sound of the typing. The doorways on to the street had been bricked up and access to the rooms was from a central corridor which had been driven through the middle of the houses. There were small alcoves leading off the main corridor — hallways of the original kitchen houses. The typing stopped. Martin stepped into one of the alcoves. He heard a door swing open. Footsteps went along the corridor and another door opened and closed. Martin heard the guy taking a piss, heard it going in the bowl, then the flush. The bathroom door opened and closed again and the footsteps approached. There was a terrible strong smell of aftershave. But the guy didn’t go back into his room, he came on to the foot of the stairs. It was a red-haired guy whose name Martin wasn’t sure of. McGratten or McClatchey or something. Out of the corner of his eye this guy noticed Martin in the alcove.
‘Hi — is anything wrong?’
‘No. I was looking for the Spiritual Director’s room.’
‘It’s here.’ The guy pointed. ‘But I know for a fact that he’s got a class right now.’ They smiled at each other. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘No. Eh — what time is it?’ The guy looked at his watch.
‘A quarter past.’
‘It can’t be …’
‘Maybe I’m just a bit slow.’ He looked at his watch again to check.
‘Maybe I’ll just wait for him.’
‘Goodness — if it’s later then I’d better be on my way.’
And he was away, pounding up the stairs leaving behind him a wake of Old Spice. Goodness. Goodness — who said goodness nowadays? How quaint. He’d heard a man saying once, ‘Dearie, dearie, dearie fuckin me.’ And Father Farquharson had an equally strange line in swear words. At different times depending on the scale of his amazement Martin had heard him say ‘My stars’ or ‘My sainted aunt,’ and once when he heard about Mamie Doran’s first pregnancy at the age of forty-three he said, ‘My shattered nerves.’
Martin was going to sit on the bottom stair again but realised that when the door at the top of the stairs was pushed open he was immediately visible. He walked quietly down the corridor looking at the doors. He found the bathroom. It had a small male logo on the door which, when Martin thought about it, was totally unnecessary. He went in and bolted the door. He put the lid of the toilet down and sat on it as if it was an ordinary seat. There were a couple of hairs adhering to the side of the bath. One was in the shape of a music sign he didn’t know the name for. . He wished he’d brought a book or something to read. So little had been vandalised. There was no graffiti at all but, he supposed, if you can’t trust people who want to be priests. On the other hand there had been that business of the guys throwing stones at the greenhouse in Ardglass. He stood up and looked at himself in a round shaving mirror attached to the wall. It could extend on a metallic lattice arm. One side of the mirror was normal, the other magnified. In the dished side his face looked like a giant’s and the pimples on his forehead looked ten times worse. It made him think he needed a shave — s
alt and pepper hairs on his jaw line. Like a cowboy. This was good — he’d fancy one of these at home. He stroked his chin but could feel little. He flipped the mirror over and there he was — changed back to normal again. He wondered what time it was.
There was a frosted window behind the lavatory. Above it was a smaller one which hinged open. He pushed it outwards and notched the bar on to the outermost hole. All he could see was a brick corner and a bit of pavement with some sweety papers swirling around. So much for the outside world. He sat on the edge of the bath and looked down at the lavatory seat. Why he needed to look underneath it, he’d no idea but he found himself lifting the lid. At the back of the bowl it said ARMITAGE SHANKS. That’s what he was doing — he was looking for things to read. He was a fucking compulsive reader. Of simple material. Show me a Cornflakes packet and I’m happy. Or a HP sauce bottle if I’m feeling intellectual. Cette sauce de haute qualité. Reading was a way of passing time.
There was a piece of white plastic strapped to the inside of the rim of the toilet bowl with a sky-blue brick in it. It had the texture of melting ice. A little of its antiseptic perfume wafted up. What the fuck was he doing? Sitting in an apprentice priest’s toilet staring down the lavatory bowl? He’d have been far better off brazening it out in the English class — telling Wee Jacky the truth. I couldn’t get it finished, Father. I’ll hand it in tomorrow.
Fuckin Milton. In second year they’d been forced to memorise a sonnet which began ‘Cromwell, our chief of men …’ In an Irish Catholic school? He could still remember the fuckin thing, ‘who through a cloud not of war only, but detractions rude, guided by faith and matchless fortitude to peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed.’ Cromwell, instead of paying his men for their looting and burning and murdering, gave them bits of Ireland to keep, in lieu of wages. Martin had learned this, not in school, not from the teacher who made them learn off the poem, but from the man who owned the corner shop on the way to the park. He wondered if he could risk having a cigarette. Blow it out the wee window. Maybe he’d be best to wait until break time.
The Anatomy School Page 12
