‘And then I went on to say “All the other apples conform, the rotten one teaches them to think for themselves. And if you continue to sit like that on your fat arse I will give you such a fucking punch in the teeth that you’ll never eat another apple in your life …” ’
Kavanagh and Martin laughed. Blaise smirked and said, ‘He wants to see Gallagher next. Any idea where he is?’
That night, at tea, Martin’s mother stared at him.
‘Is anything wrong?’
‘No.’
‘You’re too quiet by half.’ He shrugged and went on chewing. ‘You’ll need to get at the studying — get the sleeves rolled up — it can’t be too long now.’
‘I was going to.’ He hated when that happened — when he decided to do something and then she told him to do it. And it was always happening. It looked like he was doggedly obeying her. ‘Do you want me to do the dishes?’
‘No, there’s just a few things,’ she said. ‘I’ll do them myself. You get on with the work.’ He drained off as much of his tea as he could without getting a mouthful of tea-leaves and stood up from the table. She sat on, watching him.
‘Excuse me,’ she said.
‘Excuse me,’ he said. He wanted her to know he was irritated. ‘It’s just us. You can see I’m finished.’
‘A true gentleman uses the butter knife even when he’s by himself. Especially when he’s by himself.’ She looked up at him in a sniffy kind of way. ‘And what, may I ask, are your plans for this evening?’
‘Studying.’
‘Where?’
‘Here.’
‘Thanks be to God. There seems to be nothing but girls to distract you down at that library. Do you ever say the prayer I gave you?’
‘Yeah.’
He gathered his books and set them on an old drawing board and carried them into the parlour to the chair Father Farquharson sat in when he visited. Because it was the most upright, he said. It was beside the china cabinet and had a straight back and wooden arms. Martin sat down. He rested the drawing board across the arms and became like a baby in a high chair. The surface of the drawing board was scarred with lines. It’d been used frequently as a cutting board. The ruts were so deep he always needed a pad to lean on to stop the lines coming through and interfering with his writing. His mother’s prayer was at the back of his homework jotter. When he took it out, it too was warped to the shape of his backside. He didn’t particularly want to read it — because if he did, it would just be obeying her again — but his eyes moved over the words.
Students’ Prayer to St Anthony
Glorious St Anthony divinely filled with the science of the Saints, I place my studies under thy protection. After thy example, let my knowledge be grounded in the heart of Jesus and in the heart of Mary. With the aid of thy prayers I purpose to perform my studies as a matter of duty with a pure intention and in the spirit of penance. Implore the Father of Light to grant me a ready understanding, a sound judgement and a faithful memory. Obtain for me the grace to work with method, constancy and patience to develop the gifts I have received from God and use them as always for His greater glory. Pray God to bless my efforts so that I may succeed in my examinations; and in the midst of success remain ever humble. Amen.
Why were prayers full of thy’s and thee’s and thine — let this and let that — words like implore and obtain and grant that were never used anywhere else? The G of ‘Glorious’ was huge and ornate and coloured like something out of the Book of Kells. He thought about copying the entwining pattern. It was difficult — a kind of latticework mixed with vine leaves. He made a couple of pencil strokes. But it would need different colours to make one stand out from the other. He pulled himself up short. This bloody prayer was keeping him back from his work. With some determination he put it back into the last page of his homework diary. What next?
He knew there was definitely a question coming up on Macbeth. Earlier in the year he had written an essay on the play’s imagery and got a B++ for it — his best mark ever — so the Caroline Spurgeon question was playing right into his hands. He began reading this answer again hoping it would go into his head and he could reproduce it in the exam word for word.
Lady Macbeth is the villain of the piece. She puts Macbeth up to it. She says ‘fill me, from the crown to the toe, top full of direst cruelty.’
He would have to write essays for the Milton and Hopkins questions. But what was the point? He couldn’t judge whether they were crap or not. If he showed his efforts to the English teacher to see if they were any good or not and all the questions subsequently turned up on the exam paper it would look really suspect. Do you have a crystal ball, Brennan?
He was useless at studying anyway. He would read the same sentence over and over again. But he was determined it was not going to happen tonight. He picked up a ballpoint pen and tested it to see if it was working. It was. It left a blue wiggle on the top of his page. He got out his copy of Macbeth and began to leaf through it. But he didn’t know where to begin. He went back to the wiggle and extended it fore and aft until it became a scramble of barbed wire. Gradually it became something more interesting. He filled in bits of it, added triangles and shadows. An abstract thing grew slowly in the corner of his page. He began to put in other colours, the black lead of pencil, the red ink of biro. He had a green biro in his plastic pencil case. When it was finished — although he never could say when a doodle was finished — you could always go back to it — he told himself he should make a cup of tea before he started. He’d start after the tea. The tea would focus him.
‘What in the name of God are you wanting tea again for? Aren’t you just after your own tea?’ He made a fresh pot and poured himself a mug and carried it into the front room. He took a drink from it to lower the level, but it was hot and could not be gulped. He was well practised at the manoeuvre of getting into the armchair.
1. Set mug on drawing board amongst books and papers making sure not to slop over and stain work.
2. Lift board carefully.
3. About turn slowly.
4. Reverse and lower self into armchair, holding board level with cup balanced thereon.
5. Sip tea.
6. Resume study.
He had the determination that this time something was going to be achieved. Something was going to sink into his thick skull. Obtain for me the grace to work with method, constancy and patience.
He found that underlining stuff in books helped. He used pencil so that it could be rubbed out later if the book had to be handed back. But then he found that sometimes he underlined nearly the whole page. And that was useless. Because his eye was drawn to the bit that wasn’t underlined. The bit that was unimportant. And he was back where he started. Nevertheless, he did some underlining at the back of the Macbeth book, where there were essays. After a while he turned again to his own handwritten essay. The script was ugly and backhand. His elbows were on the board, his head was in his hands staring down. The words seemed to be on the bottom of a stream and writhed in front of his eyes. Stealing the exam papers was at the forefront of his mind. It felt bad. Out and out cheating. For safety reasons they’d agreed that nobody should write down any of the questions. They could be read by projecting them or by using a big magnifying glass. He’d given the negatives to Kavanagh for the night. That gave him a bit of breathing space. Tonight should be devoted to studying. He finished off his tea and tried to concentrate.
Lady Macbeth is the villain of the piece. She puts Macbeth up to it. She says, ‘fill me, from the crown to the toe, top full of direst cruelty.’
His eye drifted off the page. He started looking at the pattern of scars on the drawing board. They all seemed to be in parallel. He tore a page off his jotter and laid it on the board. With a lead pencil he did a rubbing. The lines definitely showed through. He lifted the paper and looked directly at the cuts. Paint had been used on the board at one time or another. Several colours of paint. Magnolia and sky blue. He dragged his eye
back.
Lady Macbeth is the villain of the piece. She puts Macbeth up to it. She says ‘fill me, from the crown …
The dirty photographs came back into his head. The woman must have been doing a pee. All those tuftys and breasts. And the shaved ones. They looked odd. Like somebody with ringworm. They’d been really amateur pictures. Badly lit, some of them grainy. It was hard to think of girls posing like that. But the evidence was there — they had done those things. And the camera had recorded it. He was becoming horny — felt it unfurling. That was bad. If he got going in that fashion he’d get no work done at all. In Father Farquharson’s chair, too. Grant me a ready understanding, a sound judgement and a faithful memory. He had to do something to distract himself from his groin. He began to enlarge the west side of the doodle by adding a shape to it which resembled a pyramid. Methinks it is like a camel. Or was it a weasel? Was that Hamlet or Macbeth?
Lady Macbeth is the villain of the piece. She puts Macbeth up to it. She says ‘fill me, from the crown to the toe, top full of direst cruelty.’
A lorry went by outside and something in the china cabinet vibrated momentarily. His eye slid down to the bottom shelf. Did the noise come from the Royal Doulton or the Wedgwood? It could have been the plates standing upright at the back, or the stacked saucers and cups rattling at the front. His mother took great pride in her china cabinet. It was a round-shouldered piece of furniture spun out of air and glass and thin slivers of walnut. The wood was in the shape of a four leaf clover — inside, the back panel was lined with yellow silk in jagged lightning patterns. All the shelves were of glass. The top one held her collection of Belleek, stuff so thin that you could see the shadow of your fingers through the china — ‘spit-through porcelain’ as Mary Lawless called it. It had little green shamrocks, here and there, all over the surface. The middle shelf was where she kept her glass. There were ‘Vaze, voz, vazes’ and some Venetian goblets with purple barleysugar stems, one or two pieces of Waterford. It was all about display. She only used some of these things on supper nights. Once every couple of years the contents of the china cabinet were taken out and washed. He washed and she dried. Only one item in the basin at any one time was the rule. He remembered once as he put the items back clashing two Venetian goblets together. It sounded like a bell and his mother came running in with her hand over her heart and said, ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph — I thought they were goners.’
Lady Macbeth is the villain of the piece. She puts Macbeth up to it. She says, ‘fill me, from the crown to the toe, top full of direst cruelty.’ Macbeth himself is not exactly innocent because he said earlier ‘Stars hide your fires let not light see my black and deep desires.’
Black and deep desires. His were not of murder but of reaching out and handling those small breasts he had seen in the photos. And if she permitted that then she might permit him to touch her between the legs. What would that feel like? His erection came back. Maybe if he went out to the lavatory and had a wank he could then come in and concentrate and get some work done. God might forgive him because it was such a practical and good reason for a wank. But he only used that dark and damp place as a last resort. He’d wait and take some tissues to bed with him. But that was worse — that was premeditated. What if Blaise was right and there was nothing wrong with it? God made guys and gave them the most pleasurable piece of apparatus imaginable and then left them alone with it. I mean, what did He expect? He must stop thinking about dirty things. He was getting nowhere.
How was all this about the bloody exam papers going to end? He would be a goner if anybody found out. He was like the man rowing the boat. His back was to where he was going. He was facing the past, turned away from his future. Afraid to look. He could see his mother sitting across the desk from Condor, her face white and drawn with worry. This was awful. He needed another cup of tea.
His mother was sitting watching TV, her feet propped on a pouffe. He switched on the kettle.
‘More tea already?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Are you getting much done?’
‘A fair bit.’
‘Good man. That’s what I like to hear.’
‘Do you want a cup yourself?’
‘No thanks, son.’
He made and poured the tea. Going through to the parlour he paused and watched a bit of the news programme, sipping from his cup.
‘You could drink tea till it came out your ears,’ said his mother without taking her eyes off the screen. He slid his backside on to the arm of the armchair. ‘None of that now. Back you go to the work.’ After a while he stood and returned to the parlour. And methodically went through the six-step procedure to end up in the chair with the board across his lap sipping tea and resuming his studies. Obtain for me the grace to work with method. He addressed his essay again with renewed determination.
‘fill me, from the crown to the toe, top full of direst cruelty.’ Macbeth himself is not exactly innocent because he said earlier ‘Stars hide your fires let not light see my black and deep desires.’
It would be good to get the English paper under his belt. He hadn’t decided whether he would look at the questions on the Physics and Chemistry papers. He could worry about the Latin some other time.
Lady Macbeth is the villain of the piece. She puts Macbeth up to it. She says, ‘fill me, from the crown to the toe, top full of direst cruelty.’
Martin took another sip. He wondered if there was anything on the radio. A bit of background. He rejected the idea. It would only put him off his stride. It would break his concentration.
Lady Macbeth is the villain of the piece. She puts Macbeth up to it. She says ‘fill me, from the crown to the toe, top full of direst cruelty.’
Lad yMac beth isthe vill ainof the piece. She pu ts Macbethup toit. Sh esays ‘fillme, from thecrownto thetoe, topfullof driest ruelty.’
Lady Macbeth is the villain of the piece She puts Macbethuptot Shesays ‘fillme, from the thecrown crownto to the toe toetop topfullof fullof dressed direst c rue lty.’
Remember o lord in the midst of success to remain ever humble.
11. A Time of Reckoning
Blaise was nowhere to be seen during the first two periods. He came in late to the double before lunch and sat near the door away from Martin and Kavanagh. Martin tried to catch his eye. When the lunch-time bell rang and the classroom emptied both Martin and Kavanagh descended on him.
‘Where the fuck have you been?’
‘On business.’
‘Well — did you leave back the envelopes?’
‘Shut up.’ He looked around at the open door. ‘Let’s go up round the track. We can talk more easily.’
It was a grey day. Not raining, but with the smell of rain in the air. The boys strolled but their faces were tight. Martin and Kavanagh didn’t say anything.
‘You’re not going to believe me,’ said Blaise. ‘But I slept in.’
‘You haven’t left them back?’ Martin’s voice was a screech. He checked how near the next group of boys were. ‘Fuck me — how relaxed can you get?’
‘It’s not as easy as you think,’ said Blaise. ‘There are other people in the dorm. I couldn’t set my alarm for four in the morning — it would waken everybody. They would all want to know where I was going. And why the fuck was I carrying packets around the school at four in the morning? And what was in the packets? So I didn’t set my alarm. And I didn’t wake up. It’s as simple as that.’
‘Aw fuck would you look who’s here.’ Kavanagh nodded ahead. The Gaelic team, in their green jerseys and yellow shorts, were doing a lunch-time training session, standing around the goal mouth in the Big Field. Condor stood between the posts coaching them. He wore a black overcoat on top of his soutane and was clapping and wringing his hands. The Gym teacher did all the other sport in the school but only Condor had control of the Gaelic team.
‘Would you look at the state of Condor — in the boots,’ said Blaise.
‘Take a look at his collar, if yo
u get close,’ said Martin.
‘He was a county player, you know. Played for Tyrone.’
‘That’s really put him on a pedestal for me now,’ said Blaise. ‘A County Tyrone Gaelic football player. The absolute pinnacle of dumbfuckery.’
Condor’s deep voice floated across to them.
‘One lap jogging. Go!’
The team jostled and began to run around the perimeter. Martin said to Blaise. ‘You fucking must wake up tonight. I hardly slept at all last night. I lay there staring at the ceiling thinking about what you were doing. What could go wrong for you? I was worried about you and you were fucking sound asleep.’
‘That’s quite touching.’ Blaise’s eyebrow went up. Disbelief that there could be any worry about such a small issue. ‘But don’t panic.’
‘I’m beginning to get black bags under my eyes too,’ said Kavanagh. ‘Do it tonight, Foley. For fuck sake.’
‘OK.’
They had reached the track and the Gaelic team passed close enough for them to hear their pounding boots and panting breath.
‘Keep it going, lads,’ shouted Kavanagh. The three boys found a place on a bench by the tree walk and sat and watched the training. Not really watched — it was something that was happening in front of their eyes. The sun came through the grey but was weak and milky and there was a chill in the air. They talked between themselves in low voices about the things that had come up on the Physics and Chemistry and Maths papers. Martin kept quiet, tried not to listen too hard, tried not to remember. The running finished and Condor moved in among his team. They squatted or sat and he talked.
‘I bet you he’s not talking football to that crowd,’ said Kavanagh. ‘It’s still the Inquisition.’ When he had said all he had to say Condor threw a ball in amongst the team, told them they could have a ten-minute kick-about before canteen. They began shooting in but without much interest. Condor turned and walked towards the three on the bench.
The Anatomy School Page 24
