The Anatomy School

by Bernard Maclaverty

  ‘But who took all these?’ said Mary Lawless.

  ‘Neighbours, friends. Lots of them are school photos — you paid for each one as it came along. And people would give you ones they took.’

  ‘Street photographers, d’you mind them? They’d snap you on the street or the promenade at Bangor — but they were only kidding on. They’d crouch in front of you pretending to click. Nearly always a guy with a girl, wanting to show off. If you said you wanted to buy, they took another one. The only one. Cute eh?’

  ‘Aw, you couldn’t be up to them.’

  ‘There’s some slippery customers, right enough.’

  ‘There but for the grace of God …’

  ‘It wouldn’t happen nowadays — giving your name and address and handing over the money with nothing to show for it.’

  ‘No siree,’ said Father Farquharson. ‘Trust is a thing of the past. The St Vincent de Paul men have to watch the collection plate like a hawk when it’s passing round.’

  ‘In case people help themselves?’

  ‘You said it, Nurse Gilliland. You said it.’

  Mary Lawless was leafing through the pictures.

  ‘You’re always squinting into the sun, Martin,’ she said.

  There was an enlarged studio photograph of Martin as a boy of five.

  ‘A wee cherub,’ said Nurse Gilliland.

  ‘Aww — I could ate him up,’ said Mary Lawless. Every time it was produced his mother told the same story.

  ‘I had the quare job getting your hair to lie down flat that day. At the finish up I had to use egg white to make it stick the way I wanted it.’

  ‘I’m going,’ said Martin.

  ‘Sit where you are,’ shouted Mary Lawless, ‘and take your praise like a man.’

  It took him about half an hour to catch up with the rest of the night’s work — going down to the animal house for another batch of rats, killing and dissecting out, labelling the specimens with the false times. He moved sluggishly, felt very tired. Everything seemed at a distance, as if there was a pane of glass between him and what he was looking at. He heard the door at the bottom of the stairs closing and the clash of the lift gates. That would be Kavanagh. Martin walked out to meet him. There was the sound of talking as the lift ascended. Kavanagh had somebody with him. The lift jolted to a halt.

  ‘Martin,’ said Kavanagh. ‘Look who’s here.’ The gates were pulled back.

  ‘Pished to the eyeballs, but good to see you, Martin, nevertheless.’ It was Blaise wearing a Frank Sinatra hat. He wore denim dungarees without a shirt: the shoulder straps and buckles were on his bare shoulders.

  ‘For fuck’s sake …’ Martin stammered and shook hands.

  ‘Pished and stoned.’ Blaise hugged him with his free hand and whooped a few times. Martin was conscious of hair against his cheek. Blaise had grown a goatee beard. In fact he looked like a negative of his grandfather. ‘Where did you pick up this beardy bastard?’

  ‘We ended up at the same party,’ said Kavanagh. ‘And nothing would do him but he would come along and see you.’

  ‘And there was no drink left. And no people left. And nowhere open. And it was my birthday. Not today — yesterday. And so on and so on.’

  ‘We were just talking about you earlier,’ said Martin. The three of them walked along the corridor. Kavanagh was in the middle.

  ‘Remember this,’ Kavanagh said and bounced into the air levering himself up on both the others’ shoulders, straightening his arms. Martin and Blaise staggered a bit but kept him up there for five or six paces, until the strength in Kavanagh’s arms went and he collapsed back on to the floor between them. ‘Stout lads, both of you. It was the touch of your naked flesh, Foley that finally did for me.’

  ‘We were trying to carry you as far as that low doorway,’ said Blaise. Then he whooped a couple more whoops and they echoed around the department. They walked into the lab.

  ‘Fuck, I do not believe this,’ said Martin. There was something glittering on Blaise’s cheekbones.

  ‘Pippa and I were at this party in University Street and everybody was yacking on, and I said I know that voice. And it was your man — giving out in the corner.’

  ‘You mean to tell me,’ said Martin, ‘I was in here working for your thesis and you were at a party?’

  ‘It’s just the way it happened last night. I needed to talk to her — to sort things out. A friend of a friend had a party — you know how it is.’

  ‘I’d a bit of a party myself in here.’

  ‘Really?’ Kavanagh waited for an explanation.

  ‘Naw,’ Martin said, ‘I was getting your work done.’

  Blaise flopped down on the camp bed and tilted his hat forward over his face.

  ‘I’m still fractionally pished,’ he said. ‘Make me a black coffee, Martin. Because it’s my birthday.’

  ‘So you told me,’ said Martin. ‘What’s with the gear?’

  ‘It’s party time.’

  ‘You look like an American farm boy.’

  ‘I had the straw hat earlier but some bastard went off with it and left me this fucking thing.’

  ‘Which birthday is it?’

  ‘The big two oh.’ Blaise spoke into the crown of the Frank Sinatra. ‘Naw, I’m a liar — I’m more than that.’ Martin took Blaise by the hand and pulled him to his feet. Blaise put his arm around him.

  ‘The coffee makings are in a different location.’ Martin turned to Kavanagh and pointed to the cage. ‘Maybe you should take over. It’s almost the hour.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. I think I need a coffee too,’ said Kavanagh. ‘Or else I’ll cut my own fucking finger off.’

  ‘You’re muttering,’ said Martin looking at him. Kavanagh grinned. ‘You are pretty pissed. So how did it go — with Pippa?’

  ‘Total disaster. She walked out. It’s over.’ Martin made a sympathetic face for Kavanagh but very quickly turned to Blaise. ‘Let’s go. In search of beverages.’ With their arms around each other, they unsteadily walked the corridor towards the tea room. Kavanagh followed them. Martin was aware of the bareness of Blaise’s shoulder beneath his hand. Blaise lurched a bit to one side.

  ‘Keep to the lino,’ said Martin. ‘So what are you doing these days?’

  ‘Huh!’

  ‘I heard you were doing Law in Cambridge.’

  ‘You are ill informed and behind the times.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Remember that day in the Waterworks.’

  ‘Yeah, that was a good day.’

  They all smiled.

  ‘The backs of the girls’ legs. The big H …’ Kavanagh grinned.

  ‘Naw — it was the sun and the smell and the green of it.’ Martin nodded.

  ‘I remember the man rowing the boat,’ said Blaise. ‘That was good. A man rowing a boat. He couldn’t see the future and neither could we.’ In the tea room Martin aimed him at a chair and Blaise plumped down. Martin put the kettle on. Blaise leaned his head back and recited to the air above him,

  ‘Children of the future age, reading this indignant page, know that in a former time, Love, sweet love, was thought a crime. Blake.’ Martin set out three cups and spooned coffee into them. ‘Martin is there no drink about this place?’

  ‘Afraid not.’

  ‘I remember you once saying that Oxford and Cambridge were fucking awful. And yet you went there. Why?’

  ‘They are places of excellence. When I said that, I didn’t have a clue about the nature of excellence.’

  ‘So if you are not doing Law what are you doing?’

  ‘Nothing. Sweet fuck all.’

  ‘Stop talking in riddles.’

  ‘Speaking of which — I need a piss.’ He stood up. ‘Where’s the nearest one?’ Martin led him from the tea room. The door of the Ladies was open and it was still too early for anyone to be about.

  ‘Go in there. The Gents is on the next floor.’ Blaise was quite unsteady on his feet going up the steps. He raised his leading leg but didn’t
put it down immediately, like the way a chicken sometimes does. Martin was sufficiently worried about him to wait outside. Just as he had done with Cindy. Different experience altogether.

  The sound coming from Blaise’s cubicle was loud. Blaise shouted out, ‘Like a man on fuckin stilts.’

  When he came out he didn’t bother washing his hands.

  ‘Martin Brennan,’ he said. ‘I really liked you at school.’

  ‘It wasn’t obvious.’

  ‘Aw come on now. It was only a term …’

  From the top of the steps Blaise put his arm around Martin and the two of them walked back to the tea room. Kavanagh was nearly asleep in his chair. Blaise sat down by the door.

  ‘Well, Martin what have you been up to?’

  ‘Fuck all, really. Learning to drink …’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The school Old Boys.’

  ‘With my old man,’ Kavanagh was laughing, wakening up.

  ‘Do you go?’

  ‘But rarely — nights my old man is not there. I’m over this side of town mostly. But that’s all going to change now.’

  ‘And what do you do in the Old Boys?’

  ‘Play snooker.’

  ‘Who with?’

  ‘Brian Sweeny — other guys. Sometimes we play poker,’ said Martin. ‘Isn’t it amazing — everything they stopped you doing at school, they encourage you to do when you’re an Old Boy.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Night classes. For the lab.’ Martin looked up, thinking. ‘And I joined a camera club.’

  ‘Seedy? Raincoat brigade?’

  ‘Naw — fawn cardigans. They’ve some good people. Good darkrooms.’

  ‘And he’s still foraging for sex,’ said Kavanagh.

  Martin started pouring water into the coffee cups.

  ‘You can have it black or black,’ he said.

  ‘What’s that smell off you?’ Kavanagh sniffed at Martin.

  ‘Ether, maybe.’ Blaise sprang upright in the chair.

  ‘Ether! You’ve got ether in here?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Why don’t we have a go at it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The ether — it’s an old Northern Ireland tradition. Did you never hear of the ether drinkers of Ulster?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘One of the few nice traditions to come out of this hole.’

  ‘You’re mad in the skull.’

  ‘No, really. Up around Tyrone — at the end of last century the boys were throwing it into them. You have to hold your nose. But then you’re out of your tree for ten minutes.’

  ‘It would kill you,’ Martin was laughing.

  ‘You would just vomit,’ said Kavanagh.

  ‘What do you mean “just”? Wouldn’t that be enough? Where’s the bottle?’ said Blaise. ‘The belching is supposed to be monumental.’

  ‘I don’t believe a word of this.’

  ‘The BMJ reckoned there were fifty thousand ether drinkers in mid-Ulster in 1890. I want to try it. I feel left out.’

  ‘Fuck off, Blaise,’ said Martin. ‘I’ve a job in here. And people are about to come into work. What would I say to the Prof? Oh I just let him drink the ether.’

  ‘Lead me to it.’ Blaise stood but Kavanagh tipped him on the chest with a finger and knocked him back down on to the seat.

  ‘Martin’s right. You’re out of order, Mr Foley.’

  ‘I want to try it — just once.’

  ‘There must be safer ways to blow your mind.’ Martin handed Blaise a coffee.

  ‘That’s fucking it. That’s the Martin I know. Always looking for a safe way to do something dangerous.’

  ‘Hold on,’ said Kavanagh and disappeared.

  Blaise was now slumped in the seat. He spread his arms to Martin and said, ‘Would not play false and yet would wrongly win. Am I right Martin?’

  ‘No. You’re not. It’s “Wouldst not play false and yet wouldst wrongly win.” ‘

  ‘Fuck you and your notions of correctness.’

  Kavanagh came back with a gallon bottle of clear liquid.

  ‘This is the boy to start the day,’ he said.

  ‘What is it?’ Blaise took off his hat and squinted at Kavanagh.

  ‘Absolute alcohol. Almost one hundred per cent.’

  ‘Oh wondrous to relate.’

  ‘It tastes of nothing, really — like the very best of vodka.’ Kavanagh splashed some into Blaise’s coffee cup.

  ‘That’ll put hair on your chest.’

  ‘No, thank you.’ Blaise sniffed at it. The vaporising alcohol went with his breath and made him cough.

  ‘Take it easy.’ Kavanagh poured a little into his own cup. Martin put his hand over the third cup.

  ‘Naw — I’m on the bike.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ said Blaise. ‘Join us. It’s not often we get together. For old times’ sake.’

  Kavanagh waited for Martin to nod.

  ‘Just a splash,’ said Martin. Kavanagh poured him a lot more than a splash. ‘That’s enough.’ Blaise’s coughing fit had made him wary. Martin raised the cup to his mouth slowly and as he did so smelled Cindy off his fingers. The aroma was intense and wonderful.

  ‘Here’s to us,’ said Blaise. ‘The fucking Provincials.’ They clunked their cups together and drank.

  ‘Why wouldn’t we be provincial,’ said Martin. ‘We live in a province.’

  ‘With provincial attitudes,’ said Kavanagh. ‘I mean, just look at us — sitting at seven in the morning in a dead house drinking hooch talking about old times.’

  ‘I’m really sorry we didn’t have a go at the ether. A missed opportunity if ever there was one. And who’s talking about old times?’ said Blaise. ‘Certainly not me.’ Kavanagh sat down at the bench. Martin leaned his chair back against the wall. The alcohol in the coffee tasted good and gave it an after-burn. Kavanagh sighed heavily.

  ‘Oh fuck,’ he said.

  ‘It’s a long time since I heard you say that,’ said Martin.

  ‘What am I gonna do?’

  ‘About Pippa?’ Kavanagh nodded and put his head in his hands. ‘That girl is everything to me.’

  ‘Maybe she doesn’t deserve you,’ said Blaise. Kavanagh put his head back as if he’d just thought of something else.

  ‘I’m going to be seeing her in here every day. Working beside her.’

  ‘How was it left?’ asked Martin.

  ‘Over. Done with.’

  ‘It might be on again.’

  ‘No chance. That’s why I got drunk with this one.’

  ‘What is “this one” doing? He refuses to tell me.’

  ‘This one,’ said Blaise, ‘was doing Law and then with great difficulty he transferred to Philosophy. To be metaphorically at the feet of Wittgenstein — a man of astounding genius. Have you heard of him?’

  ‘Vit — who?’

  Kavanagh shook his head: no, he hadn’t.

  ‘He was a great whistler. A virtuoso whistler. It’s said he could whistle the Brahms St Anthony Variations from start to finish.’ They all laughed. ‘I am not making this up. This is the absolute fucking truth. But not only did he change the face of philosophy, he did it twice. He wrote two masterpieces which contradicted each other. He saw that philosophical problems come from the inadvertent misuse of words. Careless talk costs lives. There are still people in Cambridge who knew him.’

  ‘How utterly riveting,’ said Martin.

  Blaise ignored him and went on, ‘A cry of distress cannot be greater than that of one human being. I thought this very hopeful at first — very uplifting — until I remembered the capacity of some human beings for suffering. I was getting on splendidly, not that I’d say it myself, until such times as the authorities thought it better that I carry on with my own particular Philosophical Investigations outside the academic establishment.’

  ‘The bum’s rush? I suppose you’ll say you didn’t deserve it,’ said Kavanagh.

  ‘For what?’ said Martin.
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  ‘He won’t tell me.’ Kavanagh went round the cups again with the absolute alcohol. Martin refused, snatching his cup away and holding it close to his chest with his hand over the top. His stomach was empty and the first half of the coffee was making his head light. Blaise raised his right hand.

  ‘Wittgenstein says that to improve the world you can only improve yourself.’

  ‘And what about you?’

  ‘I’m doing my best.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘To improve myself,’ said Blaise. ‘All I will say on my behalf is De maximus ni curat lex and for those people whose Latin is a little rusty — or those people taught by fucking Baldy Ned Kelly, a translation is — the law does not apply to giants.’

  ‘Aye but what law was it they applied?’ said Martin.

  ‘It’s a question of supply and demand,’ said Blaise. ‘And at this very moment demand far outstrips supply. Maybe Martin here could supply us. Are you into the marijuana, Martin?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘You had enough to stone a regiment last night.’

  ‘But at this moment I am bereft.’

  ‘Was that what they sent you down for?’ said Kavanagh.

  ‘The police took a great interest in me. In my habits. In my place — once unfortunately when I was out. And I broke my own rule. I didn’t cover my tracks. A hundred quid fine. The University couldn’t or wouldn’t look the other way.’

  ‘Bit of bad luck there,’ said Kavanagh.

  ‘Yes, indeed. Hit me again.’ Blaise held out his cup. ‘I’m out of coffee.’

  ‘Use some water or it’ll burn the mouth off you.’ Kavanagh stood shaking his head, looking down at Blaise. ‘Martin, is there a camera?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘We’ll have to get a picture of this bastard — in this outfit — with that beard.’

  ‘Photography is about surfaces,’ said Blaise. ‘That’s why Martin is so interested.’

  ‘Go on, get a camera,’ said Kavanagh.

  ‘Naw.’ Martin didn’t want to move. He turned to Blaise and said, ‘Using a camera teaches people how to see. Without a camera. And to see things as they are is every bit as good as imagining stuff in novels. If not better. Cartier-Bresson talks about trying to seize the whole essence of something in a single photograph …’

  ‘Well, he’s a dumbfuck then.’

  ‘Martin — go on,’ said Kavanagh. ‘Take one of the three of us. Like the last time in our house. Then we’ll take one in another three or four years. We’ll document our lives …’