The Anatomy School Read online

  His mother had gone the next day and drawn from savings. She said it’d be money well spent. If he prayed and worked hard enough then he’d pass and get himself into a good job, a job that paid well. The Retreat was an investment.

  Father Valerian removed his biretta, holding one of its three fins delicately between his finger and thumb and set it on the table in front of him. He was trying to disguise his baldness by over-combing his thin hair from left to right. The priest seemed to love using his voice — the way it soared and swooped — the way he stressed certain words. He had obviously been taught to preach. ‘You’ve all reached that age — shaving between the pimples.’ He waited for them to react to his joke. ‘This, for all of you, is the last year at school — and in this last year decisions will have to be made about the future. Shall I be a doctor, or a lawyer, or a professional jockey?’ The three options were accompanied and underlined by hand gestures. He knew the last option was a joke but his face did not show it. Again the murmured amusement from the boys, ‘But we all have a duty — a solemn duty before God — to at least think about devoting our lives to His service. To give it consideration. To offer Him our lives, to prostrate ourselves before Him and say “Be it done according to Thy word.” Boys, when Jesus threw back his head on that cross all those years ago and said “Consummatum est” — “It is finished” — it was only just beginning. By his suffering and death he opened the gates of heaven for the likes of you and me. And I think it is only right that we should think of giving something back. For us to make a sacrifice. Many years ago I thought these selfsame thoughts and came to the right decision — for me — and, believe me boys, I have not regretted it for one instant. That is our task this Easter. To examine ourselves, to see if we can find the generosity to put our lives in the hands of the Lord and say to Him “Do with me what Thou wilt.” In what corner of the vineyard you end up labouring does not particularly matter at this stage — we are not partisan — the Cistercians, the Canons Regular, the Passionists, the Redemptorists — whether you work in the foreign missions or stay in the home diocese — it matters not two hoots. What matters is that you make the commitment. But I don’t want to talk about the ins and outs of it at this stage. We, Father Albert and myself, will be talking to you at some length over the next few days. Vocations are falling off. We must do our damnedest — if you’ll pardon my French — to reverse this situation …’

  Father Valerian paused at this point and looked around at their faces. He locked his hands together and covered his mouth. Then he lowered his hands as if freeing his mouth to tell them something of extreme importance. ‘One thing that can help the atmosphere of introspection over these few days is the voluntary silence. We are going to submit ourselves to being quiet. Until Saturday midday we’ll be away from the hoot and holler of the world. Absence of talk. No silly jokes, no rock and roll, no horse racing. As I always say, “Boys shouldn’t squander their meagre resources by hazarding them on the comparative velocities of canine or equine quadrupeds.” ’ Again the face was deadpan. But the boys all laughed, including Martin. The priest waited for the laughter to cease, gave it plenty of time. ‘You can read and walk and think as much as you like — but all in silence. Except, of course, for the words we will speak — either inwardly or aloud — to our Lord and Saviour. And that silence begins right now.’

  He stood staring at them. For a very long time. Until everyone was conscious of their breathing and the very movement of their clothes. ‘The reason for it is to stop the flow of nonsense that normally courses through the head of any schoolboy. If we have nothing to say, we do not distract others. And if we are silent inside ourselves, everything, all our thoughts, all our emotions are directed towards our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ.’ He paused yet again. His pauses seemed to be very dramatic, as if he was thinking up the next important thing to say. ‘I don’t want to do any special pleading, but for anyone who thinks he has a vocation could I put in a word for our own order — the Congregation of the Most Holy Redeemer. Saint Alfonso Liguori would welcome any boy, provided he was the right kind of boy, with open arms. Missionary work among the poor and the sick — bringing the word of God to the dark places of the world — Africa, the tropical forests of Brazil, the glades of Borneo echoing to the cries of monkeys — to be able to get in there among the native people and bring them the light of our Lord Jesus Christ — that, boys, is a real satisfaction. And you don’t have to go that far. On our own doorstep we have the pagan English. And not far beyond that we have the Scotch who have one priest per sixty thousand Catholics. Pity them, boys. Thank your lucky stars that you have been raised in Holy Ireland.’

  He was tight-lipped and nodding. Martin thought the priest was on the verge of tears. Father Valerian swallowed hard and went on. ‘But maybe I am racing ahead. Throughout the next couple of days, let us pray with all our hearts and let us think with all our minds. And I want to leave you with this thought about religion. If it matters at all, it must matter completely.’ He took several paces about the floor. He joined his hands and placed both his index fingers against his lips and stared downwards some distance in front of him. He raised his eyes and said, ‘If it matters at all. It must matter completely. I want you to remember that boys for the rest of your lives.’

  Father Valerian lowered himself back down into his seat. There was no restlessness like there was in school. This was serious. Apart from the presence of Condor somewhere in the building it was a kind of entry into the adult world. They were about to make decisions which would affect them for the rest of their natural lives. The other priest, Father Albert stood.

  ‘Just a couple of housekeeping points.’ He looked over his shoulder at the door by which Condor had left the room and pretended he was afraid. ‘I know I am addressing senior boys. We operate a no smoking policy in this house.’ Then he dropped his voice and addressed them sideways on, his eyebrows raised. ‘If however there are those among you who are slaves to the weed, then the bottom of the garden, behind the yew trees is the place we never look. Just in passing can I point out — yew trees are the favoured species for graveyards and, unlike smokers, they live to a ripe old age. Just one more thing. Are there any boys who know what they’re doing on the altar?’ Martin looked around but none of the other boys moved. ‘Anyone know the drill?’ The priest crouched a little as if to encourage them, his hands now propped on his knees. He looked from side to side. Martin put up one of his fingers. Father Albert spotted the movement. ‘Good man — what’s your name again?’

  Martin thought it was a trick. Like playing Yes or No. He looked wary and remained silent. Father Albert suddenly realised and laughed. Martin felt a blush invade his face. There was nothing he could do to stop it. Being in front of all the others made it worse.

  ‘In the business of the Lord everything is permitted. You can speak. What’s your name?’

  ‘Martin Brennan.’

  ‘Good lad.’

  ‘But Father — it’s been a long time …’

  ‘There’s nothing to it since Vatican Two.’ Father Albert smiled again. ‘Five to nine in the sacristy — just here.’ He pointed to the chapel along the corridor. ‘Thank you, Mr Brennan, for this very nice example of the rule of silence.’

  The refectory had long wooden tables attached to benches, like a banqueting hall, where the boys sat face to face. The Redemptorists, six of them and Condor, sat at a top table. Martin sat staring down at his place-setting of knife, fork and two spoons on the bare wood in front of him. The spoon they had given him for soup was a dessert spoon and one of the prongs of his fork was sufficiently bent to touch its neighbour. If he looked at the guy opposite he might start laughing. At intervals along the table were battered aluminium jugs for water. Father Valerian stood and everybody followed suit. It was difficult for Martin to stand upright because, being the height he was, the attached bench caught the back of his knees. He stood partly crouched. Like an old man.

  After the prayer they all sat. Then
a door burst open and a procession of Brothers wearing black soutanes came in to serve them. A ladleful of soup was given to everyone. It was the colour of painting water and tasted vaguely of lentils and dust. In the silence, all that could be heard was the clinking of spoons on soup plates. One of the Brothers clumped along the floor to a rostrum and began to read in a very loud voice.

  ‘There was a certain rich man who used to clothe himself in purple and fine linen and who feasted every day in splendid fashion. And there was a certain poor man, named Lazarus, who lay at his gate covered with sores and longing to be filled with the crumbs that fell from the rich man’s table; even the dogs would come and lick his sores …’

  When Martin finished his soup he set his spoon down on the plate. It made a strange sound against the remaining grit.

  The place was in darkness. The only light was on the ceiling, coming from some street lamps down in the town. Shadows of tree branches moved. Occasionally car headlights would swing around, up one wall, across the ceiling and down the other. Kavanagh would really love this place. He’d fall about laughing at everything. Reading about licking a beggar’s sores when you were trying to eat. But Martin was still a bit mad at him for refusing to come. The bastard said he knew, without having to go on Retreat, that he didn’t want to be a priest. He was aiming for Medicine. Martin had tried to coax him. It’ll be a laugh. Something out of the ordinary. But Kavanagh had shaken his head and said he would see him when he got back.

  Kavanagh’s best mate from last year was Gus Brannigan who had transferred to St Columb’s in Derry — something to do with his father’s job. Which left him with Brian Sweeny who wasn’t up to much. He was an affable, shambly sort of a bloke who hadn’t all that much to say for himself. Each movement Martin made in the bed registered in the springs. A bigger movement made the bed frame squeak. The purpose of the Retreat, Martin reminded himself, was serious. ‘If it matters at all it must matter completely.’ Some people snored, others were whispering — breaking the silence — even though Condor’s room was on the same floor. He wished he hadn’t agreed to serve mass in the morning. But that was the way of things. He could never hold back when authority wanted something. ‘Anybody want to sell raffle tickets?’, ‘Who wants to give up their Saturday morning to shake a tin for the Famine in Africa?’ Martin Brennan couldn’t keep his hand down. In class if a question was asked and there was a long silence, it was him who always had a go at answering. Even if he hadn’t a baldy notion. Anything to relieve the embarrassing silence. One of the teachers had praised him in front of the class. ‘Brennan’s not backward about coming forward.’ And everyone had laughed. Bastard.

  Martin went over again the things he had to do serving mass. It was five or six years since he’d done it. They were forcibly retired from being altar boys in their own parish when they went to the grammar school. He tried to remember the sequence of the hand washing. It was all symbolism. The priest had probably washed his hands forty times in carbolic soap before he came out to say mass. Forty was symbolic too. People went into the desert for forty days and forty nights, but it was just a way of saying a long time. John the Baptist didn’t say to himself: this is my thirty-ninth night here, I’m for home tomorrow.

  He took his hands out from underneath the blankets and joined them behind his head. The bed creaked loudly. It had been a disaster when he’d failed last summer. There was just him and his mother at home so there was precious little money coming into the house — the widow’s pension and some odds and ends from part-time jobs.

  They put up the exam results on a noticeboard in the main corridor of the school. Everybody had been hanging around the drinking tap in the back quad for what seemed like hours. Eventually the Reverend Head appeared from the direction of the office with an enormous rolled sheet of paper. Everybody rushed to the noticeboard. The job of putting up the results could have been done by anyone in the office but the Reverend Head enjoyed the power it gave him. The Revealer of Truths. The Bringer of Tidings.

  ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen — please. Gangway — gangway.’ He fumbled in his pocket for something. ‘Some of you may not want to see these.’ The boys were all silent with apprehension, jostling to try and see. Martin was at the back of the crowd. He felt sick in his stomach, felt he was about to faint. The Reverend Head produced a box of drawing pins and rattled them like matches to make sure the box wasn’t empty. Some of these he put in his mouth as he began pinning up the sheet. Guys were trying to see over his shoulder even at this stage. At one point he turned as best he could to confront the boys pressing close. But he couldn’t speak because of the pins in his mouth so he spat them out into his hand.

  ‘Get back, Brian. You too, Finbar. If there is any more of this nonsense — this crushing — I am going straight back to the office and I am taking these results with me.’ The boys leaned back and created an empty zone around the Reverend Head. Deep down Martin knew he hadn’t done enough. But the possibility existed that he might be wrong. He might have underestimated himself and done brilliantly. And there would be backslapping and parties and his mother would look at him, her eyes shining with pride.

  When the Reverend Head left the scene the boys all surged forward. Martin’s eye hunted the columns for his name. People behind him were pushing. Alphabetically he was always near the top. He found himself and tried to trace the horizontal line to his subjects. But it was difficult without a ruler. His guts fell. He knew for certain. He’d gone down in all three subjects. He stared and stared. But the result would not change. Guys around him were yelling and jumping. Whooping like cowboys. If they’d had hats, they’d have thrown them in the air. The bastards. The summer ended right there and then. All Martin’s plans and possibilities disappeared. It had been aiming too high to think about university, but he had quite fancied the idea of teaching: going to a training college or even the priesthood. Any kind of a job, the Civil Service, the Customs & Excise, the Post Office — earning money, a pay packet at the end of every week — everything disappeared the instant he looked at that fucking noticeboard. He would have to go back to school for another year.

  When he told his mother she was subdued.

  ‘I just knew by the way you came in,’ she said. She remained low key about it until one Saturday morning she came stamping into his bedroom. She crashed open the door and stood at the end of the bed, a brown envelope in one hand and a letter in the other. Both were shaking.

  ‘There’s the confirmation of it.’

  ‘What?’ He sat up in bed wearing only his pyjama bottoms.

  ‘You’ve lost the scholarship.’ She threw the letter on to the quilt in front of him. He looked at it and saw the words We regret to inform you.… ‘The school says you can re-sit the year — but only if you pay the fees.’ Martin shrugged and bit the inside of his cheek. ‘Sighing is no good at this stage. You should have thought of this when you were lazing around. You must learn to apply yourself. Where in under God am I going to find that kind of money?’

  When she stomped out he stared at his image in the wardrobe mirror and thought how pale and thin his body was. If he was going to seriously consider becoming a priest then he would have to do better this year. A lot better.

  During the Retreat the hour after devotions and before supper had been devoted to spiritual reading. That evening Martin had browsed the shelves of the conservatory room and had come across a book on saints. His mother was always on about praying to St Joseph of Cupertino, the Patron Saint of Examinations, so he looked him up. He was born in Italy in 1603 of very poor parents. He was a dunderhead, nicknamed the gaper — presumably because his mouth was always hanging open — who, when he finally really applied himself, got no further. He had reached the limits to which his brain would take him. All he could do was pray. And he did. And when he got the questions he knew from the examining bishop he was ecstatic. And he passed his examinations and became a priest. The other thing about him was that he levitated — so the book said — rose up in the
air at unexpected times, causing considerable inconvenience to the other members of his order. As well as the Patron Saint of Examinations, the book said he was the Patron Saint of Nervous Flyers. He’d have to remember that to tell Kavanagh. On the way to school. Have him killing himself first thing in the morning.

  Someone got up and began to move about. Martin heard the quiet scuffing of bare feet on boards, then a little later, the distant flushing of a lavatory. Immediately he felt he needed to go too.

  One of the other things he’d looked at was a book of poems by St John of the Cross. It was weird. In one poem a deeply holy man chased Christ as a bridegroom. He could only remember bits. Upon a pitch black night, this man went abroad when all his house was hushed. In darkness he crept up a secret stair and made love to Christ. He came away with a love bite — ‘my neck he wounded’. He knew it was symbolic, like the forty days and forty nights, but he was a bit confused about St John of the Cross being a man and Christ being a man. But he had loved the sound of it — ‘Entranced I stayed, my face against my lover having laid’ — something something — ‘all endeavour ceasing, and all our cares releasing, I threw them among the lilies there to fade.’

  A poem they’d studied in class was by a priest, Gerard Manley Hopkins. They’d done a sonnet of his — ‘I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day’. Fell was an animal skin, smothering the poet, the teacher said. Martin liked the one — ‘As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame’. It would be a beautiful thing to be a priest — give yourself to Christ for the rest of your life. Have a good comfortable house with big rooms and all the facilities. And a housekeeper. Maybe write poems. Say mass every day. He’d feel good coming back to the parochial house for his breakfast. ‘Hello Missus So-and-so.’ Maybe a big fry with bacon and eggs and potato bread. But there were terrible responsibilities as well. Anointing the dead after car crashes.