This 'coming-of-age' novel, set in Northern Ireland in the 1960s, asks the tough existential questions. To-wit:
Mary Lawless cleared her throat. 'A thing I've always wondered is this,' she said. 'If you had two weighing machines and you put a foot on each one, what would you weigh? Can we assume that the sum of the two scales would be your weight? Eh Martin, a bright boy like you should know that. What do you think?'
'Martin', the bright boy, would be Martin Brennan, raised by his widowed mother, who places the Catholic Church, and the priests who run it, above all else. So, Martin must decide whether he 'has the calling'. He doesn't. But to answer that he is off to a 'silent' retreat, or forced to attend weekly dinners at his home with his mother, her two lady friends and the local priest. Martin would rather hang with his two friends, Kavanagh and Foley, who, together, form a trinity of 'bright boys'. Part One of this novel follows them as they shed their adolescent skins and, with that, unveil the absurdity around them. This Part gets a little Seinfeld-y as the boys conspire to steal the questions for their upcoming examinations. But school teaches absurdity, in Ireland and elsewhere, as rutting boys, who would rather smoke in the daffs are given Milton instead. Milton? Really?
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.
Martin will slowly lose his Faith, even as he retains the Guilt. This is comically demonstrated when Martin imagines his mother being notified of his death while hiding 'the worst wank magazine':
Mrs. Brennan, we're obliged to return Martin's effects. I've looked through them. I'm dreadfully sorry. Of course he may have just found this filthy magazine in a waste bin at a bus stop. And the bus hit him before he could get around to having a wank. Of that we're definite. So, he's probably in heaven.'
'Thanks be to God for small mercies.'
By Part Two, Martin is in the eponymous 'Anatomy School' spending one memorable night among the cadavers, dissecting rats and exchanging accents with an Australian girl. It's a lovely dialogue they share, even as they conduct their own experiments.
'Bright boys', like Martin, get past the tight white t-shirt, the faded jeans, and see this:
The girl in the library reading her book suddenly smiles. What was funny on the page lives in her eyes momentarily. A woman walking down the street completely by herself remembers something said, something done and can't hold back laughing and puts her hand up to cover her lower face. She knows she is giving away too much in front of strangers. Maybe she's had a drink too many; maybe she just left a good conversation in a pub or a coffee place. Whichever way it was, she gave her loveliness away to Martin as he waited for his bus one evening.
This novel was fine, but pedestrian compared to MacLaverty's wonderful Grace Notes and Cal.
One odd thing. It's weird, as a reader, how we add layers of knowledge that often do not wait to be used. I very recently read The Inventor and the Tycoon about, in large part, the life of 19th Century photographer Eadweard Muybridge who, when he wasn't killing his wife's lover, liked to photograph people engaged in quotidian acts (like smoking a cigarette) while they were nude. Somehow, Martin comes across a copy of Muybridge's photo book, allowing MacLaverty to tell Muybridge's story. The book gods play their jokes.
And one annoying thing. In a 1960s dinner, the adults are lamenting youth's fascination with 'disco, disco, disco'. Which, I didn't think was 'invented' until a decade later.