‘We don’t know where it is.’
‘It’s opposite the playing field,’ Dad answered, in a tone that sounded like a warning.
Mam, a Methodist, didn’t interfere and kept her silence as Dad gave us a glare that defied us to challenge his ruling. To protest was futile. Fearful of angering the Almighty and getting a crack round the lughole, we were in church the following Saturday.
Confirmation classes provided a fast track to a first Holy Communion for children in an area lacking a Catholic school. As it turned out, I was the oldest sheep in the flock. After me came John Angell and his brother Paul, who was around the same age my brother Dave. Little Colm Crowley, youngest of the three Crowley brothers, was the youngest of ten to fifteen kids in the charge of Father Naylon, an affable Irishman – as I wrongly presumed all priests were – as he guided us through the commandments, led us in prayer and ignored our dismayed faces when he told us we’d be receiving the body and blood of Christ in Holy Communion. At the end of the lesson he blessed us, smiled cheerily and sent us on our way with a reminder that the catechisms he'd given us would cost sixpence each. Having to learn that stuff at home was a blow. We could just about decipher thees, thous and arts but coveting, wombs and virgins were way beyond us.
~~~
Walking by kids playing football on Beechings Green every Saturday morning rubbed salt in the wound. A kind word from Father Naylon, for reciting the Apostles Creed, was little consolation. We did enjoy a few smiles though. Little Crowley, with his two front teeth missing delighted Father Naylon and amused us all with squeaky renditions of Walk Tall and Five Hundred Miles. And Arthur Champ impressed everybody with his knowledge, especially when he gave ‘extry munction’ as the answer to a question that stumped the rest of us. His sister Maria, a pretty girl with big brown eyes impressed me too, though I wasn't sure why.
Brother Dave and I were curious when we noticed our Mike having a little snigger. It seemed Father Naylon suffered from an itchy backside. ‘You watch him. Every time he points to something and tells us to look at it, he gives his bum a crafty scratch.’
At the next opportunity, we were ready.
‘How many stations of the cross are there?’ asked Father Naylon, indicating the wall mountings that showed each stage of the crucifixion. All but three kids followed his gaze in the race to be first with the answer. Sure enough, Father Naylon scratched his bum. Biting our lips, my brothers and I turned away, but the pressure of holding it in got too much and we released a collective snort of laughter.
.
‘What the matter? Come on, pay attention,’ said the bemused priest.
Though we got away with it that time, we knew not to push our luck. Of one mind, the next time Father Naylon told us to look at something we obeyed, not daring to make eye contact with each other.
Inevitably, we were
conscripted into going to Mass on Sundays and the three of us came uncomfortably
close to getting roped in as altar boys, too. Though I liked the smell of
incense and fancied having a go at jingling the jangler, I shied away from the
commitment. Instead, Sunday mornings continued as always, with us doing our
jobs under Dad’s watchful eye, until it was time to polish our shoes.
‘Come on, I want to see them shining like a
shilling up a sweep’s bum!’
When three pairs of shoes shone to Dad’s satisfaction, we passed inspection and set off for church.
Mingling with some of Twydall’s finest we shuffled through the main doors, blessed ourselves in holy bacteria and entered a time warp. While a single hour passed in the outside world, it seemed three hours dragged in ours.
Not being familiar with the triggers to sit, stand or kneel, we took our lead from the old biddies that displayed their devotion in speed and agility. Only sometimes we were caught out. Springing to our feet to find everybody else kneeling, we quickly dropped to our knees, grinning like idiots.
All that standing, sitting and kneeling encouraged a lot of fidgeting. It also encouraged some flatulence and when a little trump escaped, we struggled to contain the laughter.
In his altar boy smock, Arthur Champ jingled his jangler as Father Naylon chanted in Latin and prepared the host. This most solemn part of the mass was known to us as ‘Giving it some hocus-pocus’. Those who went to the altar for communion had the benefit of stretching their legs but for my brothers and I, there was only one way to ease the pressure on our knees. Dignity comes a poor second to comfort so when one of us stuck his bum out to make contact with the bench behind us, we all did.
Once communion was over, Father Naylon carried out a cleansing ritual while those responsible for taking the collection slipped from the end of the pews like crocodiles off a riverbank. We hated collections. Mam usually coughed up a few coppers to share between us and we worked it so the three of us had something to put in at each of two collections. Sometimes though, Mam’s lack of small change left us with a problem of splitting a shilling piece between us. Putting it in the first collection would leave us facing embarrassment in the second, so when the first collection came round we lobbed the shilling in and helped ourselves to two pennies each to keep for the second collection. The Lord understood, but dirty looks from other members of the congregation suggested they did not.
‘Go in peace,’ said Father Naylon, when it was all over, to a suddenly brightened faithful.
‘Thank Christ for that.’
Just occasionally there’d be a third collection at the door, with the basket carriers moving quickly to cover the escape routes. Our hearts sank as, in the midst of the shuffling exodus, we could only slink past with our heads bowed.
Outside on Beechings Green kids were still playing football. Though the temptation to join them was great, it wasn’t worth the leathering I’d get if I got my shoes muddy.
When three pairs of shoes shone to Dad’s satisfaction, we passed inspection and set off for church.
Mingling with some of Twydall’s finest we shuffled through the main doors, blessed ourselves in holy bacteria and entered a time warp. While a single hour passed in the outside world, it seemed three hours dragged in ours.
Not being familiar with the triggers to sit, stand or kneel, we took our lead from the old biddies that displayed their devotion in speed and agility. Only sometimes we were caught out. Springing to our feet to find everybody else kneeling, we quickly dropped to our knees, grinning like idiots.
All that standing, sitting and kneeling encouraged a lot of fidgeting. It also encouraged some flatulence and when a little trump escaped, we struggled to contain the laughter.
In his altar boy smock, Arthur Champ jingled his jangler as Father Naylon chanted in Latin and prepared the host. This most solemn part of the mass was known to us as ‘Giving it some hocus-pocus’. Those who went to the altar for communion had the benefit of stretching their legs but for my brothers and I, there was only one way to ease the pressure on our knees. Dignity comes a poor second to comfort so when one of us stuck his bum out to make contact with the bench behind us, we all did.
Once communion was over, Father Naylon carried out a cleansing ritual while those responsible for taking the collection slipped from the end of the pews like crocodiles off a riverbank. We hated collections. Mam usually coughed up a few coppers to share between us and we worked it so the three of us had something to put in at each of two collections. Sometimes though, Mam’s lack of small change left us with a problem of splitting a shilling piece between us. Putting it in the first collection would leave us facing embarrassment in the second, so when the first collection came round we lobbed the shilling in and helped ourselves to two pennies each to keep for the second collection. The Lord understood, but dirty looks from other members of the congregation suggested they did not.
‘Go in peace,’ said Father Naylon, when it was all over, to a suddenly brightened faithful.
‘Thank Christ for that.’
Just occasionally there’d be a third collection at the door, with the basket carriers moving quickly to cover the escape routes. Our hearts sank as, in the midst of the shuffling exodus, we could only slink past with our heads bowed.
Outside on Beechings Green kids were still playing football. Though the temptation to join them was great, it wasn’t worth the leathering I’d get if I got my shoes muddy.
~~~
Late spring: We were still attending catechism classes; and accumulating quite a bit of
guilt. Being free of mortal sin was one thing, but I was riddled with little venial
ones, so when Father Naylon likened a sin free soul to a clean sheet of blotting
paper, I saw mine spattered with ink.
‘What is a sin?’ asked Father Naylon.
I left it to others to shout examples.
‘Good man, Paul Angell! Well done, Yvonne Finucane! Good man yourself, John Angel!” cried Father Naylon, as suggestions came thick and fast.
How sorry I was that I'd gone behind my mother's back to raid the larder. Stealing a biscuit never felt so bad.
Then Father Naylon showed us the confession box, with a commentary that had me squirming. An act of contrition and some penance I could handle, but when he added that it was sinful to deliberately withhold something, it seemed he was reading my thoughts.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be hearing confessions from you all before your confirmation,’ he said.
With no escape, I vowed to will as many sins from my mind as I could before then.
‘What is a sin?’ asked Father Naylon.
I left it to others to shout examples.
‘Good man, Paul Angell! Well done, Yvonne Finucane! Good man yourself, John Angel!” cried Father Naylon, as suggestions came thick and fast.
How sorry I was that I'd gone behind my mother's back to raid the larder. Stealing a biscuit never felt so bad.
Then Father Naylon showed us the confession box, with a commentary that had me squirming. An act of contrition and some penance I could handle, but when he added that it was sinful to deliberately withhold something, it seemed he was reading my thoughts.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be hearing confessions from you all before your confirmation,’ he said.
With no escape, I vowed to will as many sins from my mind as I could before then.
~~~
Willing away awkward sins is impossible, I learned, in the moments before my turn in the confessional. Confession is an ordeal but once it over, my penance was sincere and I was happy to have my shameful, biscuit stealing soul restored to purity.
On
a Sunday morning in June 1966, the Lynch boys received their
first Holy Communion at the St. Thomas of Canterbury Catholic Church in Rainham.
Being the tallest, Dave and I led a procession that stepped down from the biggest
at the front to the smallest at the rear.
At a post Mass celebration feast we ate heartily, though it stuck in our throats when John Angell said something about it being a reward for fasting. My brothers and I frowned.
‘What’s fasting?’
‘Not eating anything this morning… until now.’
My brothers and I remained silent. Silky tassels attached to the sleeves of their blazers gave the Angell boys a greater holiness. Now it seemed they were better informed.
‘You have fasted today, haven’t you?’ John asked, clearly suspicious.
Three shamed faces revealed the truth. After a few murmurings and a collective wish for the Lord to overlook our Weetabix lined stomachs, we tucked in again.
At a post Mass celebration feast we ate heartily, though it stuck in our throats when John Angell said something about it being a reward for fasting. My brothers and I frowned.
‘What’s fasting?’
‘Not eating anything this morning… until now.’
My brothers and I remained silent. Silky tassels attached to the sleeves of their blazers gave the Angell boys a greater holiness. Now it seemed they were better informed.
‘You have fasted today, haven’t you?’ John asked, clearly suspicious.
Three shamed faces revealed the truth. After a few murmurings and a collective wish for the Lord to overlook our Weetabix lined stomachs, we tucked in again.
Providing I could slip out of the house before Dad collared me, Saturday mornings were free once more to play football. And on Sundays, my brothers and I did what good Catholic boys do… we dodged Mass as often we could.
Ironically,
before the summer of 1966 was out, I was playing in trenches that had been dug for the
foundations of a new building on Romany
Road… a Catholic school.
This was priceless. Thanks for the memories. I did try escaping the Catechism classes by hiding in the Beechings Way bathrooms, not good! I also remember Fr. Porter who would bring his dog with him everywhere. Great times to look back on.
ReplyDeleteThank you Anonymous.
Delete