II. St. Mary's Church
SPECIALLY CATHOLIC
We were specially Catholic. Because Grandad
Wright had had so big a quarrel with Father
Moylan, both so important in church, he had
given up going, so when Daddy quarrelled
with him over the school, made Daddy rather
more of a Catholic than he had been, settled
him as one forever. And Mammy had stayed
ever so long with the aristocratic
in-laws, Catholics, her sister had brought; it made
her want to change. Converts can be fanatic,
and with Mammy it meant she lived a magic
sort of life. So both made us more than Catholic.
STEREOSCOPY IN CHURCH (I)
In the church there were two stained-glass windows right
above the altar. The sermon became dumb
as I squinted the two together. The light
crisped into solid crystalline projectings,
made the more so by hollowings, maximum
stereoscopy, the strangest dissectings
of familiar space — and all in minuscule,
modelled precisely in inches, in a place
that was nowhere. Tried to guess what was the rule
governing squints, that could so break through the base
of our seeing. Thus I'd be lost in wonder
while around me they bowed to priestly thunder.
STEREOSCOPY IN CHURCH (II)
There were two altar windows, their shape the same,
side by side. If I squinted, one moved across
and would fit on the other, which made the frame
and the bars look so solidly clear, printing
depth on depth, that the real suffered a loss
of reality. Strange, though, that the squinting
eyes just couldn't decide which colour to see —
where a red lay on green, this special window
flickered faultily. Painful the anomaly
in the midst of precision, for it would go
green then red, red then green. I saw all as fixed
but them. You can be sure they never mixed.
HOLY COMMUNION
The priest's murmur would grow to a maximum:
Domine, non sum dignus, et custodiat
animam tuam in vitam aeternam.
Amen. And then the dry funny taste, the disc
that was not easy swallowing. Knew it pat.
Latin was easy. Wondered was there a risk
if confession had not been proper? Couldn't
think of good sins to tell him — forgetting to
say one's prayers, yes — I always did that. Wouldn't
end up in Hell, though, would I? But was it true
about transubstantiation? Couldn't tell
from the dry funny taste. What was true was Hell.
TRANSUBSTANTIATION
Didn't understand 'transubstantiation'.
Bread stayed the same but was really the Body
of the Lord. Could explain what 'expiation'
meant — you were sorry and were doing penance,
but the Host was the Body and Blood. Foggy
sort of idea. Said His 'omnipresence'
always meant He was everywhere — Why more in
round flat white discs? And in Benediction, why
did the moving Him round in a cross within
that monstrance shaped like a cross, held up on high,
make Him bless us? The gold clothes and the incense
were nice. Still was like that Emperor's pretence.
BENEDICTION
In the monstrance was God. 'Monstrance' meant show-ance,
so we were told by Miss Hester. It was gold,
all with rays like a star, for God's real 'substance'
hid in that bread in the middle, that pale white
in the round little window. The priest could hold
God up on high and bless us. It was a 'rite
of the Church' in which God did the real blessing,
for, when the priest's hands moved the Host in the shape
of a cross, it was God too. It had me guessing
how He could make His body His hands. The cape
of the priest was all gold, and everyone knelt,
so it seemed to be true, and that's how they felt.
VIRGIN BIRTH
Was supposed to be better that the Virgin
Mary had not been properly married. Then
it seemed Saint Joseph wasn't her genuine
husband. He was a kind of blind so that no
one would think she was having a baby when
no one had married her. But that seemed to show
that a marriage was something not quite so good.
Poor human beings, they couldn't do without
it although it was not of the best. They could
try to be happy with it. They were cast out
of the Garden of Eden. There was no cure.
To make babies you couldn't keep yourself pure.
GENUFLECTION
Had to dip your hand into the font, make the
Sign of the Cross. This would make you holy all
the while you were in church that time. To take the
central aisle meant that you had to genuflect
to the Host. 'Genuflect' meant knee-bend. To call
it by that name wouldn't at all be correct
because it was what knee-bending stood for that
really did matter. You lowered yourself down
and that said that you knew that Our Lord was at
much greater height than you, and our Lord would frown
if you tried to pretend you were up there too.
Had to wait till you died to reach heaven's blue.
THE COLLECTION
If you put in your penny, then the angel
nodded. I used to wonder whether it could
shake its head. At collection it was shameful
if you looked what the others put in, but you
could see whether the coin you gave was as good
as the rest. We were told what you didn't do
was to gamble, but raffles weren't. Envelopes
were kept sealed with your money inside, to keep
secret just how unselfish you'd been. The copes
and the mitres of gold could not have been cheap
but they couldn't be sold. That's why there were nods,
for they said anyway all your pennies were God's.
THE STATUES
All the paint on the statues was always new,
bright greens, bright reds, gold and silver lines just done.
And the faces were pink as dolls', a Hindu
sharpness at eye-corners, and burnt sienna
beards, for God and the saints had beards. Halcyon
blue on Our Lady's gown. Angels had henna
hair and gilded white wings. All of them painted
perfectly, heavenly hues, so unlike what
we were down here, as if to be so sainted
meant that for clothes as well as your soul no blot
could remain. Under Our Lady's foot, in mail,
there was Satan as serpent of golden scale.
THE NODDING ANGEL
Knew the angel in church started nodding when
pennies were put in. It was nodding at you
just to say you'd done right, a kind of 'Amen!'
It was the penny that made it nod, although
that you'd been so unselfish, that was quite true:
nodding was right after all, for it did show
that the Virtue of Generosity made
you go to heaven where angels were. But I
used to wonder about what it was that weighed
down and pulled levers inside the statue, why
they had hidden it there, concealed from God
why the nodding was only a clockwork nod.
ASH WEDNESDAY CROSS
Liked the Ash Wednesday cross. The ash on your brow
wasn't like dirt, even though it was real ash.
But you couldn't take ash yourself. Was a vow.
Not eating so many sweets, say, or giving
up your sugar (I didn't). The priest would dash
over your forehead with his thumb, so living
all through Lent very holy would be helped 'cause
you would remember. It tickled when it went dry,
but I kept it there long as I could. It was
specially done for you — it was really by
God but with the priest's own thumb. But then you'd find
Mammy washed it off, but God didn't mind.
THE STATIONS OF THE CROSS
Then in Lent came the Stations of the Cross, as
some kind of play, for the priest and the acolytes
moved when Christ moved, and just as a comic has
pictures for each special action, on the wall
were flat carvings like coins have with all the sights
told in the Bible, but these were painted, all
new and shiny, with blue for Mary, and red
blood, and the gold on the haloes that no one
could see, those who were there, but we could. His head
crowned with thorns really was crowned when all was done.
We all knew that we wouldn't have been a Jew
calling names. We were safe knowing what was true.
CRUCIFIXION
Crucifixion was terrible, for if you
fainted, the pain in your hands would still wake you.
But suppose you were brave, pulling the nails through
sinews and knuckles to free your hands, how would
you get those feet free too? Only thing to do,
hold on and force them free. If you had withstood
all the pain in the hands, perhaps you'd manage,
but, if you didn't, imagine falling, your
feet still nailed on! Yes, you'd have to have courage.
But it would be no use, you would be so sore
that you couldn't walk, you'd be stuck with the pain,
and the Romans would nail you up once again.
THE CRIB
Was a crib in the church at Christmas. A box
framed like a theatre. Inside was real straw
on the floor, in the manger, but the brown rocks,
they were of size-stiffened sacking, all sprinkled
with a tinselly frost. Inside, what you saw,
set like a play, was all still, though stars twinkled
through a snow-cornered window: Our Lady in
blue, bending over with one hand on her heart,
and St. Joseph, all serious. Mannequin
angels were guardians in golden plaster-art.
Was like acting all frozen in a film-clip.
Mustn't notice Christ's nose had lost a white chip.
THE SACRED HEART
Didn't like all those pictures of the Sacred
Heart. There'd be Jesus, his hair, beard and moustache
always parted in two, browny-gold-coloured
mist round his head, pulling open his gown to
show His heart. It was painted in very harsh
primary colours, a real heart of flesh, in true
blood-red, tied round with thorns, a cross stuck on top,
golden rays shining out, but your real heart, it
isn't where all your feelings are. It will stop
suddenly if you're afraid, yes, have a fit
if you're angry, beat fast if you love. Was odd
to think that lump of flesh was the heart of God.
THE RELIC
Father Moylan — he whispered. We had to queue,
silent in church. It was part of the body
of the Blessed John Fisher. Was really true:
there in a glass box, in firm velvet inset
like a jewel or watch, ringed with a glossy
cord, was a fragment of bone, a tiny net
of grey pores, like the inside of bones dogs gnawed,
something you think should be thrown away. Holy,
Father Moylan said, blessing it, a record
here in our Horwich, of martyrdom. Only,
I thought, shouldn't it really, as part of a limb,
have stayed down in his grave with the rest of him?
THE MISSAL
You could follow the Mass in Mammy's missal.
Black leather back. Was soft to hold, like a cat.
Felt expensive. The cross was in gold. Little
red and green sewings kept the pages in place,
the edges of which were gilt. Was to show that
God was important. Was a kind of red ace
on each page at the end of a trailing plant
going around all the holy words, and red
headings showing you where you were. Every chant,
prayer, creed and sacrament, all that the priest said,
in thick black print in Latin, so you could ponder
very hard, but my mind would always wander.
LATIN
We sang 'Venite adoremus' instead
of 'O, come let us adore thee', and 'Credo
in unum Deum' — was in Latin: you said,
'I believe in one God.' St. Augustine had
brought the language along with him. It could show
how all the Catholics are all one if you add
up the hundreds of years. Lots of what we spoke,
ordinary English words, were Latin as well
and we Catholics would know. The Protestants broke
off from the Church — weren't even able to spell
it. St. Peter's word none of them realised.
Knowing Latin was what made you civilized.
'JEEPERS CREEPERS'
'Jeepers Creepers! Where'd you get those peepers?' We
sang it. We liked all the rhymes and the tune too.
It was what the Americans said to be
funny-surprised — 'Jeepers Creepers!' But at school
Father Rattigan said that, once you knew
'Jeepers' was Jesus, 'Creepers' was Christ, then you'll
'commit blasphemy' singing it. Just the same
'Jiminy Cricket' was evil too, so in
the Pinocchio film they were all to blame
calling his 'conscience' by that name. Was a sin
even though just the 'J' and the 'Cr' were sung.
It was strange you could sin with your lips and tongue.
THE WORLD, THE FLESH, AND THE DEVIL
Was the World, the Flesh and the Devil we
had to watch out for. The World, said Miss Hester,
was so full of temptations. Some of them she
never would say, and you felt those were the worst.
You'd not ever 'to covet' or to pester
Mammy and Daddy for toffees. You'd be cursed
into fire everlasting. And she wouldn't
tell us at all what the sins of the Flesh were.
You would look at your hands and just couldn't
think what it was they might do. He would 'enmesh'
you, the Devil, hidden inside. Was true.
An invisible fiend, who'd trap you with you.
SINNERS
In the pulpit you'd hear Father Moylan get
ever so angry, saying all of us were
sinners. I'd look around and look at them, yet
none of them looked like Mr. Hydes or evil
witches. Could Mr. Coffee, whom you called 'sir'
every day, really be sinning? And Tubal,
who was so strict with his customers, should someone
be just as strict with him? And policemen, dressed
up in uniform, was it a kind of con?
Priests, then, as well, in their vestments, just like the rest,
all pretending? But people sometimes made you
pretend, saying how good you were. Wasn't true.
IN HELL
If you died with a mortal sin on your soul
Jesus had said that you would 'depart' into
an eternal fire. Chained among burning coal
there you would be for ever. It would never
stop, whatever the date, for they would keep you
always and always, for you had to suffer
to make up for your sin. Just one sin would do.
Only a second it might take to commit,
but it kept you there, kept you there. It was true,
Father O'Henry said. It didn't quite fit,
though, with God being merciful. He'd weep tears
if you'd been there a full twenty million years.
ROSARIES
I liked rosaries. Counting the smooth little beads,
green ones for 'Hail Marys' and big red ones for
'Our Fathers', they slid through your fingers, like 'seeds
springing in Christ' Father Moylan said. You could
lay the tens side by side and that was a 'score'.
Prayers would mount up to the Lord and you would
soon have saved up an 'indulgence', a hundred days
out of the penance in Purgatory. Yet
when you said all those prayers, it wouldn't be praise
since very soon it was nonsense — you forget
what the words really mean, and you just mumble
like a cart on some cobbles, squeak and rumble.
THE ROMAN CATHOLIC REPOSITORY
Was in Bolton a strange shop called 'The Roman
Catholic Repository'. It had all
things for Catholics: candles; Italian
pictures of Jesus and Our Lady; missals
with the printing in red and black; statues small,
middle-sized, big; crucifixes; the Epistles
leather-bound with gold holes for your thumb; jewel
rosaries. Funny to feel so much holiness
set out neatly in one room. Some beautiful
things. Was peculiar, though, a creepiness
seeing God lining up himself, all sizes,
just like soldiers in all sorts of disguises.
MARTYRS
All the martyrs had saved us. Saint Sebastian
had all those arrows stabbing him to the tree
just so God would be kind. And when Saint Stephen
staggered about and couldn't escape the stones,
every bang told him God bought his agony
back on the Cross. And all Saint Lawrence's groans
on the gridiron were numbered so that the heat
burning like Hell could be exactly made up,
up in Heaven. But I'd think, was it a cheat?
Was it made easy for them knowing the 'cup'
would be 'passing'? Suppose there's no paradise:
they'd be making a much bigger sacrifice.
SUPERSTITIONS (I)
They said breaking a mirror was seven years
bad luck, but how could a few cracks in a glass
make your life go all wrong? Silly to have fears
like that. Black cats were always crossing your path:
they were pussies and nice. At school you would pass
people on the stairs all the time. Teacher said the wrath
of the Lord was for people who took graven
images unto themselves. We Catholics
didn't worship statues, 'Superstition'
led you astray. If you kissed a crucifix,
didn't mean you'd kissed Jesus. Bread and wine
that you lived on, though, were much more than a sign.
SUPERSTITIONS (II)
Superstitions were evil, Miss Hester said.
People who thought that walking under ladders
brought you misery weren't just stupid: instead,
it was a way that the devil put the thought
of the true God away from you. His adder's
tongue could persuade so cleverly. What Christ taught
was the only truth. Course, if there's a painter
painting you want to miss any drops. Some boys,
though, would shake their heads as if they knew better:
black cats and broken mirrors meant all your joys
had now gone whereas theirs were quite safe. Was strange —
seems you couldn't persuade their devil to change.
SPOILING
Said some children were 'spoiled'. If you spoiled something,
that thing was something you liked and wanted nice
but you lost all the best of it, like dropping
chocolate down in the mud, couldn't eat it
even though it was still all there. Was a vice,
Father O'Henry said, worse than if you hit
them, to spoil your children. Was difficult
that, because spoiling them was giving them sweets
all the time, or five bob. What was the result?
Sweets, they were nice. Five bob would buy lots of treats,
lots of toys. The truth was, sweets weren't really sweet
as a hundred, but poison you shouldn't eat.
SINGING SOLO
'Tantum ergo, sacramentum...' I would sing
solo at Benediction sometimes, on high
in the choir up above, on Sunday evening,
candles all twinkling like stars. I saw the whole
church below like a huge cargo hold and I
stood on the bridge as a captain in control,
with my voice making echoes from all the stone
pillars. I didn't know what the Latin meant,
and the tune, I thought, was a bit of a moan,
soppy especially, as if it was Lent,
when it came to the sad bit in three-four time,
but our choirmaster said the tune was 'sublime'.
ST. PATRICK'S DAY CONCERT
To be dressed in that cold satin, shamrock green,
made me cold inside. On the stage our singing
had to keep to the baton, or the colleen
couldn't fit between choruses. Every eye
would have frozen me, out in that opening
with its dazzle and dark. 'St. Patrick on high
was there watching us,' Father had said. To go
wrong was evil temptation when the applause
was for right notes. Who'd clap a boy soprano
who'd let 'Tara's halls' fall flat? And yet, because
he was watching me, I thought to make a botch
of my singing would give him something to watch.
THE TWO GENDARMES
Mr. Power and Mr. Kelly would sing
funny duets at the Church parties. We all
had a laugh at the one went with such a swing
where they pretended to be two French gendarmes.
If they came across 'helpless women' they'd haul
them off to clink, or boys like me 'that do no harm.'
Wouldn't want, though, to meet a policeman who'd
do such a thing. If they came across a crook,
then they wouldn't arrest them, though you'd
think that they would. The reason was that they took
the crook's money instead. Why did everyone,
all the priests and grown-ups then find it such fun?
'OH, GLORIOUS ST. PATRICK...'
When we sang 'Oh, glorious St. Patrick, dear
saint of our isle', it didn't matter we were
only English. Was nice that the hymn could cheer
us up — 'bestowing a sweet smile' would include
us too, though we weren't Irish. As chorister
I sang as loud as the rest. Would have been rude
if you hadn't joined in. Was fun, too, having
shamrock — they gave it out as you left to wear
all the day. Was no reason that pretending
couldn't be right for once. A sort of prayer
for the Irish. As a priest I'd make my sermons
recommend we'd do the same for the Germans.
THE BALLOON RACE
At St. Mary's we had a garden party
helping to pay for redecorations, and
Mr. Connor was there, shouting a hearty
'Race for the prize!' He had a big cylinder
with all frost on a tap. He waved in one hand
cards, in the other, pulling in the wind, a
blue balloon. So for sixpence I wrote a card,
saw it tied on, and then fly away, getting
quickly higher and smaller. I thought it hard,
day after day, that nothing came back — setting
down all lost in the sea or the polar ice
with my name all unread, though I'd paid the price.
THE PRIEST'S VISIT
It was Father O'Henry standing in our
living-room, black and stout. His white collar shone
close up. He was all smiles. He stood like a tower
next to my daddy. It was as if the Church
had walked in, and our house and us had all gone
somehow inside it, as if he'd come to search
for what wasn't the holy, and his smiles showed
how he was sure that the Church knew what holy
was and we'd have to know too, as if we owed
money and had to pay up. And how slowly
all the talking then seemed to go on. Mammy
smiling too, and the Father, and my daddy.
FATHER MOSS
Father Moss was an English priest, tall, narrow-
nosed, like a Basil Rathbone. Been to a better
school than those other priests whose names had an 'O'
right at the start. When I won my scholarship
and I went to the grammar-school, a letter
said I must 'go for tuition to equip
me to argue against the Protestants'. He
taught me 'theology', he said with a smile
and the pretty young lady laughed too, for she
did the course as well. We often laughed while
he was teaching us. Had to leave in a whirl.
Mammy said he'd been 'too tied up with the girl.'
MR. WARTON
Mr. Warton to church wore a smart grey suit,
creases so sharp, black shoes always polished, high
trilby, sashed with a silk ribbon that would shoot
green and then red in the sunlight. Everything
was as neat as could be, from his shining tie
to his spotless turn-ups. All the brushing
and the ironing that went on each week. He did
all that himself, for some men were bachelors,
lived alone without wives. He couldn't get rid,
though, of that rash on his face. Left his whiskers
all unshaven. One Sunday he wasn't there
any more. I'd imagine him still at prayer.
GUY FAWKES
Noticed Father O'Henry would smile in a
funny way when he talked about Fireworks Night.
Wasn't just at his warnings, not to spin a
catherine wheel, always 'to retire' when you'd
lit it, things like that, but something wasn't right.
There'd been a Protestant king once and a feud
had begun when the Catholics decided
they had a better one, so was like Romans
burning Christians. Was as if you sided
with the old Protestants. They were like pagans.
So you felt really odd on the bonfire night.
What was worse, Fawkes was helped by a man called Wright.
GOING TO CHURCH ON HOLIDAY
On a Sunday on holiday we went to
church. Was a mortal sin not to go. In Wales
there were catholic churches too, and God knew
just round the corner in Pwllheli a dark
little church had Him waiting for us. The rails
there by the altar were thinner, and St. Mark
was the guardian saint, and the priest was small,
though when you heard how he spoke, you discovered
that his voice, it was Irish. On the wall
saw that their Stations of the Cross weren't coloured,
like ours. God didn't mind. He was everywhere,
so he went to the Welsh. It was only fair.
CREMATION
Father Moylan said 'cremation' was a bad
thing. It was sinful to do it. Church Street
in the graveyard lay all the people who had
lived once in Horwich. Think, a hundred years back
you'd find all of them living up on their feet
arguing, loving, working, playing, no lack
of affairs to be busy about, but now
all of their talk it was over, till God said
on the Last Day 'Arise!' I wondered then how
those who had been cremated would find their head
and their body. Our priest said 'they would rue it.'
I thought God was so clever he could do it.
THE OTHER RELIGIONS
When they came to the end of the 'Our Father',
they said 'Thine is the Kingdom' and a bit more,
and this made it all wrong, so I would rather
remain silent. A Roman Catholic could
say 'Amen' right away after 'evil', or
wait for them fitting in at last where they should.
Their potato-pie suppers were better than
ours, but Wesleyan Methodist would not go
straight to heaven, nor would Baptist, Anglican,
Congregationalist, unless they could show
they'd been specially good, when we generous
Catholics wouldn't mind their fitting in with us.
ST. CATHERINE'S
Passed St. Catherine's Church every day, a brick
church for the Protestants. Inside high railings,
with big dark rhododendron bushes, so thick
grown round a winding path you could only see
pointed windows with amber glass, framings
all done in red tile. Thought it could only be
for some redheaded people with brown freckles,
none of whom knew there was no god inside.
They'd be wasting their time. All those pink petals,
all of the trees and the building weren't a bit
of use; money all gone on roof and brick wall;
all those redheads adoring nothing at all.
THE METHODIST MINISTER
At Victoria Methodists they had a
'minister', not a priest. He was a nice man,
always smiling, but priests were always sadder,
thinking of hell all the time, because their line
could go all the way back to St. Peter, an
actual apostle. The minister looked fine
in his dog-collar. I felt so sorry. I
liked where his hair had gone grey at the sides and
how the people all smiled back. How much you try,
though, to be good as a Methodist, you'll
land up in Limbo, not Heaven. Never get in.
Was the priest you'd to trust on devils and sin.
THE WESLEYANS' ADVANTAGE
They had lovely potato-pie suppers. Stayed
all through the evening, playing games, hearing a song.
Thought the Wesleyan Methodists such fun. Prayed,
though, for a while. Had to be quiet and still
for a minute or two. We didn't belong.
Granma did. That's why we went. Just like a drill-
hall their chapel, all panels and plain white walls,
not like the stencil patterns and statues we
had, and stained-glass. Their rows of seats were like stalls,
more like a law-court, no golden canopy,
no big cross with the blood and Jesus on high.
Oh, but nothing could match their potato-pie!
FOOLING BY ARGUMENT
There was Arnold, the public schoolboy, who said
he would be one of the Spiritualists
if his parents would let him. Said that the dead
always were trying to speak to us. He kept
such a straight face. Would argue that 'you papists'
knew there were souls down there. Did we think they slept
all the time? He would say that ouija boards
gave them a chance to add their weak little shove.
I would say that you had to keep to Our Lord's
word, but he said didn't show very much love
if He kept them all dumb. Couldn't tell if he
meant it. Thought he was arguing just to be.