The Green Years

by A. J. Cronin

  Mother Elizabeth Josephina was quite elderly, her features lined, inclined to severity. She was a good teacher. She made those days in Palestine live for us. Listening breathlessly, we saw the poor stable, and the Child who lay there. We saw the Holy Family fleeing on a donkey—think, a poor donkey!—before the wickedness of Herod. Perhaps because of my somewhat dubious past, she seemed to devote extra attention to me, and this made me proud: especially when she praised the quickness of my answers. When Canon Roche strolled in to regard us, with surprising benignity, Reverend Mother and he would put their heads together, their eyes directed towards me. Afterwards her kindness increased. She gave me scapulars, and little holy pictures, which I carried underneath my shirt. I began with all my heart to love Jesus, who I thought must have resembled little Angelo, sitting trustingly beside me. I longed for the day when, as Mother Elizabeth Josephina explained, He would come to me in the shape of the shining Host which would be placed upon my tongue.

  Then she began to warn us, to speak of the horrors of a bad Communion. She cited many painful instances. There was the little boy who had “ broken his fast?” thoughtlessly, by nibbling some crumbs from his pocket before advancing to the altar rails; another careless little fiend who had swallowed drops of water from his toothbrush. These were bad enough; but a third story simply made us shudder. A little girl who, from wicked curiosity, had transferred the host from her tongue to her pocket handkerchief … Later she had found this handkerchief soaked with blood!

  No one followed the progress of my instruction with more profound attention than Grandpa. He had begun by asking me if Mother Elizabeth Josephina were a good-looking woman; to which I was obliged to answer “No.” When I told him of the miracle of the bloodied handkerchief, he did not move an eyelid.

  “Remarkable!” he exclaimed, reflectively. “I think I will take Communion with you. A most interesting experience.”

  “Oh, no no, Grandpa,” I cried, aghast. “It would be a sin for you, a mortal sin. And first you would have to make your confession … tell Canon Roche all the bad things you have done in your whole life.”

  “That, Robert,” he said mildly, “ would be a lengthy interview.”

  Towards the end of July, the Reverend Mother had a mild indisposition and her place on the camp stool beside the syringa bush was taken by a young, fresh-cheeked nun, Sister Cecilia. She was a sweet and gentle person who taught us even more interestingly than Reverend Mother; her blue eyes grew remote and wistful when she spoke of Our Lord; and she did not frighten us with gruesome stories. She charmed me and I ran home to tell Grandpa the news.

  “We have a new teacher, Grandpa. She’s a young nun. And terribly pretty.”

  Grandpa did not immediately answer. He twisted his moustache with that gesture I knew so well. Then: “ It seems to me that I have been neglecting my duty, Robert. To-morrow I will take you to the class. I should like to meet your Sister Cecilia.”

  “But, Grandpa,” I said doubtfully, “I do not think gentlemen are allowed inside the convent.”

  He gave me his calm, confident smile, still twirling his moustaches: “We shall see.”

  True to his word, on the following afternoon Grandpa brushed himself thoroughly, shone his boots, set his hat sedately on his head, and taking his best bone-handled stick accompanied me to the convent, where, after some hesitation on the part of the young maidservant, who, however, was won over by my grandpa’s stately demeanour, we were shown to a reception parlour. Here Grandpa seated himself with his hat at his feet, very upright, like a pillar of the church. He, nodded to me once to indicate that the room had won his approval, that he was not insensitive to its atmosphere. Then he directed a chaste yet inquiring regard towards the blue-and-white statue of the Virgin, in a glass case upon the mantelpiece.

  When Sister Cecilia entered he rose and gave her his most distinguished bow.

  “I apologize for this intrusion, ma’am. You owe it to the fact that I am so deeply interested in the welfare,” he laid his hand benevolently upon the top of my head, “ of my young grandson here. My name is Alexander Gow.”

  “Yes, Mr. Gow,” Sister Cecilia murmured a trifle uncertainly: although the order was not enclosed, but a teaching one, she was scarcely accustomed to visitors of Grandpa’s calibre. “Won’t you sit down?”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Grandpa bowed again, waiting till Sister Cecilia had seated herself before reoccupying his chair. “I must first acknowledge, frankly and openly, that I am not of your persuasion. You are probably aware of the exceptional circumstances surrounding my little grandson here.” The hand on my head again. “You may not know that it was I who sent him to you.”

  “It does you credit, Mr. Gow.”

  Grandpa made a deprecating gesture, rather sad. “I wish I felt worthy of your congratulations. But alas, my motives, at least in the beginning, were those of reason, the cold reason of a citizen of the world. Yet, ma’am—or perhaps I may call you Sister?” He paused, while Sister Cecilia inclined her head with slight embarrassment. “Yet, Sister, ever since my little boy began coming here—particularly since you, Sister, took over the class—I have found myself touched … increasingly attracted to the beautiful and simple truths that have fallen from your lips.”

  Sister Cecilia blushed with gratification.

  “Of course,” Grandpa resumed, more sadly, yet in his most winning manner, “ my life has not been spotless. I have knocked about the world. My adventures …” Open-mouthed, I glanced at him, apprehensive that he might be on the verge of again bringing up the Zulus. But no, he did not. “ My adventures, Sister Cecilia, have brought me into the face of severe temptation, all the harder to resist when a poor devil—ah, forgive me!—when a poor wretch has no one to care for him. There is no more painful deprivation in the life of any man than the lack of the love of a good woman.” He sighed. “Can you wonder that now … one might have the impulse to come … in search of peace?”

  I could see Sister Cecilia was deeply moved. Her fresh cheeks were still flushed and her swimming eyes expressed a deep concern for Grandpa’s soul. Pressing her hands together, she murmured: “It’s very edifying. I’m sure, if you have a sincere desire for repentance, Canon Roche would be only too happy to help you.”

  Grandpa blew his nose; then shook his head with a regretful smile. “ The Canon is a fine man, exceptionally fine … but perhaps a trifle unsympathetic. No, I felt that if I might come, with Robert, to the class, to sit humbly there and listen …”

  A flutter of doubt troubled Sister Cecilia’s face, like a cloud upon a limpid pool. But she seemed anxious, beyond anything, not to discourage Grandpa or to hurt his feelings.

  “I’m afraid it might distract the children, Mr. Gow. However, there must be ways and means. I will certainly speak to Reverend Mother.”

  Grandpa gave her his most charming smile—yes, I repeat, despite his nose, it was an irresistibly charming smile. He rose and shook her hand, or rather sustained her fingers in his, as though he wished to stoop and reverently salute them. Though he restrained himself, Sister Cecilia’s colour remained high long after he had gone, and during instruction, while she told us the story of the Prodigal Son, her earnest eyes were moist.

  I found Grandpa waiting for me, walking up and down outside the convent, in the best of moods, swinging his stick and humming. On the way home he gave me a dissertation on the refining influences of good women, interspaced with hummings and sudden exclamations: “Delightful! Delightful!” I heard him with a certain anxiety: for in these last weeks I had come up against a fearful personal difficulty, to which I shall presently refer, on this very subject of women. Still, I was glad Sister Cecilia, and the prim, polished quiet of the convent parlour, had made such an excellent impression upon Grandpa.

  He tactfully allowed a week to elapse before his next visit, choosing a sunny day on which, as he remarked, “ the garden would be particularly lovely.” Already, he saw himself beside me on the lawn. He spruced himself more ca
refully than ever and spent a long time before his mirror, trimming his beard, as he sometimes did before calling on Mrs. Bosomley. Always partial to clean linen, he wore his best white shirt, which he had starched and ironed himself. He even tucked into his buttonhole a little sprig of forget-me-not, the bright vivacious blue of which exactly matched his eyes. Then, he took my hand, threw out his chest. We set out briskly for the convent.

  Alas! It was not Sister Cecilia who came to the little parlour, but Mother Elizabeth Josephina, more severe than ever, and only just recovering from jaundice. Grandpa’s face fell, his opening smile was chilled, nipped in the very bud, as quickly, brusquely, Reverend Mother sent me from the room, to take my place in the class upon the lawn.

  A moment later, seated on the grassy bank, I heard the sound of the front door—shut with a firm hand. Then, through the trees, I saw Grandpa descend the steps and go down the drive. Though I could scarcely distinguish at that distance, he seemed out of countenance, terribly taken-down. When, after a sharp, short instruction, Reverend Mother released us, he was not outside. Later that evening, I noticed he had removed his blue forget-me-not.

  Poor Grandpa! I worried that his repentance should be cut so short, but Corpus Christi, the last Thursday of the month, was not far off and I was now in a state of exaltation alternating between misery and bliss. Before I might taste the rapture of Communion I must undergo the ordeal of my first confession. Several times Canon Roche had taken our little class upon this subject, and though his manner was restrained, I began to perceive, dimly, the horrid pitfalls which nature had prepared for unsuspecting children. A vague recognition of the difference in the sexes was borne upon me. The word “ purity” was spoken gently, yet with resolution, by our pastor. Then, out of the mists, came the sudden realization of my sin. Oh, God, how I had sinned: the worst, the unforgivable sin. I could never, never tell it to the Canon.

  Yet I must. The damnation attaching to a “bad” confession was worse, even, than that resulting from a “ bad” Communion. With a sinking heart I saw that I must reveal my infamy.… Oh, the torture of knowing there was no escape!

  At last the day, the fatal hour approached. From beneath the stained-glass window of “ Our Lord Carrying His Cross” I staggered, in a sweat of anguished shame, into the dark confessional where Canon Roche awaited me. My bare knees sank beneath me, hitting the bare board with a hollow thud. I began to weep.

  “Father, Father, forgive me. I’m so wicked, so terribly ashamed.”

  “What is it, my dear child?” The gentle encouragement in the hidden austere voice increased my grief. “Did you say a bad word?”

  “No, Father, worse, far worse.”

  “What, child?”

  It came with a rush. “Oh, Father, I slept with my grandmother.”

  Did I hear a merry laugh behind that mysterious grille? Or was it merely the echo of my sobs?

  Chapter Twelve

  Corpus christi has come and the morning sky is grey, grey as the body of the dead Christ when they took Him from the Cross. I have spent a fitful night on my straw mattress in the kitchen closet: only snatches of rest wherein I dream that the living Christ Child is sleeping beside me, His beautiful head on my pillow, His soft cheek against mine. I awake with a start, hoping my dream is not a sin. Lately I have been tortured by scruples: was I guilty of “immodesty” while undressing? Did I gaze “impurely” at a crucifix, at the statue of Our Lady, at anything? With sealed eyes and lips I stumble over the earth’s surface, dreading the accident of sin. I am so desperately anxious to make, not just a “good,” but a perfect Communion, I have even fallen to the habit of seeking heavenly signs and portents. I say to myself, gazing towards the sky: “If I see a cloud which resembles Saint Joseph’s face I shall make a glorious Communion.” I squint upwards, compressing my eyeballs, striving to find a paternal profile, at least a beard, amongst the celestial vapours. Or I take three pebbles from the roadway, one for each person of the Blessed Trinity, and tell myself that if I hit the corner lamp-post once in three slugs, I am sure to communicate superbly. But, no! I desist quickly in fear of sacrilege.

  This morning, however, I am strangely at peace, and my thoughts are filled with love, with the secret wonder that I, amongst the people who surround me in this house, clamouring for breakfast, for hot water, for shoes to be brushed, for all the humdrum things of life—that I, alone, am chosen for the sweet and joyful honour of receiving in my breast the Son of God.

  Last night I washed my mouth out carefully; it is no trouble for me to forgo my breakfast. Is it possible that Mama is in Grandpa’s confidence? She does not press me to eat. Barelegged, I go upstairs and find Grandpa preparing to escort me to church: he is excited and would not dream of missing what he calls “the ceremony.” Though he takes the huff quickly, Grandpa does not long harbour a grudge, and he has completely got over his dismissal by Mother Elizabeth Josephina. It has been decided at the convent that I am too “big” for a white suit: a merciful judgment—the white shoes and stockings which I must wear have been hard enough to come by and it has fallen to my wonderful great-grandparent to provide them for me, how I do not know, for he has no money, and when I ask him he merely shrugs his shoulders, hinting that he has made a great sacrifice on my behalf. Later, a pawn ticket was discovered … for the blue vase in the parlour.

  But meanwhile, I put on the new shoes and stockings with pride. I go out with Grandpa and soon we are at the church. The High Altar is adorned with white lilies: beautiful and imposing to me as I sit in the front seat of all, beside Angelo, who wears a white sailor suit, and opposite the six little girls—one of whom, I notice with disgust, is giggling from nervousness beneath her white veil fastened with a chaplet of artificial white flowers. In the seats immediately behind us are the relatives of the First Communicants. Grandpa is there—next to Mr. and Mrs. Antonelli, near Angelo’s uncle and sister—interested and, I hope, not too disdainful, although he has done all the wrong things, failing to genuflect and to sign himself with holy water. Still, I am glad of him and I know he wishes to be helpful; I hear him stoop to pick up Mrs. Antonelli’s glove … or her prayer book.

  The sanctuary bell rings and the Mass begins. I follow it faithfully, reading my Preparation for Communion, but waiting, waiting only for that moment which will make this Mass different from all others, before, or after. How short the time is getting! I feel an inward tremor. Then the Domine non sum dignus. At last, at last! I strike my breast three times; then, with shaking knees, I rise and advance with Angelo and the others to the altar rails. I am conscious of the gaze of the congregation concentrated upon us, my poor head is whirling as I see Canon Roche advance, in his beautiful vestments, bearing the chalice, I try in vain to remember my Act of Adoration, I hope I will not make a fool of myself, I close my eyes and lift my head, opening my trembling lips as Reverend Mother has taught us, whispering in my heart a final prayer, simply the word: “ Jesus.”

  The Host surprises me, so large and dry upon my tongue, when I had expected a moist supernatural offering. In my dry mouth it is difficult to dispose of, to swallow; I am back in my place, flushed, my throbbing temples buried in my hands, before I accomplish this. Nothing has happened to me, no sensible flow of grace, no apparent transfiguration of my soul. A wave of disappointment crashes over me. Have I made a “bad”—No, no, I check my mind from stealing down that dreadful avenue and return passionately to my prayer book, where an act of thanksgiving soothes me. I lift my head, am reassured by Angelo’s tender sideways smile, by Grandpa’s cough behind me. A sense of proud achievement begins to pervade me. I join with the congregation in the Prayers after Mass.

  Outside the church, the sun was now shining and, after a smiling moment with the convent Sisters, I was seized upon, congratulated, shaken hands with, warmly embraced by Grandpa and the Antonellis. My remarkable relative was already bosom friends with the Italian family, which seemed delighted, nay, enchanted with him. He introduced me to Mr. and Mrs. Antonelli, thei
r grown-up daughter Clara, and to Angelo’s uncle, Vitaliano, who was about fifty, brown-faced, and with the quiet remoteness of the very deaf. Everyone smiled at me; and Mrs. Antonelli, a stoutish, dark-eyed lady with a swarthy fringe, tiny gold rings in her ears and a green velvet dress, beamed at me maternally, repeating: “Such a nice friend for our little Angelo.” Then Mr. Antonelli, who was also dark but shorter than his wife and turning bald, suddenly slapped his fist into his palm and directed towards Grandpa his large soulful eyes, which were exactly like Angelo’s except that they had pouches beneath them.

  “Meester Gow,” he exclaimed fervently yet humbly, “ am goin’ to ask you a favour. Da two boys are already good frien’s … If you’re nota too proud … come to breakfast.”

  Grandpa accepted on the spot. Mr. and Mrs. Antonelli were very pleased. We set off: Angelo and I walking in front, while Grandpa and the others followed behind.