by Neil Boyd
‘Look, lad,’ he said grimly, as if the balmy days of tame curates was over, ‘the darkness of the confessional guarantees them anonymity. Penitents do not want you to know who they are.’
‘Even though you boast you do.’
‘They think I don’t know, that is the point.’
‘I see,’ I said ironically, ‘you prefer them to talk not to a person but to the dark.’
‘They are not meant to be confessing to you, lad, but to our Blessed Lord.’
‘He heard confessions in a box, did He? Or just the children?’
‘Why are you at me throat today like a weasel?’ he complained. ‘Our Lord did not hear in a box but He was the Son of God. If we are to take His place in forgiving sins, ’tis essential we keep ourselves in the background.’
‘I suppose you’re right, Father,’ I said, continuing the vein of irony, ‘we mustn’t take children’s sins too seriously, must we?’
He nodded his head with annoyance. ‘There is something in that, too. We take the kiddies’ sins seriously enough to hear the confession of each and every one of them. But not so seriously that it worries ’em to death.’
He was parish priest not I. ‘All right, Father. Have it your way.’
‘’Tis not my way but the Church’s way.’
‘That’s consoling, isn’t it, Father? Saves us having to think for ourselves how to improve things.’
‘There is such a thing as tradition lad.’
‘Dead wood, Father. Dead wood.’
‘I will show you what tradition is, Father Neil. Look.’ He pointed through the window into the garden. ‘The silver birch tree. See the stake ’tis tied to?’
‘Yes.’
‘Dead wood, lad. ’Tis that piece of dead wood, as you call it, that makes the living tree grow straight and tall.’
‘How nice,’ I said, beginning to retaliate. ‘Did you ever hear the story, Father, of the boy who planted an acorn in his garden?’
‘I cannot say I ever did.’
He must have, really, because the image of the acorn germinating was a common one for the growth of faith.
‘Anyway, Father, this little boy planted his acorn and went away for fifty or sixty years.’
‘And?’ he asked, smiling pleasantly, convinced he knew the end of the story.
‘When he returned home after all that time, what did he find in his garden reaching up into the heavens but this enormous … acorn.’
He humphed and left the room.
A couple of hours later, I apologized.
‘Jasus,’ he said, ‘you are getting to be as bad as I was.’ ‘If that’s meant to be a compliment, Father, thanks a lot.’
He grinned. ‘So you will behave as a Catholic priest, after all.’
‘On one condition, that I don’t have to hear the confessions of all 35 kids in 35 minutes.’
He looked apprehensive again. ‘You can take a full hour, if you like.’
‘I want to take a week.’
‘I’m sure I beg your pardon.’
‘I will hear seven children a day during their religion lesson. That will give me at least five minutes with each one.’
‘’Twill be a massacre,’ he warned, ‘and you will make a cod of yourself.’
I told him I’d risk it.
He didn’t seem to be worrying unduly. ‘Only make sure you see they are good for saying their prayers to our Lady.’
I reminded him that I was an Englishman and England’s proud title was once, ‘Dowry of Mary’.
Not to be outdone, he told me that Irish was the only language in which there were two words for Mary. Maire, a girl’s name, and Muire, the name reserved for the Mother of God.
‘I must tell you the tale,’ he said, ‘of when Cromwell’s army took Cashel.’
‘Must you, Father? Carry on, then.’
‘A drunken soldier grabbed a statue of our Blessed Lady –’
I interrupted him. ‘I didn’t know the Puritans drank?’
‘This feller was mouldy drunk, anyway. He picked up a handful of food and stuffed it in the mouth of the Virgin, much to the amusement of his drunken comrades –’
‘Who also drank a lot.’
‘It seems so. And the soldier called out, “Now, now, Mary of Ireland” – a beautiful title, incidentally – “Mary of Ireland, let us see you eat peas.”’ He bit the inside of his cheek in grief at the blasphemy. ‘Mind you, Father Neil, it had a wonderful happy ending.’
‘The Puritan soldier became a Catholic.’
‘No, no, no. Better by far. A while after, a big brick fell off a roof on to his head.’
‘And killed him on the spot.’
He looked surprised. ‘You have heard it before?’
The sevens were in Miss Gregson’s class. She was a teacher of the old school. With her steel-rimmed spectacles, hair in a bun and generally well-laundered appearance, she was calculated to put the fear of God into God.
‘I have warned them, Father, that they must tell the priest in confession all their sins, especially the mortal.’
I had it from various sources that Miss Gregson had a fixation on mortal sin.
‘They know it’s a sacrilege to keep back a mortal sin in confession.’ She challenged the class to contradict her. ‘Don’t you, children?’
‘Yes, Miss,’ came back from thirty-five throats.
‘How is it a sacrilege, children?’ A forest of arms went up. Miss Gregson chose one at random. ‘Yes, Donald.’
‘Because, Miss, it’s telling a lie to the Holy Ghost in making a bad confession.’
‘Very good, Donald. Sit. A terrible sacrilege.’
It seemed to me that the sacrilege being committed was not the one Miss Gregson had in mind.
I explained to the children that I was intending to hear their confessions in a leisurely way. I wanted them to look on me not as their judge but as their friend and helper.
Then, in lighter mood, I told them a story once told me by my grandmother. A circus boy was making his first confession. Afterwards, he was so happy at having his sins forgiven that he went cartwheeling all round the church. The next child to confess said to the priest, ‘Father, please don’t give me cartwheels for a penance because I can’t do them.’
Not a flicker of amusement on any child’s face.
Miss Gregson thanked me coldly for my visit and I left the classroom in embarrassment, once again convinced that humour is not my strong suit.
At lunch, Fr Duddleswell asked how I was making out in preparations for the feast.
‘So-so.’
‘A grand crowd of kids, Father Neil. Only yesterday, I told ’em the story of a little circus lad making his first confession.’ He proceeded to relate the story I had just come a cropper with.
At the end, while blaspheming inwardly at his interference on my patch, I forced myself to titter. ‘Very funny, Father.’
‘That’s what the kiddies thought. Even Miss Gregson nearly died laughing.’
‘Pity,’ I said.
Preliminaries were complete. It was Monday morning and the first batch of seven children, unshepherded at my request, were waiting in church.
‘Pray, Father, give me your blessing for I have sinned.’
I gave my blessing.
‘This is my first confession and these are my sins. Have you told lies? Have you been greedy? Have you been cheeky to your mummy and daddy?’
‘Stop, please.’
‘Have you fighted with your brothers and sisters?’
‘Will you please stop.’
‘Is that enough, Father?’ the child said.
‘Quite enough, dear.’
‘Thank you, Father.’ And before I could say another word, the child had left unabsolved and another had taken his place.
So much for Miss Gregson’s method of teaching, I thought. My record so far, was one confession without absolution. I turned my attention to the second penitent.
‘I told lies,’ the child said in a pipin
g voice. ‘I was greedy. I was cheeky to my mummy and daddy.’
I groaned inwardly. Miss Gregson’s catalogue of sins again. ‘What did you say to your mummy, dear?’
The child seemed surprised at being interrupted before the list was complete. ‘Nothing, Father. I just shouted at her.’
‘Why?’
‘’Cos she shouted at me.’
I felt we were getting somewhere at last. ‘She must have had some reason for shouting at you.’
‘No, she just likes it. My dad says she experts at it.’
‘Does she?’
‘And she’s very good at crying, too. She says it helps pass the time.’ I let it go. ‘She smacked me, Father.’
‘What for, dear?’
‘For hiding, Father. But I knew where I was. And she smacked me for playing my favourite music.’
A chance of establishing some kind of human relationship with my tiny penitent kneeling alone in the dark.
‘What’s your favourite music, dear?’
‘Loud, Father.’
‘I see.’
‘Mummy smacked me too for not giving grandma a kiss but it was worth it.’
‘Do you live with your grandma?’
‘No, she lives with us. In her house, though.’
‘You surely love your grandma, dear.’
‘I don’t, Father.’
‘Have you brothers and sisters?’
‘Worse luck.’
‘I bet they love your grandma.’
‘They don’t. Nobody loves her.’
‘Why is that?’
‘I think it’s cos she keeps saying nobody loves her.’
‘Well,’ I said encouragingly, ‘I’m sure you are doing your best.’
‘No, I ain’t doing my best ‘cos I can’t.’
I felt that here at least was a child not given to lies.
‘This is a big day for you, dear. Your first confession. I want you to promise our Blessed Lord you will try to be a good boy.’
‘I can’t try, Father.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’m a girl, Father.’
That’s one mistake I wouldn’t have made, I thought as I gave her absolution, if I’d been allowed to hear confessions in my way.
‘Pray, Father, give me your blessing for I have sinned.’
A real croaky voice this girl had. Was it a girl? Yes, it definitely wasn’t a boy. I blessed her.
‘I told lies, Father. I didn’t say my prayers.’ The laundry list again, I was thinking. When: ‘I committed adultery twice, Father.’
I smiled at the echo from the past. I had dealt with this very ‘sin’ in my own first confession as a priest.
‘What did you do, dear, steal two pennies from mummy’s purse?’
‘No, Father.’
‘Well, then, dear, tell me exactly what you did.’
‘Er, Father, er, I got into his bed –’
Panic shot through me. ‘Wait. You do belong to Miss Gregson’s class?’
‘No, Father. I was doing my morning shopping and I popped in and when I saw the confessional was open –’
I heard out this housewife-intruder and sent her back to the shops.
‘This is my first confession, Father.’ The new penitent hesitated. ‘I’ve done the worst sin there is, Father.’
After the housewife, I could hardly wait to find out what it was. ‘Yes,’ I said encouragingly.
‘With my spaghetti.’
I feverishly racked my brain to find any sin in the book that sounded like ‘spaghetti’ but came up with nothing. Having given up, I said:
‘With spaghetti.’
The penitent confirmed that that was his sin.
‘What did you, um, do with your spaghetti?’
‘I cut it up with a knife, Father.’
I suspected there was far more to it than that. I said, ‘Is that a sin?’
‘My dad says it’s the worst sin he knows to turn good spaghetti into confetti.’
‘Is he Italian?’
‘No, Father, he comes from Sicily.’
‘Anything else?’
‘My mum, Father, gets sinful milk.’
‘Sinful milk?’
‘She’s not a Catholic, that’s why.’
I was intrigued by this and wondered if ‘milk’ was a euphemism in this child’s family for an alcoholic beverage, say, gin or whiskey. ‘What does sinful milk look like, son?’
‘It’s white, of course.’
‘Have you ever tasted it?’
‘I put it on my cornflakes.’
I could only think that the boy’s mother must have a habit of stealing milk. ‘What’s sinful about it, son?’
‘It’s stelirized.’
‘Sterilized.’
‘That’s right. And Miss Gregson said it’s a sin for Catholics to do with stelirized.’
The next penitent was a budding sadist.
‘When I went to the circus, Father, I saw this man walking on a piece of cotton, thousands of feet up.’
I waited for the sin.
‘And I prayed ’ard ’e’d fall off.’
‘That’s not nice, is it?’
‘Not for ’im, Father,’ my penitent chuckled, ‘but I thought it was a smacking good idea.’
‘God doesn’t answer prayers like that.’
‘’E did, Father. The bloke fell right orf.’
‘Did ’e? I mean, did he?’
‘Yeah. God don’t usually say yes to my prayers. I know ’E can but ’E don’t bother much.’
I felt it incumbent on me to correct this pagan view of God. ‘I’m sure the man did not fall off just because you prayed he would.’
‘You mean God would’ve knocked ‘im orf any’ ow?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘What, then?’
Rather than spend half an hour giving him an answer which neither of us would have understood, I distracted him with, ‘Was there a safety net?’
‘Yeah, a big one.’
‘There, you see,’ I crowed, ‘God is good, isn’t He?’
‘The bloke missed it, Father.’
Together we said the ‘Out of the Depths’ for the repose of his soul. Afterwards:
‘My dad punched my ear, Father. In church, Father. For talking. That was wrong, wa’n’t it?’
It was not my job as a confessor to arbitrate between father and son when they sinned against each other. ‘Why were you talking?’
‘I was bored. My dad says to me, “Billy boy, everybody’s bored in church. That’s why we go. But that’s no excuse for talking.” Then ’e punched my ear. Is that right, Father?’
‘Urn.’
‘Dad says it’s the best thing to be bored. Jesus was. Always bored ’E was but ’E didn’t care. If you get real bored like a stick of rock, dad says, God will love you a very lot.’
‘Uh huh.’
‘If you talk in church, people can’t be bored properly and they won’t feel they’ve been to church at all.’
This was such a novel rationale for churchgoing I stored it away in my mind for reflecting on in a quiet moment.
‘Anything else, son?’
‘My stone broke a winder. Is this okay for confession? Miss Gregson didn’t say.’ Before I could speak, he added, ‘But I didn’t shut it, did I? ’Is winder. Any’ow, Father, if Mr Ross didn’t want me to break ’is winder, ’e should ’ave put a notice up.’
‘Mr Ross?’
‘’E lives next door. ’E’s got cherry trees.’
I am almost as fond of cherry blossom as the Japanese. ‘Do you like cherry trees?’ I asked hopefully.
‘I think they’re the best invention God ever did.’
‘You like the pink and white blossom?’
‘Nah, the cherries, Father. Mr Ross is an ’orrible bloke. ’E won’t let us pinch ‘is cherries.’
‘Is that why you broke his window?’
‘I didn’t think of it. Nah, I was aiming for ’is c
herries.’
‘What would your father say if he knew?’
‘’E was there. ’E says if I ’it Mr Ross on the ’ead with a brick ’e’ll give me a tanner.’
When I dismissed the lad I asked him to tell the other children to calm down. They were beginning to make an appalling noise.
After I had gained the confidence of the next penitent, he said, ‘I know what sin looks like, Father.’
‘You do? Would you mind telling me?’
‘Like my brother.’
‘How does your brother look?’
‘Black and ugly.’
I smiled. ‘He can’t look as bad as that.’
‘Worser.’
‘But you love him all the same,’ I said optimistically. When the boy didn’t answer, I added, ‘Christians are supposed to love everyone. Even their brothers.’
‘If you loved everyone,’ the boy said, ‘you wouldn’t have any friends, would you?’
‘Well, son, ask our Blessed Lady to help you love your brother.’
‘Father,’ the penitent said confidingly, ‘when I kneel down by the side of my bed at night-time, my mum thinks I’m saying my prayers.’
Before I could stop myself, I asked, ‘And what are you doing?’
‘I’m really talking to God.’
I was glad of that.
The sixth penitent came in, noisy and breathless. After the preliminaries: ‘Damien’s a dirty rat, Father.’
‘Why, dear?’
‘After I shot him he pretended he wasn’t dead.’
‘I see.’
‘He always laughs at my jokes, though, cos I’m twice as big as him.’
‘Do you share things with Damien?’
‘I do when I ain’t got none.’
I was in the process of saying we should be kind and charitable always but the noise was so terrific outside the confessional, I opened the top half of my door and yelled, ‘Will you kids shut up!’
That was when I realized that the whole church was ablaze with light. Someone had lit a candle in every candle-holder. There must have been over a hundred burning.
I rushed out of my box and extinguished them, with my fingers until I scorched them, and then with my breath. The children thought this was more fun than a birthday party. One called out, ‘All in one puff, Father,’ and another, ‘I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down.’
When I was finished puffing I demanded to know, ‘Which joker did this?’
Johnny Steele put his hand up.
