The God Squad (6 page)

Once I reached the altar there was tension and drama. There was the fear of forgetting a line, a response, the thought that a wine cruet might slip from my hand. My heart raced as I rang the bell to warn the congregation of the approaching consecration, that part of the Mass when white host and red wine became the body and blood of
Jesus Christ. Transubstantiation. The silence was palpable. I struck the brass domed gong firmly: Bong. Heads down. Bong. The white host held aloft as the bowed heads looked up momentarily, in adoration. Bong, eyes and heads lowered again. Now the priest prayed over the chalice of wine. Bong, he genuflected, Bong, each head rose and gave praise to the gold cup containing the blood of Jesus Christ. A final bong and the solemnity and tension of the Consecration gave way to a restless shifting of bodies, clearing of throats, and the distinctive sound of people blowing their noses.

Before the distribution of Communion two altar boys draped stiffly-starched cloths over the marble top of the altar rails. The bell sounded, indicating to people that it was time to approach the altar rails. Men and women left their seats on the different sides of the church and took their places on either side of the centre gate leading onto the altar. Men on the right, women on the left. I often carried the gold paten which I held under the chins of those receiving Communion, in case the host fell. As I walked carefully backwards with the priest, I couldn’t help noticing the various ways people offered their tongues to receive the host. The men seemed to be in a hurry and opened their mouths rapidly, unleashing their tongues on the white host like a lizard whipping up its prey. Their tongues were dirty, yellow tobacco-stained and rough in appearance. Women were much less hurried and more reverent in their approach. There was a sensuality about the way they parted their lips and put out their tongues. They usually left the altar rails slowly, walking on the toes of their shoes, so as not to break the silence with their stiletto heels. The men were heavy footed.

Hands joined, heads bowed, the entire congregation spent the next fifteen minutes in silent prayer, each
undoubtedly requesting a different favour from the Visitor now within their bodies.

Every weekday after serving Mass I had to call into the local post office to collect any letters or parcels there might be for the Industrial School. It was a quaint old building serving the townspeople as a newsagents, a hardware store and a confectioners. The exterior was painted dark green with the words ‘Oifig an Phoist’ beautifully written in gold lettering over the entrance. There was a gold harp at the beginning and end of the hand-painted sign. The window display consisted of some faded cigarette packets, magazines and newspapers, discoloured by the sun. The entrance was through a double-sided door, one side of which was always open. When the breadman came it was necessary to open both sides, or when the sacks of mail were very bulky. I had to wait as the postman and the shop owner sorted through the letters, stacking them according to the particular area of the town they were going to. Each batch was then put into sacks with the letters P&T imprinted on them in heavy black printing ink. The local postman became a particular friend to me. He was a small, chubby man, always smiling, chatting, or singing. Whenever he saw me he’d say, ‘How’s me man this morning then?’ before remarking to the other people in the shop that one day I would be the best postman the town had ever seen. When he asked me if I was going to be a postman when I grew up, I said I wasn’t. I was going to be a priest.

‘A priest, begob,’ he replied. ‘Well I suppose you could do worse.’

He used to take me by the hand and bring me over to the counter where the cakes were, eclairs with chocolate, tarts with jam seeping through their crusty sides, fairy cakes and currant buns.

‘What’ll ye have?’ he would ask.

After spending some time scanning the wooden trays I would normally settle for a currant cake covered in sugar. The postman paid for it and I’d sit down to eat it while he packed the bag that I was to carry. He told me not to leave a trace of it as he didn’t want ‘them nuns’ coming up the road after him.

‘I’ve nothing against nuns, son, I love them really, at a distance.’ He roared laughing.

I always felt uneasy sitting there eating cakes and I used to stuff them into my mouth as quickly as I could, afraid that some of the local people might mention to the nuns that they had seen me. There was no doubt in my mind as to what the consequences of that would be. The postman insisted that I carry the post like a ‘real postman’. ‘Over yer shoulder, that way it won’t feel so heavy.’ I did as he instructed and when I was ready to leave he’d clap his hands together before saying, ‘Right now, begob, you’re away with it.’

Instead of going back into the school I would have to go to the convent door and hand in the bag containing letters and parcels. It was a big oak door, with very ornate and well-maintained brass fittings. The bellpush was set into a circular brass disc with the words ‘press’ etched into its white convex-shaped button. I pressed it and waited. I heard the lock being opened and prepared to hand over the bag. The nun that took the post from me never spoke to me nor I to her. She closed the door and I walked the few yards further on to the grey gates leading into the yard of St Michael’s. As I crossed the yard I could hear the sound of mugs and plates being collected through the large open windows. After a few minutes silence the collective voices of the other children chanted grace after meals.

After delivering the post one Friday morning, I knocked on the kitchen door. A fat, small, wrinkled-faced nun opened it and glowered at me. I told her I had been answering Mass and that I had missed breakfast. My excuse was a good one. I would get my porridge, my dripping-covered bread and a mug of cocoa.

‘Wait,’ she snapped as she let the door slam. I stood, looking around the large grey dining room, for the first time noticing how big it really was. Everyone was gone, the tables were cleared. In the distance I could hear the other children playing. The kitchen door swung open and a tin plate of porridge was pushed into my hands.

‘Leave it at one of the tables and come back for cocoa and bread.’

I did as instructed. The porridge was cold and very lumpy, the bread greasy and the cocoa had a skin on its surface. As I ate, the sweating nun emerged from the kitchen carrying a brown bottle, from which she poured a thick dark liquid. She tossed a tablespoon of syrup of figs into my mouth.

‘Lick that spoon clean and swallow,’ she demanded. I hated the stuff and made no secret of that. I used to hold it in my mouth hoping the nun would go away so that I could spit it out. She stayed, watching, until my mouth was empty. Everyone got a spoonful of syrup of figs once a week. As I was washing my mug and plate she asked me to take a message up the town for her. She didn’t wait for an answer, just rushed back into the kitchen and emerged a few moments later carrying a canework basket, with a live chicken inside.

‘You know where the other convent is?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’ I hesitated before adding, ‘Mother.’ My eyes were riveted on the basket. She held it up for me to take from her and when I didn’t take it immediately she left it on the floor.
The top was held closed with two leather straps and buckles. The chicken poked its head out through a grille on one side. Then it began to flutter about, frightened. I lifted the basket, holding the grille section towards my legs, thus allowing the chicken to take a peck at me. I jumped, and quickly turned it the other way round.

‘Give that message to Mother Immaculate,’ she said.

I walked out of the dining hall, through the assembly hall into the yard where I was immediately surrounded by inquisitive children.

‘What’s in the basket? Where are you going?’ Some laughed at the difficulty I was having in holding the basket steady. It was heavy and I had to stop repeatedly in order to change it from one hand to the other.

The street near the school was quiet, and the houses on each side of it basked in the sun. At one of the houses two old men leaned over their half-door, both smoking pipes and wearing hats. They took it in turns to spit out onto the street or greet people going by. I had often heard the older boys talk about these men. They were brothers, known as the two Toms. Tom Dee and Tom Tee. I had heard more than once that they had a big hole in the floor just inside the door of their house and that one of their ‘tricks’ was to try and lure children in, so they would fall into it. Once dead, the children were fed to the greyhounds they kept in the backyard. I believed the story and shivered as I walked by, even though I was on the opposite side of the street. Out of the corner of my eye I watched, just in case one of them chased me.

An inquisitive dog sniffed at the basket. As he barked the bird became frightened and fluttered furiously. I was still terrified of dogs.

‘Go away,’ I said.

My heartbeat quickened and my breath became uneven
and hurried. I became very frightened. The barking dog attracted more dogs and as they followed me I began to run. They ran too, snapping at the chicken. I held the basket high in the air and screamed. Some of the dogs jumped, bared their teeth and growled viciously again. People rushed to their front doors, some said that none of the dogs would bite, others told me to stop running. One man tried to stop me by saying that it was the chicken they were after. Nothing they said eased my fear. I continued running.

Ahead of me I could see the green gate leading into the convent. When I reached it I grabbed the latch and quickly pushed the gate open. I kicked out at the dogs to get them away from me before banging the gate shut. I stood with my back to the wooden gate listening to the barking animals. I was perspiring heavily and as I looked at the basket now lying on the gravel path I began to cry uncontrollably, sobbing hysterically, fighting for each breath.

I badly needed to go to the toilet. I undid the braces holding the buttons at the back of my trousers. In this hunched position, I defecated on the gravel. There was never toilet paper supplied in the school, but out there in the open I instinctively wanted to wipe my backside and looked around for something I could use, there was nothing. I pulled my trousers back on and stuffed my shirt inside them before using my foot to shift some stones into a pile to cover the stool. Just as I was finishing off the gravel mound I heard footsteps coming towards me from around a bend on the walkway to the convent.

I grabbed the basket and took a quick glance at the pile of stones, pressed lightly on it with my foot, picked up the basket, and was just about to move off when a tall nun asked me what I was doing.

‘It’s a message for Mother Immaculate,’ I answered nervously.

‘I am Mother Immaculate,’ she said and reached out to take the basket. It was then she noticed the pile of stones.

‘What is this?’ she said, pointing. I told her about being chased by the dogs, that I was tired, and had sat down to play with the stones. Then she asked me to leave the basket down, before walking towards the heaped stones.

She kicked them. I watched as her shoe became embedded in the mixture of gravel and excrement. Her anger at me was obvious from the expression on her face.

‘You filthy dirty little pup,’ she said, ‘you will be severely punished for this.’

I tried to speak but she wouldn’t allow me to. I wanted to explain how frightened I had been, and how I couldn’t help doing what I had done, but she wouldn’t listen. I offered an apology but she ignored me.

She rushed over to a patch of grass and dragged her shoe back and forth through it trying to clean it. ‘You will pay for this, you dirty brat. As sure as there is a God in Heaven, you’ll pay for this.’ The idea of running did occur to me but I realized that such a move would make my situation worse. Mother Immaculate strode forward and grabbed me by the ear lobe.

‘If I had a dog’s lead I’d put it around your neck,’ she said, ‘because it’s only dogs that do what you have done.’

The basket remained on the ground as she opened the gate, and began walking me back down the town while holding me by the ear.

Inside St Michael’s I was pushed towards the part of the yard where Mother Paul was sitting.

‘What has the pup done now, Mother Immaculate?’ she enquired.

The two nuns discussed what had happened and I could
see Mother Paul become more and more annoyed. They both looked down at Mother Immaculate’s shoe and then at me. Mother Paul grabbed me as the other nun left.

‘Why didn’t you go to the toilet before you left?’ she asked.

‘Because I didn’t want to, Mother,’ I answered.

‘But you should have gone,’ she yelled, as she hit me across the face, ‘instead of behaving like a wild animal.’

I remained silent. I saw the cane slide down from under her sleeve and it swished across my legs.

‘That hurts,’ I shouted.

‘It will hurt a lot more I promise before I’m finished with you. You’re no better than a dog.’ She hit me with the cane again before ordering me to go to the dormitory and wait for her. As I walked away from her she shouted, ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, an altar boy. You’re a disgrace. And you better start walking properly or you’ll get more of this cane than you bargained for.’ Nothing had ever been said to me before about my manner of walking. I bowed my head and watched my feet. I could see nothing wrong, yet somehow I had become conscious of every step I was taking, and was aware that unless I changed the way I walked, Mother Paul would be even more severe in her punishment of me.