Looking Under Stones

by Joe O'Toole

  A month later, when the plants were healthily above ground and thriving, didn’t Pat come out one morning to find the goats once more gorging themselves on the fresh greens. There was nothing to do except wait for the inevitable. An hour later, he spied the red-faced PP, accompanied by his newly arrived and impressionable young curate, approaching the house. Pat ordered his entire family on their knees and began the rosary, a gesture of religious fervour which he surely believed would cushion the impact. He miscalculated. The fury of the priest exploded into a rant from the moment he reached the threshold. As well as giving vent to his righteous anger, he was, no doubt, intent on giving the young curate a lesson on how to deal with an offending parishioner. But he had miscalculated, too. His thundering interruption of the family at prayer was, in Pat’s eyes, sacrilegious. It also diminished Pat as master of his own house. He felt fearful, guilty and illused all at the same time. When the priest threatened, ‘I’ll turn yourself into one of those goats,’ it was too much for Pat. ‘Well, and if you do, by Christ ’tis I will sink my horns into the hasp of your arse,’ he exploded, his normally soft features wild and black with fury. There was a sharp intake of breath from the curate, and nervous sniggers from the younger family members, followed by a shocked, silent retreat by the parish priest.

  The Foleys of Inch were always a solid crowd, fair play to them!

  A short time later, Father Lyne was transferred to Dingle and promoted to the rank of canon.

  Being an altar boy was a notable progression in our stages of development. The first test was to be able to recite the Latin responses to the Mass: Introibo ad altare Dei – Ad Deum qui latificat juventutem meam, (I will go to the altar of God – To God who gives joy to my youth). The beautiful sound of the Latin mantra merged with the ceremonies and pageantry of the Church. We sang it out with gusto. The significance of office and the authority of those inside the sanctuary became apparent to every altar boy as soon as he pulled the starched white surplice over the long black soutane with its million buttons. People looked at us somewhat differently. The Church was where the power resided; we were part of it and we felt important.

  And even among the altar servers there was a clear hierarchy. Four was a full complement for serving Mass. The number one boy served ‘right’, that is to say he knelt immediately on the priest’s right-hand side. He was responsible for all the important aspects of the server’s role, including the moving of the Mass book across the altar from the Epistle to the Gospel side, and, most importantly of all, the striking of the bell or gong with the drumstick. The second altar boy was his sidekick for the bringing up of the wine and water and also at the symbolic washing of the priest’s hands. Altar boy number four had an inactive, non-starring role. But altar boy number three got to meet the people. He accompanied the priest during the distribution of communion, holding the shiny gold plate under the chin of communicants as they humbly closed their eyes and opened their mouths wide for the reception of the host. It gave an extraordinary perspective on the condition of people’s mouths and throats and certainly dampened any enthusiasm for a career in dentistry. Not that that sort of thing crossed our minds as we sought to ensure that any minuscule piece of host which might drop from the priest’s fingers would be saved by the plate, because if even the tiniest bit fell to the floor and was trodden on, it would be as if Jesus himself were trampled underfoot. And we watched that no piece of host touched the recipient’s teeth, which, we had been assured, would have the same effect as biting into the body of Christ. We were worriers, we were.

  There was always a lot of manoeuvring about getting chosen to serve at weddings and funerals. There was money to be had, in the form of tips, so there was usually an enthusiastic group of volunteers available.

  There was one, almost secret ceremony that as an altar boy I always found curiously uncomfortable. It normally took place on a quiet mid-week morning. As soon as the small congregation had left, a lone woman would, by arrangement, silently approach and kneel at the altar rail in front of the side altar, close to the sacristy. One of us, carrying the holy water, would accompany the priest out to the woman. There he would perform some type of elaborate blessing. The woman would never say a word; there would be no eye contact, no warmth of communication. There appeared to be embarrassment on the part of the woman and almost irritation on the part of the priest that his breakfast was being delayed. Certainly I invariably felt relief when it concluded. It was probably the only ceremony that took place in the open church without congregation or celebration. There was something diminishing and demeaning about the whole procedure that defied the articulation abilities of my young mind. Because I knew it was to do with babies being born, I was smart enough to know not to ask. And nobody told me. It was, of course, the ceremony of ‘churching’ – a cleansing blessing which apparently re-consecrated the bodies of women who had recently been ‘defiled’ by having given birth to a child. My mother, to her great credit and no doubt at some worry to herself, refused ever to be churched and in later life explained to me how she believed it was a horrible, humiliating and ugly experience for any mother. She was right. It does seem inexplicable that a woman who had carried her child for nine months, given birth and nursed new life, in effect engaging in the most sacred and valued of experiences for the good of all, should then require cleansing and blessing. No doubt the initial sexual catalyst to conception was the church’s problem. I always thought that artificial insemination would have been very popular with the priests. ‘Churching’ does not appear to happen anymore.

  May, ‘the month of Mary’, was a time of special religious observance: May altars in the home, decorated with bluebells and other seasonal flowers, processions at school, and the service of Benediction every evening in the church. This was an impressive production. Truly a son et lumière, with light, sound, flame and smoke. It was our job as altar boys to prepare the props. We would light the little disc of charcoal and place it in the thurible, an ornate silver vessel with openings to let the air through. The lower end of the thurible was half a spherical pot and was connected to its high, conical cover by a complicated system of chains, which could be used to open and close it. The altar boy swung the thurible to create a draft and so keep the charcoal burning. The smoke wafted out through the openings and drifted through the church. During the Benediction, the priest added incense to the burning charcoal as part of the ceremony. Then the smoke would billow out and spread through the church, carrying with it the pungent perfume of the incense. The building vibrated as the huge organ bellowed the Tantum Ergo. The choir sang wholeheartedly and the priest faced the congregation from the top step of the altar, holding up the monstrance in which was displayed the white, circular host of bread, now the body of Christ. The people bowed their heads in reverence. Even the hard men at the back of the church went down on one knee, some of them using their caps to save their kneecaps from the cold floor. Within minutes they would have bolted out of the church and across the road, to stand sheltered from the wind – polishing Dick Mac’s gable-end – while they commented on the ‘talent’ emerging from the church.

  ‘Jaysus, I wouldn’t mind her. Was anyone there yet?’

  ‘Ne’er a one. There she is, walking around like she owns the place, a fine thing and the bonnet never even lifted on her yet.’

  The comfort of being one of the lads, the shelter of the gable and the safety in numbers brought out all the cant phrases. The church was the social centre of the community and the place most certain of seeing someone. For eager adolescents, dying to see and be seen, it was a godsend. The routines were well established. Closeness with the opposite sex, without the risks of having to engage in conversation or the danger of gauche interaction, made it very attractive. When we felt overwhelmed by shyness, it was easily disguised as snootiness. When we felt unable to make or hold eye contact, there was usually the option of an angelic uplifting of gaze, or even entranced absorption in religious fervour. Many first fantasies were lived out w
hile sneaking a look at the current object of boyish and impotent lustful thoughts across the middle aisle between the Consecration and the Last Gospel. In those days we used to have a second gospel at every Mass. It was the Gospel of St John, said at the end of Mass.

  The church was central to everything. It charted our lives and provided both a frame and a focus for all our activities. The clergy were there at birth with the water and flame of baptism, they were in at the death with candle, oil and holy water, and they missed very little in between. All the important moments of life centred around the church. First Communion, Confirmation, weddings and funerals – there was no escape from the religious. They completely hijacked all our celebrations as well, making Christmas and Easter their own. In case they might be forgotten, they would also be there to bless the new house, factory, or football pitch. And just to make doubly sure, there was the constant visitation to the schools, the Men’s Confraternity and the Women’s Sodality, the annual mission and the procession on the feast of Corpus Christi in June.

  The superstitious nature of fishermen was well exploited at the annual Blessing of the Boats on 29 June, the feast day of those biblical fishermen, St Peter and St Paul. The whole fleet, cleaned, decorated and bedecked with bunting, cruised from the pier, loaded with townspeople. We always tried to get on the Ros Dubh, Paddy Bawn’s boat. The flotilla headed out beyond the harbour’s mouth, out near the Crow Rock, where they all formed into a mighty circle. The canon would intone the Rosary from the deck of the flagship boat, the Elsie Mable. His words were carried across the open water by the ships’ two-way radios, all tuned in to the same channel and turned up full volume. As the boats rolled in the swell, the occupants dropped to their knees and dutifully answered the five decades. In Dingle, the priests made certain that we knew that God was everywhere.

  The missioners were great men for the parables. They had a clear understanding of the strength of stories to sell the message. The stories were impactful and often unforgettable. Many of them were variations of the maxim of ‘do unto others as you would they would do unto you’. With the experience of life, it is now clear that many of the guiding principles of Christianity as expounded by these men of the ‘one, true Church’ were echoed in other religions. The Buddhist view, that ‘what comes around goes around’, is not that different.

  There was a mission priest from the Passionist Order who made a great and fiery impression. One day at the children’s mission, when it had been well signalled that the homily would be about sex, or at least impure thoughts and actions, he started into a story about three soldiers trying to find their way back from the battlefront in Northern France towards the end of the war. They were in high spirits, happy to be away from bombs, bullets and death. They had taken drink. It was unlikely that they would ever have to return to fighting. Everything was fine. As they were walking along, arguing their relative merits as marksmen, they saw a grotto of Calvary away in the distance. Christ on the crucifix was clearly visible. The corporal claimed that he could shoot the statue through the heart, though it was a long distance away. We in the body of Dingle church were taken aback that such a thing could be suggested, even in a story. We shifted uncomfortably. Back on the green fields of France the argument progressed to the point where the corporal became determined to prove his prowess. He unhitched his rifle and, despite the objections of the young private, took aim and fired. The breastbone of the statue shattered. The second soldier felt obliged to do as well, but not being quite so accurate, managed to hit Christ on the leg. The young private, lacking the moral courage to say ‘no’, took careful aim at Christ’s hand and hit the little finger.

  Honour satisfied, the corporal led his little group onwards with swaggering bravado. He had barely travelled a quarter of a mile when he trod on a landmine. He was killed instantly and his shattered and broken body blown to a million pieces. The second soldier, following immediately behind, had been sheltered from most of the force of the blast. He was thrown to the ground, alive, but with his leg missing from the knee down. The young private escaped the blast, but was hit in the hand by a piece of flying debris, which took off the top of his little finger. The preacher could not resist a self-satisfied, triumphant smile as he let the moral of the story sink in. He needed no further emphasis. We were appalled. Statues would be safe from us. We understood now the power of God; it was better to be on his side.

  There were very few Protestants in Dingle. Those that there were tended to have more novelty value than anything else. Certainly no animosity was expressed towards them and generally they were popular among the community. Teresa, in fairness to her, always felt the need to remark about any Protestants mentioned in conversation, ‘They’re a lovely family.’ Nonetheless, they were clearly different from us. After all, as the Christian Brothers never tired of reminding us, they were not part of the ‘One, True, Catholic and Apostolic Church’ and of course we knew that the Blessed Virgin Mary should never be mentioned in their hearing, because Protestants did not acknowledge her. In point of fact, it was a serious error to ever raise or argue matters of Catholic faith or dogma with non-Catholics in case our beliefs would be threatened, particularly before we became effective Soldiers of Christ through the sacrament of Confirmation. We also believed it was a sin even to enter a Protestant church.

  One visiting missionary warned us to be very careful if we ever found ourselves sitting alone on a train and some friendly stranger sat down beside us and started talking about religion. We were to leave immediately. For months afterwards I had this image of armies of stalking proselytisers, stealthily creeping up on unsuspecting young people, while criss-crossing the country on the trains of Ireland, and trying to trick them into talking about religion. It was a foolproof system. Once we knew that every stranger who raised a point of belief was the enemy, and that under no circumstances should we discuss beliefs or religion with strangers, then we were locked in. Proofed against proselytisation. Total consolidation.

  JIMMY TERRY’S STALLION

  Ah yes, the sex bit.

  The Christian Brothers made valiant but restrained attempts to make us aware of the more basic elements of procreation. Such information was, by well-established precedent, greeted with embarrassed sniggers. There was very little new in what we heard, though I do recall sharing the amazement and surprise of others at the notion that the baby emerged from the front, rather than from the back, of the mother.

  ‘I mean, how would it fit?’

  They also gave us the amazing piece of information that sometimes the energy of blossoming manhood burst loose during sleep and that we should not worry about finding its damp presence when we awoke. It was only a sin if we gave it a helping hand. My mother gave various bits of information which, when pieced together and collated with the fact that I saw her go through four pregnancies, increased my store of knowledge on the subject.

  Books were also used. The Brothers gave us a booklet called Courtesy for Boys and Girls; it was mighty in the way it explained about holding doors open for the ‘weaker sex’ and the order in which one used the cutlery on a fully laid table. It dealt with vexed questions, such as whether or not a young gentleman should remove his white gloves when handing a female partner on to the dance floor, but it never really addressed the hormonal issues.

  Right through primary school there were the lewd, crude and vulgar jokes, which always received a great guffaw of laughter and knowing approval, even from those of us who did not quite get the joke. And were we quick on the uptake? Well, judge for yourselves. We were in our early teens when we found out, through reliable sources, that syphilis and gonorrhoea could be contracted from dirty toilet seats. We were a fair bit older before we discovered this to be untrue.

  My uncle Thomas, who was a Christian Brother himself, gave me, with Teresa’s approval, a copy of Neville Shute’s A Town like Alice. This was a significant development in that the main protagonists, Joe Harman and Jean Paget, got their clothes off and had sweaty body contact u
nder the hot Australian sun. It contained daring words like ‘breast’, and although there was no graphic language, there was plenty of descriptive stuff and enough pointers. It was a great story too, and well told. There was the first meeting, then the meeting of minds and the growing closer, the inevitable separation, the realisation of love; the anxious search around the world for each other, the climactic meeting and the consummation.

  This was sex in the context of love: natural, healthy and heroic. Here was a presentation of sex well beyond the schoolboy vulgarity. A catalyst to thought. The learning process continued.

  But we still chased girls up the barrack height and didn’t know quite what to do when they let us catch up with them. Oh yes, and we played ‘You show me yours’ over in the Grove.

  The fact of living so close to farms and farm animals, however, was probably the most instructive of all. While there was never a ‘birds and bees’ lecture, there were many who had a bit part in putting together a picture for our sex education. It was all age-appropriate too, because in many cases the information was prompted by our own childish questions.

  ‘Why are all those dogs trying to get into Spillanes?’