The God Squad

by Doyle, Paddy

  I lay on the grass propped up with my hand under my chin and my elbow dug firmly into the ground. My eyes shifted in the direction of Miss Sharpe. I noticed her sandaled feet and as I looked up along her leg I could see where her stocking-top was gathered and held by a suspender. Her bare thigh was pure white in contrast with the tan colour of the stocking and the pale yellow colour of her knickers which were elasticated firmly higher up her leg. I wanted to tell one of the other boys but I decided against it, just in case he told on me. I watched for as long as I thought it was safe to, enjoying the sensations that rippled through my body. Something inside suggested that the pleasure I was getting from watching this lady was sinful, but that didn’t matter. The feeling of pleasure outweighed everything.

  Eventually I got up and went over to a part of the field where some of the boys had gathered. Our supervisor did not seem to mind. In a hole in a stone wall we could hear the buzzing of what we presumed to be a hive of bees or wasps, nobody knew the difference. I couldn’t resist the temptation to poke a long piece of stick into the hole. As I probed around the buzzing intensified and, too late, one of the boys warned me that they would emerge and sting the life out of us.

  The insects streamed from the hole and we all ran, pursued by them. Agitated wasps bent on revenge stung most of us, and as they did we screamed. My own face and legs were sore and I found it difficult to run as Miss Sharpe ushered us from the field, her headscarf tied tightly about her face.

  Curious villagers watched as we were walked back down the town, each of us holding a different part of our bodies.

  ‘What happened to the poor children?’ an old lady asked.

  ‘Wasps,’ Miss Sharpe replied acidly, ‘they got stung.’

  ‘Ah sure God help them.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Miss Sharpe said, ‘God help them.’

  One by one, stung and weeping we walked through the gates of St Michael’s. Hearing us, Mother Paul rushed out and demanded to know what all the commotion was about. Miss Sharpe told her what happened.

  ‘Well now,’ the nun intoned, ‘we all know that wasps and bees don’t sting for nothing, and we all know, don’t we, that some little devil has to disturb them? Is anyone going to own up?’ she said as she swung her pointed finger round the group of us. No-one spoke. She waited, then reminded us that it was not long since Jesus came to visit us.

  ‘It’s as well to be aware,’ she continued, ‘that He knows.’ She ordered us to the dispensary, saying that whatever pain or suffering we were enduring was entirely of our own making. We would have to put up with it until she was ready to attend to us.

  The dispensary was a small room where any cuts or grazes were dressed, usually with iodine and a big lump of cotton wool held in position with a piece of sticking plaster. It was a dark room, with many presses, all of which had glass doors. On the shelves inside, bottles of different colours and shapes were carefully labelled and fitted with cork stoppers. Cotton wool was wrapped in purple paper, its whiteness contrasting sharply with the colour of its wrapper. The air smelled heavily of disinfectant.

  As we sat and waited on the wooden benches I warned the others not to say a word. The doors were flung open and Mother Paul rushed in to attend to us. As she dabbed iodine onto the various stings she said she hoped that there was no-one telling lies. Nobody was. Nobody was saying anything. I felt a great sense of relief as I left the room, my stings had been anointed and I was not found out. As I walked down the short passage which would bring me to the school yard Mother Paul shouted after me to tell the other boys that they were to take off their communion clothes, fold them, and leave them ready for her to collect. I was glad to get out of the coarse wool suit as the rough hems on the trousers had scorched my legs, and the jacket felt heavy across my shoulders. Communion day was over.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Much of the time in St Michael’s was given to training us to be altar boys and to serve Mass in the local parish church. I often spent three or four hours a day learning the Latin responses. A small fat nun gave out the responses in a monotonous voice and made me repeat them. Another hour was set aside for the practice of the ritualistic movements necessary on the altar during Mass. I learned the foreign words without the least understanding of what they meant. I knelt, stood, bowed, joined my hands while the nun played the role of priest. I learned to move the large missal and brass stand from one side of the altar to the other at the right moment and at the right speed. Reverence for the blessed sacrament was everything. I was constantly reminded of the need to keep my hands clean and my hair combed. My hands would not just be carrying cruets of wine or a chalice full of white hosts. The wine would become the blood of Christ and the hosts his body. When I was not moving sacred items I had to kneel absolutely still, with my hands joined and my eyes fixed on the crucified Christ just over the tabernacle. Being an altar boy gave me a sense of importance. I loved it, loved the stillness of early morning in the town. The sun shone low in the eastern sky, slanting its way across dark slated roofs and onto the narrow streets of Cappoquin. As I started my walk the streets were silent except for the sound of my hobnailed boots click-clacking on the pavement. The neat rows of houses looked as though nobody lived in them, their curtains still drawn. As I neared the church, which was about ten minutes walk from the Industrial School, people opened their hall doors to check the weather or to sweep the dust from the pavement in front of their houses. Some greeted me, others didn’t say anything and I often felt that they were trying to avoid me. I used to hear people refer to me as ‘one of the children from the orphanage’, which was the phrase locals used to soften the brutal reality of the industrial school in their midst.

  The church was on a hill overlooking the town. It was surrounded by black railings that always had the appearance of being newly painted. Moist, glistening cobwebs had formed between the rails during the night and I loved to cup my hand and scoop them off, trying not to damage them as I did. I examined the cobwebs closely to see what had been trapped there. There were small flies and midges, dead or dying. Breakfast for a hungry spider was ruined many a time due to my clumsy efforts at replacing the web between the rails from which I had taken it. My attempts at delicacy could not match those of the original spinner of the beautiful silken webs.

  The sacristy was at the back of the church and the first thing I had to do on entering it was bless myself and then remove my heavy boots and replace them with soft plimsoll runners. My soutane and surplice were in a cupboard, ironed and starched, ready for me to wear. If there was time before or between Masses the sacristan would allow the altar boys out into the church yard for a game of handball, always stressing the importance of keeping clean and tidy. Playing with a ball in a snow white surplice was difficult, there was always the risk of getting it dirty from a hopping ball or a fall. If that happened an angry sacristan would forbid the serving of Mass. Since that was a risk I was not prepared to take I very seldom played handball.

  The priest robed for Mass, constantly praying as he put on each vestment. The amice, the alb, the cincture, the stole, and the chasuble, each with its own significance and its own prayer. If he wanted assistance it was always given to him. Some priests preferred to robe without help.

  I stood at the sacristy door looking into the darkened church slowly filling with morning worshippers. They genuflected in the centre of the church and then men and women went to their respective sides of the centre aisle. The women wore head scarves. The men took off their hats or caps as they entered the church. The sacristan put on some lights, the brown bakelite switches clicking loudly in the silence, then he struck a match and lit the white taper wick fitted to the top of a smooth dark brown wooden pole. Slowly and solemnly I walked out of the sacristy and ascended the red carpeted steps to light the three candles on either side of the altar. The congregation moved and even though I had my back to them, I could feel their eyes on me.

  In the sacristy the priest waited for the altar boys to lead him onto the a
ltar. His hands were joined tightly and his index fingers pressed hard against his well-shaven chin. His eyes were lowered and his head bowed. Priests, once vested, seldom spoke, and when they did it was usually to say that something was wrong.

  The congregation rose to its feet as every light was switched on, the brightest ones being over the altar. If it was an ‘Ordinary Mass’ there would be only two altar boys serving, and as I was normally on the right hand side of the priest, I would be more involved in the ritual than the other boy. I had to move the missal, ring the bells at the offertory and communion, sound the gong at the consecration and hold the paten under the chins of the people receiving communion. It was a role I thoroughly enjoyed. I always felt as though I was on a stage performing for an audience. I knew that there would be a nun from the school there, they always attended the Masses being served by any of ‘their children’.

  One morning, when Mass was over, I disrobed, taking great care about how I hung my soutane and surplice. Walking down the town I noticed Mother Paul ahead of me and deliberately slowed my pace so as not to catch up with her. Some people were polishing the brass fittings on their front doors, and as the day threatened to be hot and sunny, they covered their ‘scumbled’ or painted hall doors in colourful canvas sheets with holes for the bell, knocker and doorknob to protrude. I heard men and women comment on how the sun caused the paint to blister.

  As I neared St Michael’s, I noticed Mother Paul standing, beckoning me to hurry. I was gripped with fear as I quickened my step. Thoughts of what I could have done now ran through my mind. Once I had caught up with her, she told me to walk in front of her.

  ‘You were very good on the altar this morning. I am going to suggest to the sacristan that you be allowed to do more altar boy duties in future. You can be a very good child when you want to be.’

  I walked ahead, smiling to myself. It was the first time she had ever praised me for anything. I was just six and a half when I began serving Mass. The ease with which I mastered Latin was a topic of conversation among nuns and priests. Altar boys were highly regarded in the community. I was proud of myself and delighted in being referred to as the ‘little altar boy’.

  I was thin and often jeered at by other children. Those from the town were the worst offenders, referring to me as ‘a skinny little orphan’. The jeering hurt and I was often close to tears. That would have suited my tormentors but I was not prepared to give in to them.

  Sunday was my favourite day for serving. Flowers adorned the altar in brass vases and many more candles burned than for weekday Masses. The crowd was bigger and the organ droned constantly in the background. The sound of the choir singing filled the church and added to the pomp of the occasion. Instead of the usual black and white, the altar boys wore bright red soutanes and well-starched pure white surplices. The priest’s vestments were also more colourful than usual. A white chasuble with a golden cross embroidered on the back and the scripted letters I.H.S. in the centre.

  Before Mass, the priest spent a great deal of time going through the big red missal from which he would read. The chosen sections were marked, each with a different coloured ribbon. A final check through it and he nodded to the sacristan indicating that the book could be placed on the heavy brass stand and brought to the altar. He carried it and as he placed it on the right hand side of the altar he checked that all candles had been lit. On this religious stage everything had to be correct.

  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.