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A Choice of Gods
They should have told us things, my parents. They told us nothing. Nothing, that is, about different religions or faiths. Most, if not all, of the people who lived in our street were Protestants. Or, as my parents referred to them, 'Non-Catholics'.
I couldn't make head nor tail of it. I knew that Catholics were the good ones because it was drummed into me at home, at school and in church. Yet all the gang apart from James and me were Protestants and they were our mates. It was crazy. Christ, we almost lived in church and the priest was a regular visitor to our house. Not, as you might think, to help a bombed out family, but to collect money for the church. Who the hell was 'the church' anyway? I'll tell you. The church was a building called Saint Richard's which the men of the parish built themselves, in their spare time. Into which they sent their wives and children to pray for the energy to earn money to give to the church. It was a place where we were taught what to think, what to believe and what to do. It was a place where all the local Catholics behaved differently and where the dominant Irish culture was passed on to us first-born English kids. It was a place where James would faint with regularity at ten o'clock mass. I would help get him out and head for the park across the road, where he would always make a remarkable recovery. Church was a place, then, where my brother's breathing and my thinking processes would be stifled by overcrowding and dogma. I hated Sundays for it meant at least two visits to the church. After lunch - the only good thing about Sundays - we, that is James and me, would be sent to Benediction. The church would be less packed for this and I have to confess that I often thoroughly enjoyed the service, especially the singing. Singing in Latin had its own special magic which I imagined could make brothers and sisters of the whole world. Absolute unity was singing in Latin.
The usual Sunday routine, after lunch, was for all the kids to play in the street. After an hour or so mothers would appear at their doors, call their kids in and then send them off to church. For James and me it was Benediction but sadly for our mates it was Sunday School. Can you imagine having to go to school on a Sunday? I genuinely felt sorry for them and would often express this quite openly as we went our separate ways at the corner of the street. So concerned did I become about this regular separation from our friends that I voiced it to James as we headed for Benediction. I was delighted that he shared my concern and we decided that the thing to do the following Sunday was to invite them to our church. We might, we considered, even convert them. We convinced each other that our friends would need only a hint of an invitation to come to a proper church instead of having to go to school and they'd jump at the chance. Once there, they would discover that being a 'Non-Catholic' was a serious mistake. It wasn't their fault really. It was their parents who were obviously to blame.
The usual game of kick the can was in progress the following Sunday when my mother appeared at our front door.
'James. Richard. Church.'
Other mothers appeared and repeated the same thing but they said, 'Sunday School.'
Before long we were at the corner of the street ready to say our usual farewells. I looked at James hoping he would take the lead. Well, he was older than me. He did.
'Why don't you come to ours instead?'
They looked at us in what seemed utter amazement, then at each other in turn. No doubt their stunned silence represented their gratitude at this truly generous and remarkable offer.
'What happens?' said a curious voice.
James and I hesitated. What a pathetic question! 'What do you mean, what happens?' I asked seriously.
'You know, what do you do?'
James took charge. He painted for them what I considered to be a beautiful picture of Benediction. He described the Stations of the Cross with solemn reverence. This would clinch it I thought.
'We have tea and cakes and things...' said Billy.
'Yea,' said another.
'Tea? At church?' I mocked. 'And cakes!'
James became curious and I feared for his soul as he asked, 'What ... do you ... do?'
I said nothing, but was just as keen to hear the answer. 'You know. Sit around and talk about God and things, then have tea.'
'And cakes,' reminded Eric.
'And lemonade... sometimes,' said David.
They now had our full attention. Seeing this they kept up the talk of tea, cakes and lemonade.
'Why don't you come to ours?' suggested Billy.
His suggestion was followed by a chorus of approval. It was a great idea, they thought, and anyway we were all in the same gang.
'And we won't say nothing to no one,' said Colin.
It struck me that this needed checking out, just to see what it was like. The tea, cakes and lemonade, I convinced myself, were nothing more than curious features. I wasn't sure what was going on in James's mind and looked at him with silent questions. This indicated to the gang that if James agreed then I would go along with things. They switched their attention to him. His token fight was superb. He agreed but on the pretext that it seemed fair to check their church out before they all came to ours. They accepted. It was marvellous - once again we were a complete gang. As we made our way noisily to their church James whispered to me, 'Cakes?'
'And sometimes lemonade,' I replied.
We quickly agreed that neither of us would say a word about this to our parents. They wouldn't understand our plan to convert the gang to the proper faith.
At their church it soon became apparent that these 'Non-Catholics' had not the slightest idea how to worship God. Their church, for a start, was nothing more than a church hall. There was no altar and people were moving about. There was no priest, no candles, no incense. I felt very sorry for them and began to feel terribly guilty for not having got the gang to go to a proper church. I almost choked on the tea and cakes afterwards. There was no lemonade. On the way back home we spoke of the differences between their church and ours. Then one boy said something magical, 'I wish there was no such thing as Proddies and Catlicks.'
This comment gained much approval and caused a moment's silence. We were still in that silence when we turned the corner of the street and saw my mother. She saw us and turned back into the house. We'd been sussed. You see, Benediction didn't usually end until after Sunday School and besides, we came home from a different direction. James took in a gasp of air which he then skilfully exhaled as a whistle. I whistled too. The gang knew we'd been sussed and joined in.
'Where, in the name of God, do you think you've been?' my mother demanded when we arrived home.
We were perfectly aware that she already knew the answer to the question and said nothing. What was there to say?
'Your mother asked you a question. Now answer it,' my father said between gritted teeth.
We said nothing.
'You've been to the Bankhall Mission haven't you?' said my mother with disbelief.
As we nodded my father began to raise himself up from his chair and remove his belt. In an attempt to put off the inevitable my mother slapped both our faces and told us to get to bed and 'stay away from those Non-Catholics in future'.
'Have you any bloody idea what you've done?' my father demanded to know. 'We'll be the laughing stock of the whole street.'
We froze to the spot and as always tried to become invisible. But experience informed us that we would simply have to take what would surely come. We knew too that we had committed the most serious of offences. There was no getting away from that. My mother's diversionary attempt to get us away from my father was a good attempt but I realised it was no more than that.
'Who's first?' my father wanted to know.
Neither James or I volunteered, which my father turned into a kind of sadistic game. He selected James and took his vengeful belt to my brother's helpless body. I felt each stroke as they landed upon him. Fortunately the punishment didn't last long and James was ordered to bed. He quickly went. I judged that this punishment was somehow justified and it wasn't that severe. I could handle it easy. I would make no effort to transcend the pain by escaping into my inner world. I would take the punishment for I'd surely earned it. I allowed myself to cry and that seemed to please him.
My mother kept us indoors for two weeks away from the bad influence of Non-Catholics. I was heartbroken. Keeping us away from the gang was the greatest punishment and we'd already been punished once. It wasn't fair but then adults are rarely fair to kids, are they? Keeping us away from our friends was torture as was keeping us within striking range of my father. He made the most of the opportunity presented to him.
Not only was my father skilful at making the most of opportunities, he also created them. The one and only time I was ever to be alone with him in my whole life was when I was ten years old. My mother had gone to visit her mother and had taken James with her so that he could run errands. I was left alone in the house and was scared stiff. I tried my becoming invisible trick but that seemed to act as a signal to my father.
'Make me some tea,' he ordered.
I knew it. I just knew it. Whatever I did I was bound to get wrong and he'd punish me. But I didn't get it wrong. I made him a cup of tea exactly the way he liked it and took it to him proudly.
'It's too full. Empty some of it out.'
I knew it. Damn it. I just knew it. When I returned he took the cup from me without saying a word. I was safe. He took a flask from his pocket and filled the cup up with whisky. I'd not seen him do this before and thought it quite disgusting. I'd seen the flask many times before though. He drank from it often and always in a manner which told me that I wasn't supposed to notice. I hated that flask and all that it meant.
'What are you looking at?'
I said nothing and headed for the kitchen to busy myself with cleaning. That would keep him, off my back at least.
'Come here you cheeky little bugger.'
The same old thing. Beer - whisky - violence. I went to him and was dragged across his knee. What the hell, I could take it. He pulled my trousers down and smacked my bare backside. As he slapped he told me that I had to learn. Learn? What? The only thing I was learning was to hate him more than ever before. He slapped on and on and I heard my inner voice calling me inwards. Calling me to beauty and safety. I followed the voice and went with it. Suddenly I realised that the beating had stopped. I attempted to get up and was instantly slapped again. He kept me there a long time and each time I attempted to move he slapped me some more. It was weird. It had never been like this before. I began to feel quite sick. Then he said, 'Go and get the butter dish.'
I was as confused as anything and as I climbed off his knee I looked at him questioningly.
'You heard! Get me the butter dish.'
As I pulled up my trousers and they touched my backside I discovered that my bottom was raw. I tried to pull my bottom away from the cloth.
'Take them off.'
'It's okay, I, er...'
'Take them off. Do you want another slap?'
I didn't much care about anything. It was five years since he'd humiliated me by ripping my clothes off and now he was humiliating me by making me be the one to take them off. I took them off, went to the kitchen and brought back the butter dish. What on earth he wanted with it I had no idea, but the sooner I brought it the sooner I could regain my trousers and my pride. He took the dish and ordered me across his knee. The twister might be going to hit me again but he sure as hell wasn't going to make me cry. Not ever again. My inner voice called me again and I tried for all I was worth to follow it but couldn't. Jesus Christ! He was rubbing the butter into my backside. What in the name of God was he doing? He spoke gently to me for the first time in his life. I became scared as hell.
'You have to learn to do as you're told when you're told. You're not a bad boy.'
I was near to screaming out my confusion. My hate and my need for his love were all mixed up. I liked and hated his new touch. His hands became those of a nurse - caring and loving. But why then did I feel so much hate? As suddenly as he'd begun this weird touching he stopped, telling me to get dressed and go out and play. I was gone like a bullet from a gun and as I went I decided that never again would I be alone with him. Never again. I couldn't figure out why he hadn't sent me to bed. He always sent me to bed after a beating. This time he'd told to go out and play. Weird.
As I made my way to nowhere I heard myself telling myself that these weren't my real parents. My real parents were looking for me at this very moment and would find me soon.
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