The moment I walked past my seat on the aisle I knew I was about to commit my first sin since my fake confession with Master Harvey. I had fabricated humdrum misdemeanors for this practice session: nothing that would incur the wrath of the headmaster. He made a formidable and unforgiving priest. I thought of the bamboo canes with which he doled out punishment in the classroom, and humbly played the part of the seven year old taking her religious coming of age seriously. Yet when I stepped out of the black cell and blinked in the dimly lit chapel, some force of mischief took over me.
The heavy mahogany door nudged closed behind me. Ahead of me and to my left were my five classmates, their contrite heads bowed, their mouths moving soundlessly in earnest prayer. Beyond the tangled brown hair of my best friend Eileen, the altar glittered and beckoned. I’d sat in mass so many times wondering how it would feel to tread the crimson carpet; clink the lid of the gold chalice and swirl the communion wine; stand at the marble pulpit to solemnly read from the gilt-edged book; swish my robes with lavish arm gestures. Master Harvey was safely encased in the confessional, a thick wall of wood between us. Here at last was my chance.
The soft click of patent leather shoes on the tiled floor quickened as my heartbeat did. By the time I reached Eileen, I’d reached my decision, and her gasp as I walked on past the front pew only served to encourage me. I broke into a run and leaped the step to the red platform, where I assumed the role of an energetic priest to my half-amused, half-horrified congregation of Primary Threes. I moved fast around the stage, brushing my hand on the cool marble of the altar as I lapped it, stopping to feel the girth of a candle holder as long as my arm and to trace the etched design on the dazzling tabernacle door. I darted to the pulpit and felt a delicious thrill as I flicked the pages of the New Testament.
Any sense of caution I’d held on to was now abandoned. Standing on tip-toes I could just about see the pale faces of my classmates and, not registering their concern, I reached for the microphone high above my right hand.
Why not get started on penance? “Our Father, who art in heaven,” I began, trying out a priestly baritone whilst unsuccessfully repressing the urge to giggle. The next line of the Lord’s Prayer stopped right at the back of my throat at Master Harvey’s bellow from the shadows. I’ve no idea what he said, but I understood the sentiment completely. The game was up.
My fall from Father to bold-girl-caught-red-handed was instant. I shuffled, mortified, to the back of the chapel and the fate that awaited me. I dared not look at the quivering mass of fury that was the headmaster. I stood beneath his bulk, studying the scuff-marks on my shoes. I sensed the retreat of my classmates in the shuffle of coats and made a move to join them. ‘Stop!’ barked the Master. “Have you forgotten you’re in the Lord’s house? Show some respect!”
His gigantic frame, in silhouette, blocked my path to the bright outside. I could detect his chin wobbling in anticipation of a further outrage. Trapped, the appropriate response, the key to my immediate survival, eluded me, until finally, at the point at which I thought I would die right there in the chapel, I saw Stephen genuflecting out of the corner of my eye. I almost tripped over myself in my haste to follow suit, and when I turned to the doorway was relieved to see the teacher’s great grey back pointed at me as he headed for the water font.
The whistle of a flexing bamboo cane filled my ears in the silence of the car journey back to school. Capable of reducing even the toughest boys in the school to tears, it’s viciousness in the Master’s hands was legendary. I wondered which would be worse: the biting sting of “six-of-the-best” or the shame of confessing my terrible sin to Canon Ward the following Saturday.
In the end, the bamboo stayed locked in the store cupboard. I got three exacting raps with the meter ruler in front of the entire school, siblings and all. Standing red-faced and red-handed, hot tears blurring my eyes, it dawned on me that the real dread was yet to come. I would have to tell my parents.
* * *
“Wait to you hear what Maeve did today!” crowed Susan. Dad stirred from his newspaper and pressed his fingers together in anticipation, whilst mum distractedly hovered at the sitting room door, keeping an eye on the cooker. Out came the tale, details spilled from my sisters like twin-track dominoes, converging at last into one incriminating flow of meaning. I looked up to meet Dad’s questioning stare, managed a quick nod, and examined the shoes again whilst praying for divine intervention.
I’m not sure which of them laughed first, but the sound to me was the drenching of the fires of hell. I smiled knowing that I’d skipped for a few fleeting moments in the shoes of a priest, and that it was nothing a few “Our Fathers” and “Hail Marys” couldn’t fix.
— Maeve Rafferty
