Read Online A Whisper to the Living by Ruth Hamilton - Free Book Online

know, Annie, once you’ve made your Communion, you’ll have to come to the Mass every Sunday or ‘twill be a mortal sin?’
    I nodded. This was familiar territory; we were back to the immortal soul business again.
    ‘And you must come regularly to Confession to prepare yourself for the Blessed Sacrament.’
    ‘Yes, Father.’ He patted my head once more.
    ‘Is your Mammy a Catholic then, Annie?’
    ‘I think so, Father.’
    ‘And your Daddy?’
    ‘I haven’t got one, he was killed in Italy when I was four.’
    The priest took a step away from me, a puzzled expression appearing on his wide face. ‘Ah well, ’tis sorry I am to be hearing that, child. But tell me now, is there not a man living at your house just now?’
    ‘Yes, Father. Eddie Higson.’
    Father Cavanagh glanced quickly at Miss O’Gara. ‘Is he your stepdaddy then, Annie?’ he enquired of me.
    ‘No. He is not my stepdaddy, Father.’
    Father Cavanagh removed his biretta and passed a fat hand over his bald pate. Miss O’Gara stepped forward and whispered something into the priest’s ear.
    I heard his sigh of relief before he spoke. ‘Ah. So they are married. Well thanks be to God for that at any rate. Now, Annie. If your Mammy has married Mr . . . Mr Higson, then he is now your stepfather both in the eyes of the law and by the rules of your faith. Are you understanding me?’
    This I would not pretend to accept. It was bad enough having him pat me on the head all the time and listening to his stupid questions, but this was going too far.
    ‘No. He is not my stepfather,’ I said quietly. ‘My Daddy was my father and I don’t want a stepfather.’
    Father Cavanagh tutted his dismay, then shaking a finger at me he said, ‘You know your Commandments, do you not?’
    ‘Yes Father.’
    ‘And is not the fourth “honour thy father and thy mother”?’
    ‘Yes, Father.’
    ‘Then surely you must honour Mr Higson, for he is looking after you as a father would, caring for you, is he not? It will be a mortal sin for you not to honour your stepfather, Annie.’
    My stomach turned over. Whatever I did, wherever I went, there were adults tying me in knots, confusing me to the point of madness. And the worst offenders were these priests and nuns with their laws about this and that, telling me what I must think, what I must believe, how I must act – even who I must be.
    But I kept cool, nodding my assent. My lips had formed no lie, but that nod, with its mute falsehood, laid yet another stain on my immortal soul which was by now, I felt sure, so pitted with black holes that it might have been used to drain cabbage.
    I took my place next to Josie Cullen who was eight and nearly as tall as I was. We did not sit together by choice, but simply because we were both on the same page of the sum book and sum books were always one between two. Yet in spite of the fact that our proximity to each other had been forced upon us, we were fast becoming friends.
    Josie and I were termed tomboys because neither of us wore ribbons or hairslides, nor did we play sedately like the other girls. We were frequently dispatched to the washroom after playtimes, for we seemed to attract dirt, gathering it about our persons like a pair of magnets collecting filings. The boys liked us, respected us almost, as we were not averse to a bout of rough and tumble and while Josie was conker champion of St Stephen’s, I excelled at marbles, cleaning out the boys’ stock of glass alleys and bolly-bearings with a frequency that alarmed them and won their admiration.
    Josie nudged me. ‘Take no notice of ’im. ’E’s a soft old sod.’
    I gaped at Josie. She had already made her First Confession and Communion. She would have to tell Father Cavanagh in the confessional that she had called him a soft old sod. I voiced my concern in a whisper.
    ‘Don’t be so daft,’ she hissed back. ‘For a kick-off, I can always disguise me voice. Or I can go down to St Patrick’s and tell some