emaciate on the Cross above the altar, all wounds and bones, was the Inflexible Judge, the Prince of Rigour, the Frightener of Souls, served by hard-minded monitors with rods in the hand. The second, the one whom Sister Catherine called Gentle Jesus, was the obverse of the divine coin, the Redeeming Comforter, the Balm for the Hurt. It was for the sake of this Gentle Jesus that Sister Catherineurged us to give our few pennies of pocket money towards the upkeep of the African missions.
‘Who’ll give thruppence to save a black piccaninny?’ said Sister Catherine to our class with cheerful red-faced enthusiasm, waving a kindly arm across the broad expanse of the African map.
I loved to see how Sister Catherine’s ample flesh jounced when she was jolly and excited so I gave all my thruppenny bits for Africa. I was convinced (since money had no relevance in our lives beyond paying for a sweet or a glass marble) that I had purchased a number of black babies – a little family flock that was mine – and this thought gave me warm feelings of friendly possession and belonging that I longed for but lacked in the convent. Gentle Jesus had sent me my own imaginary companionship – a squall of tiny jungle tots – to compensate for the cold harsh discipline imposed under the agonized stare of the Judge on the Cross.
Our only hope for relief from this severity was to hide beneath the cloak of Gentle Jesus. But the way to forgiveness was not easy to find; it was hedged and blocked by the thorns of observation. The black monitors were ever-vigilant and He on the Cross was not deceived. The nuns were very free in their interpretation of His displeasure:
‘God does not love naughty children.’
‘Nose-picking in church is an insult to heaven.’
‘Only a sinful boy scribbles on his picture book.’
‘Neglect your prayers and you’ll get no blessings.’
‘Every act of disobedience is another wound in His side.’
‘The fires of hell await little liars.’
‘God punishes bed-wetters.’
And if admonition and threats had no effect, then came the clinching argument against which there was no appeal. ‘What Sister says, child, is God’s law.’
Though heaven demanded so much, the rules of conduct here on earth, even if certain, were obscure. Both punishments and rewards flowed from the Church, imposed, granted or withdrawn by inscrutable religious authority. My brother, leaving his pew to follow a small trail of fellow pupils to the altar rail for their First Communion, was stopped in horror, hauled away by the shoulder with much finger-wagging, and returned at once to the ranks of the sinners, because he had not yet made his First Confession. As a punishment, his advance to the altar rail was put off to some unspecified time. He remained among a graceless herd while smarter boys put an early foot on the road to heaven. In another case, when in a playground fight I split my brother’s forehead with a brick, I was removed from the group of boys learning to be Mass-servers. I was denied the holy foppery of lace and candlelight, incense and bells. In this way I was prevented from giving my fullest service to the Lord. This was a dire punishment for any faithful son of the Church. It was true. I was not much of a servant for the Lord. I was sad and bemused and given to fits of violence. The nuns, with their threats of divine displeasure, somehow failed to cure my outbursts of temper. I wanted my mother.
*
‘What would you like to do today?’ said my mother in a hopeless voice we had come to know so well.
We never had an answer to this, but it did not matter to us that we were drifting without much purpose. The important thing was that we were away from the convent for the afternoon. If the day was fine we would wander. Nowhere in particular. Magdalen Bridge to Carfax. Peeping in the austere wartime shops of the High, past crouching pubs with low, battered doorways and windows of bottle-glass. Amusements for children
‘Who’ll give thruppence to save a black piccaninny?’ said Sister Catherine to our class with cheerful red-faced enthusiasm, waving a kindly arm across the broad expanse of the African map.
I loved to see how Sister Catherine’s ample flesh jounced when she was jolly and excited so I gave all my thruppenny bits for Africa. I was convinced (since money had no relevance in our lives beyond paying for a sweet or a glass marble) that I had purchased a number of black babies – a little family flock that was mine – and this thought gave me warm feelings of friendly possession and belonging that I longed for but lacked in the convent. Gentle Jesus had sent me my own imaginary companionship – a squall of tiny jungle tots – to compensate for the cold harsh discipline imposed under the agonized stare of the Judge on the Cross.
Our only hope for relief from this severity was to hide beneath the cloak of Gentle Jesus. But the way to forgiveness was not easy to find; it was hedged and blocked by the thorns of observation. The black monitors were ever-vigilant and He on the Cross was not deceived. The nuns were very free in their interpretation of His displeasure:
‘God does not love naughty children.’
‘Nose-picking in church is an insult to heaven.’
‘Only a sinful boy scribbles on his picture book.’
‘Neglect your prayers and you’ll get no blessings.’
‘Every act of disobedience is another wound in His side.’
‘The fires of hell await little liars.’
‘God punishes bed-wetters.’
And if admonition and threats had no effect, then came the clinching argument against which there was no appeal. ‘What Sister says, child, is God’s law.’
Though heaven demanded so much, the rules of conduct here on earth, even if certain, were obscure. Both punishments and rewards flowed from the Church, imposed, granted or withdrawn by inscrutable religious authority. My brother, leaving his pew to follow a small trail of fellow pupils to the altar rail for their First Communion, was stopped in horror, hauled away by the shoulder with much finger-wagging, and returned at once to the ranks of the sinners, because he had not yet made his First Confession. As a punishment, his advance to the altar rail was put off to some unspecified time. He remained among a graceless herd while smarter boys put an early foot on the road to heaven. In another case, when in a playground fight I split my brother’s forehead with a brick, I was removed from the group of boys learning to be Mass-servers. I was denied the holy foppery of lace and candlelight, incense and bells. In this way I was prevented from giving my fullest service to the Lord. This was a dire punishment for any faithful son of the Church. It was true. I was not much of a servant for the Lord. I was sad and bemused and given to fits of violence. The nuns, with their threats of divine displeasure, somehow failed to cure my outbursts of temper. I wanted my mother.
*
‘What would you like to do today?’ said my mother in a hopeless voice we had come to know so well.
We never had an answer to this, but it did not matter to us that we were drifting without much purpose. The important thing was that we were away from the convent for the afternoon. If the day was fine we would wander. Nowhere in particular. Magdalen Bridge to Carfax. Peeping in the austere wartime shops of the High, past crouching pubs with low, battered doorways and windows of bottle-glass. Amusements for children
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