chain.
‘You’re papes, right?’ she said, straight off.
‘Catholics,’ I corrected her.
‘That’s what I said. Papes. I’m Catherine. Come on, I’ll show you how this all works.’
And we followed her to a table to retrieve wooden trays and queue up at the kitchen to be served our evening meal.
Catherine lowered her voice. ‘The food’s shit. But don’t worry about it. I’ve got an aunt somewhere that sends me food parcels. Keeps her from feeling guilty, I suppose. A lot of the kids aren’t really orphans. Just from broken homes. Quite a few get food parcels. Got to get through them fast, though, before the fuckers in here confiscate them.’ She grinned conspiratorially and lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Midnight feasts up on the roof.’
She was right about the food. Catherine steered us to a table, and we sat among the hubbub of raised voices echoing around the high ceiling of the great hall, slurping at thin, flavourless vegetable soup and picking at green potatoes and tough meat swimming in grease. I found myself sinking into a depression. But Catherine just grinned.
‘Don’t worry about it. I’m a pape, too. They don’t like Catholics here, so we won’t be staying long.’ An echo of Mr Anderson’s words from earlier. ‘The priests’ll be here for us any day now.’
I don’t know how long she had been deluding herself with that thought, but it would be another year before the incident on the bridge finally brought a visit from the priest.
They didn’t like papes at school either. The school in the village was an austere grey granite and sandstone building pierced by tall arched windows set in stone dormers. Carved in the wall below the tower that held the bell which called us to lessons was a stone crest of the school board above a kindly lady in robes teaching a young student the wonders of the world. The student had short hair, and wore a skirt, and made me think of Catherine. Although I guess it was supposed to be a boy from classical times. It bore the date of 1875.
Being Catholics, we weren’t allowed in to morning assembly, which was a Protestant affair. Not that I cared a hoot about missing the God stuff. I didn’t find God till much later in my life. Strangely enough, a Protestant God. But we had to stand outside in the playground, in all weathers, until it was over. There was many a time that we would be let in, finally, soaked to the skin, to sit chittering at our desks in ice-cold classrooms. It’s a wonder we didn’t catch our deaths.
To make it worse, we were Dean kids. Which set us apart again. At the end of the school day, when all the other kids were free to escape into open streets, and homes with parents and siblings, we were made to line up in pairs, and suffer the barracking and catcalls of the others. Then we were marched back up the hill to The Dean where we had to sit in silence for the next two hours doing our homework. Freedom came only at mealtimes, and in the short periods of free time before we were forced early to bed in cold, dark dorms.
During the winter months, those ‘free’ periods were filled with Mr Anderson’s Highland dancing classes. Unlikely though it seemed, dancing was his passion, and he wanted us all perfectly drilled in the pas-de-bas and drops of brandy by the time the Christmas party came around.
In the summer months it was too light to sleep. By the time June came around, it stayed light until almost eleven, and restless soul that I was, I couldn’t lie awake in my bed with the thought of a whole world of adventure out there.
I discovered very early a back staircase leading from the ground floor of the east wing down into the cellars. From there I was able to unbolt a door at the rear of the building, and escape out into the falling dusk. If I sprinted, I could very quickly reach the cover of shadows beneath the trees that lined the park. From there I was free to go where I would. Not that I ever went far. I was always
‘You’re papes, right?’ she said, straight off.
‘Catholics,’ I corrected her.
‘That’s what I said. Papes. I’m Catherine. Come on, I’ll show you how this all works.’
And we followed her to a table to retrieve wooden trays and queue up at the kitchen to be served our evening meal.
Catherine lowered her voice. ‘The food’s shit. But don’t worry about it. I’ve got an aunt somewhere that sends me food parcels. Keeps her from feeling guilty, I suppose. A lot of the kids aren’t really orphans. Just from broken homes. Quite a few get food parcels. Got to get through them fast, though, before the fuckers in here confiscate them.’ She grinned conspiratorially and lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Midnight feasts up on the roof.’
She was right about the food. Catherine steered us to a table, and we sat among the hubbub of raised voices echoing around the high ceiling of the great hall, slurping at thin, flavourless vegetable soup and picking at green potatoes and tough meat swimming in grease. I found myself sinking into a depression. But Catherine just grinned.
‘Don’t worry about it. I’m a pape, too. They don’t like Catholics here, so we won’t be staying long.’ An echo of Mr Anderson’s words from earlier. ‘The priests’ll be here for us any day now.’
I don’t know how long she had been deluding herself with that thought, but it would be another year before the incident on the bridge finally brought a visit from the priest.
They didn’t like papes at school either. The school in the village was an austere grey granite and sandstone building pierced by tall arched windows set in stone dormers. Carved in the wall below the tower that held the bell which called us to lessons was a stone crest of the school board above a kindly lady in robes teaching a young student the wonders of the world. The student had short hair, and wore a skirt, and made me think of Catherine. Although I guess it was supposed to be a boy from classical times. It bore the date of 1875.
Being Catholics, we weren’t allowed in to morning assembly, which was a Protestant affair. Not that I cared a hoot about missing the God stuff. I didn’t find God till much later in my life. Strangely enough, a Protestant God. But we had to stand outside in the playground, in all weathers, until it was over. There was many a time that we would be let in, finally, soaked to the skin, to sit chittering at our desks in ice-cold classrooms. It’s a wonder we didn’t catch our deaths.
To make it worse, we were Dean kids. Which set us apart again. At the end of the school day, when all the other kids were free to escape into open streets, and homes with parents and siblings, we were made to line up in pairs, and suffer the barracking and catcalls of the others. Then we were marched back up the hill to The Dean where we had to sit in silence for the next two hours doing our homework. Freedom came only at mealtimes, and in the short periods of free time before we were forced early to bed in cold, dark dorms.
During the winter months, those ‘free’ periods were filled with Mr Anderson’s Highland dancing classes. Unlikely though it seemed, dancing was his passion, and he wanted us all perfectly drilled in the pas-de-bas and drops of brandy by the time the Christmas party came around.
In the summer months it was too light to sleep. By the time June came around, it stayed light until almost eleven, and restless soul that I was, I couldn’t lie awake in my bed with the thought of a whole world of adventure out there.
I discovered very early a back staircase leading from the ground floor of the east wing down into the cellars. From there I was able to unbolt a door at the rear of the building, and escape out into the falling dusk. If I sprinted, I could very quickly reach the cover of shadows beneath the trees that lined the park. From there I was free to go where I would. Not that I ever went far. I was always
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