by
M.P. Burns Click on the number to go to that Chapter:
Prologue, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51, 52, 53, 54, 55
INTRODUCTION
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One of the many reasons for writing this book is an admiration for, and a wish to emulate the achievement of the sixteenth century goldsmith, sculptor and (at least in his own estimation) general genius Benvenuto Cellini. His autobiography is to say the least an extraordinary document, covering as it does every aspect of his life from the sublime to the profanest of the profane.
So often, books tend to be one-sided, dealing with limited aspects of a person's life. Religious biographies in particular seem curiously devoid of any idea that the human beings they write about do other things besides preaching, praying, and being all-round Good Sorts. The joy of Benvenuto's book is that he can pass from a description of how he seduced his serving girl to a profound account of a vision of Christ he claims to have had, and back again.
This surely reflects more accurately the true nature of human life. We are not cardboard cut-outs, but deeply and richly varied composites, with elements of sin and grace inextricably intermingled. To put it perhaps a little crudely, we can be making the sign of the cross with one hand, while scratching our behinds with the other.
This is the spirit in which I approached the writing of this book. It has many purposes, the chief of which I shall now attempt to outline.
It is an autobiographical work, though cast in a fictional mould. It is an 'Apologia pro vita sua' on my part as I attempt to share with the reader the joys and sorrows, the happiness and despair, the faith and doubt, the love and resentment that all went into the making of a priest, his subsequent career and at least partial disillusionment. The book is at least an attempt to describe honestly and frankly the thoughts and feelings, the desires, fears, sin and grace that are part of human living. It was painful to write in parts, but it is hoped that the attempt at frankness will assist in the achieving of the aims and purposes of the writer in approaching his task. It is his view that the story is worth telling, and any element that assists in the realistic narration of the tale should therefore be included.
It is meant to be a fairly accurate picture of life in a Roman Catholic seminary and religious order in the fifties and sixties, continuing into the late seventies, with the attitudes common at the times mirrored with reasonably accurate fidelity. Though the work inevitably reflects the experience of only one man, it is hoped that the reader will be helped to understand more fully that fascinating and enigmatic being, the Catholic priest.
The book also seeks to propound the author's own vision of Christianity: not that he claims to have in any way lived up to this vision, but he saw it then and sees it now as a deeply satisfying understanding of God's dealings with man, and how the Church could possibly seek to play a more integrated role in the world in which she finds herself.
Christianity has always stressed the dichotomy between sin and grace, and secular and sacred. Perhaps the greatest heresy in Church history has been the tendency to remove the 'and' between the two pairs in that statement, thus identifying grace and sacred, and sin and secular. Thus the former become the good, the latter the evil.
From this error flow most of the problems besetting the Church today, as in former ages. She has persistently found it difficult to find goodness in the secular, the temporal, the material, and so in spite of regarding marriage as a Sacrament, she has always had to struggle to delete from her own consciousness the notion that sex is something sinful. It is hardly surprising, therefore, that she constantly has to struggle to maintain the faith and devotion of her children, secular beings as they are, immersed in a material world.
And yet the answer lies in her own precious storehouse of truth. "The Word was made flesh and dwelt amongst us". The Body of Christ is an object of worship for the Christian, yet this body is a body like ours, and that is the point. It is a body which delights in pleasure, is prone to weakness and suffering, and yet is beautiful, warm and tender, possessing all the qualities that make up humanity.
Through the Incarnation, God has called the secular, the material, the temporal to partake in eternity. In Christ, the gulf has been bridged. To the world at large, Jesus Christ is at worst an expletive, and at best an historical figure who has had a profound if varying influence on the development of human civilisation as we now know it. To the Christian, he is a living reality, someone to be encountered now in faith, who makes us alive through a sharing in his life. For many Christians, however, he is a prisoner, locked in the trappings of formalised religion as surely as the host is locked in the tabernacle, or the Divine guest kept securely within the recesses of the individual heart and mind. It is part of the vision of the author that Jesus Christ, the Word, be made flesh in this day and age as truly as he was when he walked the hills of Judea and died on his cross. This is surely what is meant by Incarnation. We the Christians are to be the flesh, blood and bones of Jesus Christ, so that he is just as truly and visibly alive now as he was then.
The sacred and the secular are worlds apart; if this book can assist the process of the continued Incarnation of the one into the other, then it will have succeeded to an extent only hoped and prayed for by the author.
The characters depicted in the book are fictitious; the central character is to all intents and purposes myself, though not exclusively and entirely so. The other characters are drawn from many intermingled sources, most real, but some imaginary. But though the work is a fiction, its elements are not. All the events and attitudes are based on reality, so it is hoped that the work cannot be accused in any way of being biased or unreal.
The work is also meant to be an entertaining story; what is sometimes referred to as a 'good read'. It is hoped that this end, too, has been achieved.
To sum up, the book is intended to be a reflection of the rich variety of human life as it is in reality, embracing as it does the variety of human life as it is in reality, embracing as it does the sacred and the profane, mirroring the nobility and the crudity, the mirth and the tragedy, the grind of the daily routine and the excitement of the heights and depths achieved by human beings in their pilgrimage through life. To what extent this is realised must be left to the judgement of the reader.
Finally, a word about the title. It was suggested to me by a chance remark of my wife, and its aptness seemed immediately apparent. "Yesterday's bread" has formed and moulded us the way we are today, for better or worse, but new bread must be the food of today, to make us the men and women we will be tomorrow. Yet the new bread we eat today is the product of yesterday's rain and sunshine. So while acknowledging the irreplaceable part played by yesterday's bread, we must move confidently forward to the future, nourished by the Bread of life who is the same, yesterday, today and for ever.
It was a beautiful day, a day for long walks along country lanes, the fresh young growth showing a vivid green among the darker twiggy growth of last year. A day of hope and joy, when everything was new and the future bright with promise. On this day, the slanting rays of the sun came down through the lambent air and broke into a thousand shades of red, green, azure and indigo as they passed through the stained glass of St Augustine's collegiate church, and fell on the recumbent bodies of four young men, chastely dressed in white. Ordination day was the culmination of a journey that had taken thirteen years and more, and henceforth it would direct the remainder of the four lives which were about to be consecrated.
Mark was sweating slightly; he could feel the floor beneath him vibrating as the organ crashed out the opening chords of the "Veni, Creator Spiritus". The air was warm and incense-laden, the atmosphere electric. A moment of panic suddenly induced a feeling of nausea in him.
"What am I doing here?" He shivered in spite of himself. "Keep calm, Mark" he told himself sternly. "This is the Big Day. Dear Lord, this is for you. From now on, every breath I breathe will be your breath; I shall be your living presence among men. Is that blasphemy? No, it is you who said it when you told us that he who hears us, hears you: or as St Paul put it, we are the body of Christ. What a responsibility! But no more than that of any Christian. We are all the body of Christ, so he who sees us, sees Christ, or at least that's the general idea. My God, a pretty poor shower we are", he muttered to himself. "We don't make much impression on the world at large".
He pressed his nose into the carpet; the rich warm smell of wool soothed his anxieties, the dust tickled him and he knew a momentary desire to sneeze.
Next to him, Peter clenched his fists fiercely. "I've made it", he whispered exultantly. "I'll show the bastards". He'd never been very bright at his studies; philosophy had baffled him: crap, he had often called it. Bloody nonsense about matter and form: cogito ergo sum. Church history was boring, theology and scripture things to be learned by heart, hoping he'd picked the right horses when examination time came round. The superiors in the Seminary had often hinted that perhaps his vocation lay elsewhere, but he had developed a thick skin, and such half-hearted efforts to dissuade him counted for little when set against his grim determination to succeed.
Third in line was David. He gritted his teeth together to stop them chattering. "Just remember what your father confessor told you" he desperately reminded himself. "You have a vocation; this is the will of God. But Oh God, did I explain properly about those thoughts? It is a mortal sin to receive the Sacraments in sin, and if I didn't explain properly...maybe I didn't let him see that they could have been deliberate." His mind was in torment, whirling round and round. Suddenly a voice seemed to say to him, "David, you've got to get a grip of yourself; you'll go out of your mind, and then you'll be no good to anyone, man or God." In an agony of terror that sickened the pit of his stomach, he clung to the words his confessor had used. "You must trust me, David: there can be no question of sin. These thoughts are obsessions, not wilful, lustful desires."
Obedience to one's confessor, absolute, unquestioning obedience: this was the only cure for scruples. Gradually, calmness came again, and soothed by the majestic smoothness of the organ, and the ancient mellow phrases of the "Veni, Creator Spiritus" as they echoed round the warm, dusty air, he breathed a prayer of thanks. "Oh God, you are so good to me, much more than I could ever deserve. Mary, mother of Jesus, help me through this day. I give my life to you".
Ken had noticed David shivering slightly out of the corner of his eye. "Poor bugger" he said to himself. "You'll be OK, David". But what a way to run a Church. What the hell was the Church doing to the poor sods who gave their lives to her?
His thoughts drifted away from David. Ken had been in his twenties when he had decided that the priesthood was the life to which he would dedicate himself. Now, six years or so later, lying on the sanctuary floor, his mind was filled with images of the past flashing before him. National Service in the Army, the square bashing and the seemingly endless meals of sausages and baked beans. And bloody hell, how those boots pinched on that first route march!
His brother's wedding; he could still feel the soft warm cheek of the bridesmaid as he kissed her; what was her name? Iris or Dierdre or something. The sickly, slightly warm sparkling wine and too much beer afterwards. The pride he had felt at being Godfather to the twins a couple of years later. Those little imps would be fidgeting now five or six rows back behind him on the right hand side. Uncle Ken was their favourite, and they weren't going to miss his big day.
Proud parents and families, they'd all be there, he mused. He'd noticed Peter's lot a bit nearer the from than his own; the ladies all in their best new coats and funny hats. A woman wearing one of those small, tight rather smart hats was likely to be a bit narrow-minded; like her hat, small and tight...steady! Get behind me, Satan. Whereas the ones with the big, wide-brimmed floppy hats so often had bottoms to match.
Bloody hell, stop it! You're supposed to be thinking holy, elevated thoughts on a day like this, but if you go on in this way, it'll not be your thoughts that'll be elevated.
Sanity returned. The "Veni Creator" was finally at an end. The Master of Ceremonies stepped forward. The moment had come.
Mark couldn't remember ever not wanting to be a priest. He thought back to his early childhood; he could only just remember his father, who had died when Mark was five, yet well into adulthood, he would occasionally dream that his father had not died after all, and he had found him with a joy that always gently evaporated on his waking once again to reality. His mother was a good Catholic without being ultra pious, and the family had simply made its faith as ordinary a part of life as the Sunday dinner or Monday's washing.
Mark smiled to himself as he remembered the games of dressing up; the best table cloth draped round his shoulders as he solemnly dispensed mint imperials to his younger brother as holy Communion. He and his brother had become altar boys at St Margaret's at the age of seven; how proudly those little boys walked out in procession as torch bearers at Sunday evening Benediction. The joyful, sorrowful and glorious mysteries of the Rosary mirrored the changing seasons of the year; the sermons that had young eyes inexorably closing, or young feet inevitably shuffling, and the grand finale of the solemn blessing by the priest holding aloft the magnificent jewel-encrusted monstrance.
He could still hear the ker-ching ker-ching of the thurible as the thurifer performed his office at that sacred moment. Then the soft rumble through the church as the congregation took up the "Divine praises", and then the "Adoremus" as the priest put the Blessed Sacrament back into the tabernacle. Finally the last hymn, always something rousing, but solemn, such as "Crown him with many crowns" as they all left the altar and returned to the sacristy, a room somehow always redolent with the smell of old candle-grease, incense and slightly sweaty cassocks.
But the Church had not been his only love in those days; like many another boy he had come home filthy after a long hard campaign in the trenches, or a tough day's tracking in the jungle. Many a time he had come home reeking of fish with his hands salt-chapped after a day spent supporting the family by his toils as a fisherman off the end of the pier in the little seaside town where the family was spending its annual holiday.
He had been no stranger, too, to the softer emotions. Julie was his first love; he could still remember the way her soft, fair hair curled away from the nape of her neck, and the utter joy he had felt when with apparent nonchalance he had managed to end up sitting next to her in the Art lesson. His infatuation was complete; he had lived and breathed for that girl, there was nothing he would not have done to serve her. Too shy to walk home with her after school, he would go home by a circuitous route which included her street, even though it meant making a considerable detour. He became quite expert at the little white lies needed to cover up when answering his mother's questions.
"Late for your tea again, Mark". "Oh, Billy owed me some marbles, so I called at his house to collect them". He knew they'd laugh at him if he told them the real reason.
The funny thing was, he could remember loving Julie and quite a few others after her for longer or shorter periods, each one as though it were yesterday, but he could never remember what caused him to change those youthful, fickle affections. But as the reality of his desire for the priesthood grew, he gradually began to realise that the love of woman was to be an avenue closed to him. He still recalled the many sighs of resignation and renunciation which accompanied his farewells to the latest inamorata on his departure for the Junior Seminary. She had tearfully declared her firm intention of becoming a nun. He often wondered what became of her; their paths never seemed to cross in subsequent holidays.
Another strange thing was that sexual desire had already made itself felt in his young life, but he had not yet linked this with his various idealised loves. From the age of eight or nine he could remember waking up occasionally with the most desperately sweet sensation in his genitals. He felt that this was what heaven must be like. Already he had a vague idea that he must not try to make it happen; sexual morality was inculcated from the tenderest age. Talking about wee-wees and bottoms and jokes about lavatories and girl's knickers were very definitely taboo, though somehow this was different. This pleasure was a noble thing; he had not yet been taught to see it as something shameful or disgusting.
His life changed almost beyond recognition when he went to the Junior Seminary. A year or so previously, a couple of priests had come to the parish to give a Mission, which was a fortnight of spiritual renewal. Each evening, a special sermon would be preached; but these were no ordinary sermons. They were not the sort that had the old ladies nodding off to sleep, and the children shuffling and pinching one another. These were sermons which had the church ringing; you could hear a pin drop one moment, and then the preacher, with a hushed whisper, would start to denounce sin with a majestic deliberation which climaxed in a thundering and comprehensive damnation for those who dared defy the all-embracing mercy of God. The two priests had a presence that was magnetic, and a way with words that was almost witchcraft. The congregation was close to tears at the description of the suffering of the dying Jesus, and yet unheard of ripples of laughter would run through the church at the witticisms which punctuated the proceedings at suitable moments. Every emotion was made to contribute to the renewal of faith and deepening of commitment.
It was towards the end of the fortnight that the knock came to the door of Mark's home. The priest seemed to fill the house. Having made sure that the family were attending the Mission, he then asked the row of little faces looking up at him if any of them wanted to be priests. Mark immediately said yes, he did. The priest then explained that the Order to which he belonged ran a Junior Seminary for boys aspiring to the priesthood, and if the family agreed, he could arrange for Mark to go there.
From then, everything had seemed to move swiftly and easily to the day when he had bidden a tearful goodbye to his family as he climbed onto the train, tugging the heavy suitcase that could have told a hundred stories of the ups and downs of the family history over the past forty years. Now, it was full of the neatly arranged clothes faithfully assembled and packed by his mother, together with his writing case and a few treasured possessions; photos from the family album and a couple of his favourite books. In his pocket he had half a crown for expenses on the journey, and safely inside his writing case was a crisp ten shilling note, his term's pocket money. He found a seat, and his mind a whirl of mixed emotions, settled down for the journey.
The taxi from the station finally drew up before a large red brick building which seemed enormous to Mark. As the driver lifted out his case and counted out his change, the little boy stared solemnly upwards at the grimy facade. He wondered nervously what he would find inside; well, all would be revealed soon enough. The taxi pulled away as he climbed the steps to the front door. A tentative finger pressed the bell-push, and after a short pause, the door slowly swung open.
A brother with a kindly enough face looked down at the little boy.
"You must be one of the new boys".
"Yes, Father" said Mark.
"No, I'm brother. Brother David", he smiled. "It's rather confusing at first, but you'll soon get used to it. The fathers have white collars on their habits, the brothers black. Right. I'll take you through to the Junior Seminary."
He picked up the suitcase as if it were a feather, and strode off down the corridor, Mark half walking, half running to keep up. Along passages, up stairs and more passages. The walls were lined with the dark, solemn portraits of clerics of yesterday, whose faces seemed to suggest that the drains were in need of attention. Everything however smelled of polish, with the faintest whiff of cabbage. Finally, they came to a door which led into a separate part of the establishment.
"This is it" the brother announced, and knocked at a door half glazed with frosted glass.
"Come in" called a voice. Brother David led Mark into a book-lined office.
"Good afternoon, Father. This is one of the new boys".
"Thank you, brother", replied the priest. He rose from his desk and came forward. Glancing at the label on the battered suitcase, he said "Ah, Mark - Kennedy, is it?"
"Yes, father".
"Well, Mark, welcome to St Saviour's. You'll soon settle in, and I know you'll be happy here. Have you had anything to eat? No, I'm sure you're starving. Come with me, and we'll sort out something for you".
He led the little boy along the corridor to a large spacious room with high windows and beams across the ceiling. Another brother brought in a cup of tea which had already been sweetened, and a plate of biscuits.
"Our evening meal is in an hour, Mark, so that should keep you going until then". He bustled busily about, making sure that Mark had all he needed, then added: "Your case will be taken up to the dormitory, so after your tea, the brother will show you where that is. I'll see you later to sort out a few more details".
With that, the priest left the refectory, and Mark began nervously sipping the hot tea.
"That was Father Director. I'm brother Thomas, by the way. You'll be one of the new boys. What's your name?"
The boy told him, and as he drank his tea and munched the biscuits, brother Thomas began to talk. He quickly put the little boy at ease, and very soon Mark realised he had a friend in this place. Brother Thomas was an endless fund of stories and good advice, as Mark would discover. A simple goodness and holiness seemed to shine from the gentle face as he talked.
When Mark had finished the tea and there were no more biscuits on the plate, his mother's lesson of never clearing a plate somehow forgotten, brother Thomas took him to the dormitory.
As they reached the door, it became apparent that all was not well. A couple of small bodies were locked in mortal combat on the floor, gasps and thumps punctuated by cries of "you did", "I didn't", "yes, you did". Brother Thomas hurried forward.
"Now, Peter, John, what's all this?"
"Just playing, brother".
The two combatants hurriedly stood up, brushing themselves down.
"Well, make sure it is just playing".
He then led Mark to his bed, on which his case lay ready.
"Peter and John will show you the way back to the refectory: remember, it's supper in half an hour".
Without more ado, brother Thomas slipped away, and Mark was left staring at the other two boys.
"Are you one of the new boys?" asked Peter.
"No, he's the man in the moon" John scoffed. "Of course he is. You haven't seen him around before, have you? Elementary, my dear Watson".
Peter chose to ignore this sally.
"We're old hands" he remarked in an offhand manner. "We both started last term. I'm Peter Clark - welcome to the dump".
Mark introduced himself and soon the boys were quickly making friends. Football teams were supported and derided, details of preferred hobbies exchanged, and Mark was given a rapid worm's eye view of life at St Saviour's. The half hour to supper time quickly passed.
As they walked down the corridor, Peter asked "What did you think of the 'D'?"
"The 'D'?" answered Mark. "Who's that?"
"The Director, cloth-head. That's what the boss is called. Haven't you seen him yet?"
"I saw a priest when I first arrived..."
"Shh - that's him", whispered Peter as they neared the refectory, and Mark saw once again the priest he had met on his arrival.
"He seems very nice".
"He's OK, great if you're worried about anything, but he can be a right terror if you get on the wrong side of him."
The boys joined the throng lining up outside the refectory door.
"Settle down now, and less noise" said the Director sharply.
The whispering and shuffling ceased immediately.
"Now boys, you are back at St Saviour's for another term, another year. You are here to work, remember. The holidays are over, so the sooner we get into the term the better. Right, lead off."
So the long line of boys, starting with the eleven year olds at the front, filed into the large room in silence, and after a little confusion caused by the new boys being uncertain where to go, soon all were standing quietly at their places.
The tables lined the walls, and as Mark was quickly to discover, a rigid hierarchy reigned. The oldest boys were at the top on one side, and then the height of the rank gradually declined as the eye moved down the school, with the occasional pimply exception, until one reached the boys in the middle of the school who were at the bottom of the room. Crossing over past the great entrance door, the line resumed on the other side with more of the boys in the middle of the school, until it reached the top of the room once again, where Mark and the other new boys stood.
Mark found himself next to Peter, and would find himself next to Peter for the next thirteen years of his life. On such firm foundations are established the friendships of a lifetime.
The seating arrangements in the refectory were one of the most important factors in charting progress at St Saviour's; to cross the refectory from the top of the Junior side to the bottom of the senior side was as important a moment in life as the donning of one's first pair of long trousers, or passing one's "O" levels.
Grace was said, and with much scraping of chairs, the assembled diners took their seats. In the top corner of the room stood an ornate Gothic pulpit, and the deep tones of the head boy's voice filled the room with the words of Scripture, easily making itself heard above the clatter of knives in butter dishes and spoons in cups and saucers.
Then in came the first of the trays, each with six plates on it. The second and third senior boys with swift efficiency soon had the assembled throng fully served. Boiled ham with a tomato was the menu, a meal which would become as familiar to Mark as bread and butter.
"We'll probably get a 'Tu autem'" whispered Peter. "It's our first night back." The Latin phrase was pronounced as 'twowtem".
"What's a 'twowtem'?" Mark whispered back.
"Shh" Peter replied. "I'll tell you in a minute."
Sure enough, the Director after a few moments longer gave two rings on a little hand bell, and at the end of the sentence he was reading, the lector chanted "Tu autem Domine, miserere nobis".
"Deo gratias" the boys responded gladly, and immediately the noise rose to a crescendo as seventy voices broke into the holiday reminiscences of the past six weeks.
"Normally we get reading right through the meal" explained Peter. "But on special occasions and feast days, we are allowed to talk after the Scripture reading. If the 'D' only gives one bell, the reader starts the book. But if he gives two, it means a "tu autem", and we can talk".
Such was Mark's initiation into monastic traditions which could be traced back to the fourth century Egyptian desert and beyond. It was all rather overwhelming, but Mark felt a deep pride and joy in belonging. There was so much to learn, but with so many teachers, he would soon get into the way of things.
Next to him, Peter was busily engaged in spreading butter on bread, making a furtive ham sandwich. A small, stocky boy, he came from somewhere in the Manchester area. Not too happy with life at home, the chance to go to St Saviour's had come as a Godsend. Already at twelve, he was wise beyond his years, with a wisdom learned in the streets and school playground. But he was a warm hearted boy, and had impulsively decided to take Mark, an innocent abroad, under his wing.
"The big thing is, Mark", he was saying earnestly, his mouth full of ham sandwich, "keep out of trouble. Don't get found out, and life here is pretty good".
It had been pretty good to him so far, he thought to himself. He had been glad to get back to St Saviour's after the holiday. Mum and Dad's bickering and rowing made him unhappy; at least here he was away from that, and could put it out of his mind. Here he was with a new term ahead. He could look forward to the treats: fairly regular visits to the local cinema, popularly known as the 'bug hut', where the boys were marched crocodile-fashion when suitable films were showing, and the swimming baths and football matches.
Of course, there was work to be done, but that needn't be too much of a bind, as long as enough was done to avoid the strap, that was all that mattered. He had a good supply of comics; reading them in class wasn't too easy, but the evening study period was a different matter. One of the older boys sat at the top of the junior study hall, keeping an eye on things, and the 'D' paid an occasional visit. But his visits were predictable, and whenever he came round, Peter always seemed to be virtuously immersed in Latin irregular verbs, or the intricacies of Algebra.
The meal was coming to an end. The boys detailed to the washing up that week were busily clearing away the debris, and eyes were turning expectantly to the top table. The little bell tinkled, and silence immediately descended. After a moment, it rang again, and with much scraping and scuffling, the sated partakers of the meal rose, pushing chairs back under tables, standing behind them. After Grace, the Director announced:
"Right, boys, it is your first night back, so you will all be tired. Half an hour's break, then assemble for night prayers".
The boys immediately scattered to the four winds; some to the common rooms for a quick game of billiards or table tennis; the more athletic running down to the football pitch for a kick-around. Others strolled around the grounds in the fast fading evening light, gossiping and planning the coming term's events. Among these were Mark and Peter, who joined a larger group of the junior boys who quickly and naturally accepted the newcomer to their ranks.
That night as he lay in bed, Mark reflected on the day's events. The long rows of beds lay quiet, apart from the creak of springs as an uneasy sleeper turned over. Moonlight streamed in through the slightly parted curtains, giving the room a somewhat ghostly appearance.
The small boy shivered slightly. So much had happened in so short a time. Only this morning he had been having breakfast with his family. He and his Mum, his sister Brenda and his little brother Tony had eaten the meal as on any other day. But then things had started to happen with alarming swiftness and inevitability. The upshot was he had left one world, and entered another. He wondered what was happening at home now, and suddenly a longing and yearning awoke in his heart. Everything around him suddenly seemed too big and strange; the warmth of his mother's arms was far away; it would be an age, thirteen weeks or more, until he saw her again. The embryonic monk was once again the child, silently weeping for his mother and the warm, familiar things of home.
But eventually a kind of peace came to the small, tearstained face as sleep took its inevitable too of the weary little boy. Tomorrow would be another day.
The next few weeks passed with gathering swiftness; Mark was soon immersed in the strange new world of Grammar school subjects. "We are learning Mathaletics" he proudly informed his family in an early letter. But he was an intelligent boy, and quickly grasped the ground rules of the new subjects to which he was being introduced. The primary school lessons in sums, spelling and writing had given way to geometry, history, Latin and French. He revelled in Latin and history particularly, his vivid imagination enthralled by the life and customs of Classical Rome and the chivalry of mediaeval England.
His world was now the classroom with its ancient desks, marked with the initials of a hundred predecessors, its atmosphere pungent with the smell of chalk dust and sweaty football gear stuffed into leather satchels. His teachers were a mixture of laymen and priests, the Director himself taking the daily Religious knowledge class.
Discipline was strict, as was the norm in those days, but not unduly oppressive. Misbehaviour in class or obvious neglect of work were punished with the strap; inevitably it was Peter who was its first and most frequent customer that term. Years later, Mark could still vividly remember the first occasion on which he had seen it being employed. Peter's Maths homework had been a hurried scrawl of blots and mistakes, and he had been summoned to the front of the class. The book had been exhibited to the rest of the boys with dire warnings about the consequences of such work.
Mark had watched with a kind of horrified fascination as the thick black supple instrument of punishment was brought out. Following the teacher's sharply spoken command, Peter had slowly held out his hand. The lethal looking strap was raised over the teacher's shoulder, and then with a sudden forceful swing, brought down with a sharp crack on the outstretched palm. The noise as the strap made contact caused Peter to flinch slightly, while the other boys winced. He then held out his other hand, and the performance was repeated. He then returned to his place, hugging his stinging reddened hands to his sides.
Afterwards at break, he had shown them to Mark with nonchalant bravado, and Mark had felt a reluctant admiration for his courage.
"I'd rather have the strap than detention" remarked Peter, who was not short of physical bravery. Mark replied that given the choice, he would do the detention. But as no choice was given, Mark too along with nearly all the other boys found himself on the receiving end on occasion. The first time was an ordeal as with thumping heart he had gone forward with several other boys following some fairly minor misdemeanour. It was not so difficult as the other boys seemed to bolster his courage, but the short agony was enough to ensure his good behaviour in general for the future.
He soon became accustomed too, to the new and at first strangely intensified spiritual life of St Saviour's. Morning prayers and Mass at seven o'clock every day, Rosary after tea, night prayers after evening recreation. The hurried Confession each Saturday night as the boys strove to be the first to the common room to guarantee a good seat for the weekly treat of an hour's television viewing. The highlight of the term was, however, the Retreat.
For three days in November, all normal activities ceased, and the time was given over exclusively to matters of the soul. Peter was looking forward to it, which surprised Mark at first.
"It's great" he enthused; "no class for three days, and lots of free time". Mark suddenly realised that Peter would probably not be doing much praying during the free time.
"Who's giving the retreat this year, I wonder?" another boy asked.
"I think its Father O'Dowd" someone else answered. "Father O'Dowd" exclaimed Peter with a low whistle. "During his Missions he's supposed to scare folks half to death."
Mark thought back to the Mission he had attended at home the previous year. His mother had not let him go the night the sermon was on Hell. In fact, no children other than a core of older, though trembling, altar boys were allowed that night. He began to wonder nervously what was in store during the forthcoming retreat.
That year in November, it rained as though the skies were the sea. In the college chapel, the boys sat awaiting the entrance of the retreat master. Somehow it was fitting that the skies were dark with scudding clouds and the rain was beating furiously against the lancet windows. The chapel was warm, however, as the ancient central heating system was already doing its winter stint, and in those days before the world had heard of fuel crises, it gave out plenty of heat though it consumed mountains of coke. As juniors, Peter and Mark were near the front. Just inside the Communion rails, a small table had been prepared, with a crucifix and two candles. A chair, ready for the retreat master, had been placed behind the table.
The clock on the wall ticked slowly away. It had a large, clearly etched face, and if one studied it closely, the hands could be seen slowly creeping round. The silence grew oppressive, and yet the boys sat tense, expectant.
At last, footsteps could be heard, but no-one looked round. Father O'Dowd paced solemnly up the centre aisle, and finally reached the steps at the foot of the altar. A large man, he was big in every way. Over six feet tall, broadly built, he had a magnificent physique and a voice like a cup final football crowd. He knelt at the bottom step, and with bowed head, invoked God's blessing on the proceedings with the words of the "Veni, Sancte Spiritus".
The retreat consisted of three talks each day, with common sessions of prayer and plenty of free time for private prayer and personal reflection. But the talks were the highlight. An expert in his field, the retreat master took his young listeners on a tour which encompassed the whole of the Christian life; though the main emphasis was on the negative aspects of sin, death and the need to avoid eternal damnation.
With widened eyes and pale face, Mark listened to the thundering denunciations of sin; how perilously easy it seemed to be to fall into it; the slightest impure thought consented to could negate a lifetime of moral effort, and if death suddenly intervened, then the unthinkable torment of hell for all eternity was the consequence.
The preacher spared the boys nothing. Death, normally so remote from healthy young minds, suddenly seemed to loom with terrifying nearness; the stench of the grave seemed to fill the musty chapel. The Christian life seemed to be like an obstacle course; a journey through a minefield. But there were redeeming features, charms almost which ensured safe passage through all these dangers. Devotion to Our Lady was put forward as the infallible protection. Love her and pray to her, and nothing ultimately could go wrong.
But terror was not the only emotion aroused in the retreatants. Tears sprang to Mark's eyes as he listened to the story of the gentle Christ, betrayed by his friends in the garden of Gethsemane, scourged so cruelly and crowned with thorns. He seemed to feel every spasm of his Master's pain; he saw every drop of sweat and blood shed by the suffering Jesus on that terrible day of his crucifixion and death. The little boy's heart filled with love and gratitude as the preacher's words went home.
Between the talks, Mark wandered around the school buildings and grounds, when breaks in the almost constant rain allowed. In the common room, books had been laid out, the approved reading matter for the retreat. Most of them seemed incomprehensible to the young boy; they smelled of dust and of the years they had spent in monastic libraries. Some of the books, however, were more suited to younger minds. Mark found one which told the story of the English martyrs of the Reformation; the men and women who laid down their lives for the Faith under king Henry the eighth and Elizabeth. With growing fascination he devoured the book, which read like a thriller: the stories of courageous men who stole in from abroad, foiling the government spies and secret agents, risking all to bring the Mass to the embattled faithful. The bravery with which they defied their captors and gave their lives, hanged drawn and quartered, moved him deeply and stirred in him the desire to emulate their sacrifice.
Mark was deep in this book when Peter found him and nudged him.
"Come for a walk, Mark".
"No", Mark whispered back. "We've got to keep silence, Peter. Why don't you find a book? I've got this one; it's terrific."
"They're all so boring, a load of crap" grumbled Peter as he trudged sulkily away. The retreat had not had much effect on him: certainly, the histrionics of the preacher had made him sit on the edge of the bench in chapel, his heart thumping as he listened to the terrible threats; but Peter was made of sterner stuff than Mark. Already he had developed a thicker layer of skin; once the talk had ended, its impact was over.
He brightened up as he noticed that the downpour outside had slackened. He slipped out, and was soon far away from the buildings, bringing cascades of water from the rain-heavy privet and laurel bushes as he valiantly drove back the combined attack of Cardinal Richlieu's guard with his rapier, just cut from another bush with his trusty penknife. There was an hour to go until the next talk; buried treasure could be found, or continents discovered in an hour.
The retreat was over, and the term was slowly drawing towards its close. The class work went on much as usual, but soon the masters began to wind up their programmes, and to start revising the term's work in preparation for the examinations. A gradual increase in the application of the boys to their studies could be noticed as the examinations drew closer, some even beginning to study in their free time, a practice that Peter found mind-boggling. The really desperate ones tried to salvage a term's slacking by surreptitious study sessions under the blankets by the flickering light of a torch.
Mark, naturally a conscientious if not industrious pupil, found the revision not too demanding. He was even slightly looking forward to the challenge of the examinations. Peter was an academic ostrich; exams were not to be thought about or worried over until he sat with pen in hand, his name carefully written at the top of the sheet, wondering why he hadn't the slightest idea what the questions were about. In most of the subjects he managed a page or two, and so avoided the ultimate catastrophe of zero marks, but only in one or two subjects did he manage to succeed in scraping a pass.
It was about three days after the last of the examinations that the results were pinned up on the notice board. Word flew round the school faster than gossip at a ladies' bingo session that the marks were posted, and the crowds quickly gathered around the notice board. There was much jostling and pushing, and of course the younger boys could not see the board until the seniors had drunk their fill and moved on, the successful ones modestly exclaiming that they had been positive that they had failed, and the less successful shaking their heads, muttering that they were sure they had done better than that.
Mark finally squeezed near enough to the from to see the first year lists. His heart leapt with excitement when he saw that in to or three subjects he had come first, and in most of the others he was in the top four or five. Even in his poorest result, he had managed a pass.
Peter too was consistent, but near the bottom of the list. Only in one or two disciplines had he kept his head above water; by and large, he came last, or in the last two or three.
"My dad'll murder me" he muttered, shaking his head slowly. The holidays were due to start in a few day's time, and Peter, though glad to see his family again, knew that high words would be spoken about his results, maybe he would be beaten. Still, that was a bridge he would cross when he came to it, and turning to Mark, he said:
"Come on, brain box, I'll race you down to the jungle".
The two friends ran off at top speed, careering down the garden paths and onto the sports field, at the far end of which lay the jungle, a small wooded area hidden behind a long embankment known as the Abbot's walk.
It was one of the school myths that on dark, moonlit nights, the ghostly figure of a monk could be seen pacing up and down the mound, but on this bright, sunny morning of early winter, the frost sparkling on the sedge coloured scrubby grass, such thoughts were far from the minds of the panting friends.
"Beat you" gasped Peter.
Mark was happy to let his friend enjoy his little victory, so contented himself with giving Peter a friendly push.
"Peter", he remarked pensively, "what will happen about your results?"
"Oh, nothing much, though I expect my dad will get mad with me, and I'll probably get shouted at. But here, I'll most likely just get a lecture from the 'D', and told to pull my socks up. Don't worry, I won't get expelled or anything".
The small freckled face with its pugnacious snub nose was set determinedly.
"They'll not get rid of me," he muttered, "I'll show them; I'm going to be a priest. The only person who can change that is me".
But boys had been expelled from St Saviour's in similar circumstances, and Peter knew he would have to watch his step. He duly received his lecture and was warned about the possibility of expulsion if he did not improve, but he lived to fight another day.
For Mark, the thought of the holidays was an excitement that was hard to bear. Though he had not wept since that first night, he had often felt the strain of being away from home and loved ones, grief sometimes causing an ache in his throat and bringing him close to tears. But now, with only a few days of the term left, he found that he was counting the hours and even working out how many minutes and seconds remained. He had always loved his home and family, but the separation had made this love grow almost into a passionate obsession.
The last night finally came. A sense of wild excitement pervaded the school. Cases came down from the box room, and the packing began. The dormitories looked like battlefields, everyone's belongings being heaped on his bed, spilling over onto the floor. Though one or two of the boys were neat, generally being mocked by the others because of it, most of them just crammed their clothes and assorted treasures, newly augmented by the term's acquisitions, into their suitcases. With impatient sighs, the authorities insisted on a semblance of order, and so most of the packing had to be undertaken two or three times, until the results passed muster.
During the day, the boys were allowed out in small groups to go and buy railway tickets; parents had been sending postal orders the previous week to their offspring for this purpose. At supper that night, the Director gave the boys his final holiday briefing.
"Remember boys, on holiday you are still St Saviour's boys, and you must behave as such."
"That means no kissing girls or anything like that" whispered Peter, ever irrepressible.
"Daily Mass is not of obligation as it is in term-time" continued the Director, "but a St Saviour's boy will not be content with only going on Sundays. Prayer, too, must be a part of your daily lives, just as it is here during the term. For the rest, enjoy your holidays and come back next term refreshed and ready for hard work and progress on your journey towards the priesthood. I would sum up the message like this: you are St Saviour's boys on holiday, not on holiday from being St Saviour's boys". This was a favourite aphorism that the Director always used on such occasions, and as he pronounced it, one or two of the senior boys silently mouthed the words with him, to the great amusement of their friends.
That night, with discipline somewhat relaxed, there were sporadic outbursts of pillow-fighting and unofficial feasts, provided by the change left when overgenerous parents had sent more than required for the train fare.
Finally, the patrolling Father Director had good naturedly but firmly ushered all the boys to their separate dormitories and beds, and such fitful sleep as the excitement and tension allowed eventually descended for a few short hours.
The cold morning air was mist-laden, and acrid with the smell of burning coal. The loud speaker droned out its incomprehensible messages of arriving and departing trains; whistles blasted and hooted; it seemed as if half of the population was visiting the other half for Christmas.
"My train is in twenty minutes on platform four" shivered Peter. "Here's yours now".
In the distance, the giant main line express crept relentlessly nearer, groaning and grating as though the slowness of the motion was frustrating its natural urgency for the excitement of speed. As it approached, the crush of expectant travellers pushed closer to the platform's edge.
"See you next term, kid; have a good Christmas".
"You too, Pete". Mark choked on the words as a sudden rush of affection for the friend who had taken care of him in his first term threatened to overwhelm him. There was suddenly so much to say, but no time to say it.
Mark's aching fingers tugged at the heavy suitcase as he struggled with the milling throng to join the train. He turned and glimpsed Peter's cheeky grin as his friend pushed him in the back.
"Go on, get on, you'll never get a seat if you don't hurry up".
A burly sailor took pity on the little boy's struggles, and shepherding Mark in front of him, soon had Mark's case and his own kit bag safely bestowed on the luggage rack of a crowded compartment. A grateful Mark sank into a corner seat and quickly rubbed the steamy glass to see if he could catch a glimpse of Peter. He thought he saw a red cap bobbing in the distance. Was it Peter? He couldn't tell; and with a grinding jolt the express slowly began to pull out of the station.
Two or three years had passed; Mark and Peter were well established in the middle of the ranks at St Saviour's. The steady pattern of life had become a routine; though a routine shot through with moments of excitement and fear, laughter and tears as term-time and holidays alternated and the boys began to grow up.
Mark had swanked about in his first pair of long trousers, proud as Punch of the heavy grey flannel, with the turn-ups touching his shoes. His hair, no longer allowed to fall forward in a childish fringe, was swept back in a quiff.
Peter showed signs of adolescence. His favourite colours became the dark green and blue of the Woodbine and Capstan packets as the cigarette machine, with less discrimination than the shopkeeper, disgorged its exciting contents for the benefit of whoever had inserted the requisite shilling.
"Try one, Mark?" offered Peter one day as they walked, with the necessary permission to the nearby shops.
"Pete, you idiot, don't tell me you've taken up smoking" gasped a horrified Mark. "If anyone sees you, you could get reported".
On occasion, the local parish busybodies were not slow to report such infringements to the authorities. The red blazer was a dead give-away: a St Saviour's boy quickly learned what it meant to be a marked man.
"Maybe you're right. I'll keep it till later". For once, caution had prevailed, and Peter returned the offending packet to the relative security of his blazer pocket. Back at school, however, the boys still had ten minutes before the beginning of the afternoon lessons, and so in the suitably discreet environment of the jungle, the Woodbine was lit with due ceremony. The match rasped on sandpaper, and with a puff of pungent blue smoke, Peter exhaled luxuriously.
"How long have you been smoking?"
"Oh, let's see; I've had the occasional fag before; the first was years ago, before I came to St Saviour's, but I've only been a regular smoker since about the middle of last term".
Mark was amazed. How could you be someone's best friend, and not know that they smoked? There were obviously hidden depths to Peter that he had scarcely begun to guess at.
"Go on, Mark, have a drag".
In similar words, Eve must have persuaded Adam, and so after a hurried glance round, Mark accepted the proffered weed and tentatively took a puff. Drawing the smoke back into his lungs on Peter's instruction, the inevitable bout of spluttering and coughing followed. He hastily handed the cigarette back, but knew that another step on the road to manhood had been taken.
Sucking the statutory mints on the way back to class, the boys talked. Hobbies and interests were slowly changing. St Paul had obviously known the same experience: "When I was a child I thought like a child...but now I am a man, I have put away childish things".
That night after supper, an astute observer might have noticed two shadowy figures making their way down to the jungle. Fortunately there were no astute observers on duty that evening, so the friends went undetected. Mark declined the cigarette Peter casually tossed his way, and in the slowly gathering dusk, Peter's cigarette glowed brightly as he sucked in the fragrant smoke. At first, the boys chatted about this and that; the fortunes of the rival football teams they supported, and the possibilities arising from the imminence of a couple of days free from the regular routine. The Mark casually changed the subject.
"How do you find life at St Saviour's, Pete?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, are you happy here; do you really want to be a priest?"
Peter's casual approach to life and his somewhat bohemian lifestyle baffled Mark. According to the official line, Peter was definitely not framing well as future priest material.
"Yeah, it's OK at St Saviour's; I take the rules and regulations with a pinch of salt, I suppose; I don't see the point of a lot of them. But this I do know: I want to be a priest, or at least I think I do. If you were to ask me why, I'd be stuck for an answer. It's just the way I feel about things. What about you?"
Mark leaned against a tree, his hands in his pockets.
"I've always wanted to be a priest. Like you, I find it hard to explain the reasons. I suppose the faith is in our blood, it's so much a part of us. I'm happy enough here at St Saviour's; the priests seem to be a good bunch, and the thought of being one of them some day is all right by me."
He hesitated for a moment, then continued:
"But I don't know, it's not a very exciting life. I can't imagine myself, somehow, in fifty years tome just living the same old routine, the "regular observance". I love God, or at least I think I do, but I find I get bored with all the praying, and even Mass bores me, too".
"My God, and here's me thinking of you as St Mark" laughed Peter. "Maybe we all get bored by religion. That's why I like my little outlets like the occasional fag, and reading thrillers in study". Peter had graduated from the "Beano" to the works of Leslie Charteris.
"I'm sure religion shouldn't be boring" frowned Mark, concentrating hard. "When you think about the story of Christ's life and death it's all very inspiring. So why don't I feel inspired?"
The young minds had begun to grapple with the age-old questions; questions that perhaps never in their lives would find a satisfactory answer.
"When I was younger I suppose the glamour of the fine vestments and the incense, lights and music played its part. But it doesn't seem enough now".
Peter dropped the stub of his cigarette and ground it out with his heel.
"I see what you mean, but why do you have to dig and question so much? You'll go bonkers thinking about it all. Just take life one day at a time. I think there's even something in the Bible about that: "sufficient for the day" and so on".
"There's something too about even the devil being able to quote Scripture when it suits him" laughed Mark.
"But you need to think about these things".
The friends were growing up, but they were still young enough to have a race back to the main buildings, the last one back to be generally stigmatised as inferior in every respect.
So the middle years at St Saviour's passed, the boys growing and developing as mind and body kept pace. But in some respects, development was muted, to say the least. Mark had always been quickly and deeply smitten by feminine beauty, but now he knew that such feelings had to be kept ruthlessly under control. Admiration had been joined by a more definitely recognised desire, and he could not restrain his eyes from roving along the ranks of the demure young girls of the Children of Mary, a parochial organisation which occupied the front two or three rows of the Parish church when assembled for their weekly meeting and prayers.
One in particular caught his eye and she filled his thoughts and dreams for more than a few weeks. By assiduous though discreet enquiry, he discovered that her name was Marie. Her long, fair hair and smooth, soft complexion made her a beautiful young girl, and he ached with longing for a word or even a glance. Saturday night devotions began to be eagerly anticipated, though he had to console himself with furtive glimpses and the ennobling of his desire through prayer for the adored one. This too salved his conscience, for how could prayer for anyone be wrong?
Lawful opportunities for meeting or speaking with girls were non-existent for the neophyte celibates, but one or two bolder spirits among the inmates of St Saviour's found a way. Mark confined his aspirations to the heart; Peter however was a man of action.
He proudly related his exploits to the scandalised Mark, who listened with a grudging admiration as he unfolded the tale of his conquests.
"She's called Elizabeth, a real smasher. Met her down at the shops. Actually, it was she who made the first move" said Peter, modestly. "She asked if I was from St Saviour's; the local girls call us the untouchables, apparently. I think getting a St Saviour's boy for a boyfriend is quite a feather in their caps. And I didn't mind being got for a boyfriend. Those kisses, wow!"
He showed Mark the love-letters, written in a small, neat hand, unlike the unruly scrawl that Mark and Peter called handwriting. Mark felt a stab of mixed emotions; desire, envy, admiration, as he gazed at the letters, but fear for the safely of his friend was uppermost.
"My God, Pete - a couple of lads were expelled last term for this sort of thing".
"Don't worry, Mark", Peter replied casually. "In love affairs there's a saying, if you can't be good, be careful. I'm careful all right, I won't get caught".
But Mark was deeply troubled. For a few days he nursed his concern, watching anxiously as Peter unobtrusively slipped away at odd moments during the evenings, returning in time for night prayers. But his mind was in a whirl. How could Peter reconcile his chasing after girls with his position as a junior seminarian? The boys had been taught many things about their future lives and aspirations, but the point most strongly made from the very beginning had been that there had to be absolutely no contact with girls under any circumstances. Mark still blushed when he remembered a party he had been at during the holidays; the young people had been playing "postman's knock" or some such game that young people play on such occasions. He had given and received the required pecks on the cheek, and had felt like king David after his seduction of Bathsheba in consequence. But this matter of Peter's philandering was altogether different, Mark recognised that.
"What's the matter, Mark, You've been mooching about for the last few days as though the weight of the world was on your shoulders."
Mark jumped as Brother Thomas' friendly voice cut into his gloomy thoughts one day.
"Nothing, Brother", he hastily replied.
But Brother Thomas was not to be put off. "Come on, Mark, tell me all about it. You know you can trust me".
And Mark knew that he could. He had often confided his childish troubles to Brother Thomas in the past; but of course his present worries dwarfed the petty problems of yesterday.
"Come on, Mark, I'll make us a cup of tea and we can have a chat". So with little choice in the matter, Mark followed Brother Thomas to his room, and was soon perched on the edge of the battered armchair while Brother Thomas sat on the bed.
"Now then, what's all this about? In this room, it's like the confessional; anything you say is in absolute confidence. Father Director or anyone else will never know what you confide in me".
Mark knew he could trust Brother Thomas, but still he hesitated. "It's not really my problem or my secret, Brother, but I would like to talk to someone about it."
So without mentioning names, he unburdened himself of the story of Peter's carryings-on.
"So that's what Peter is up to" mused Brother Thomas.
"It's all right Mark; it's obvious that it is Peter you're worried about. Talk about David and Jonathan - what surprises me is that two such opposites can be such good friends". He smiled faintly and continued: "But I knew Peter was up to something; thank goodness the priests have their heads in the clouds so much, or maybe one of them would have noticed, and then it would have been goodbye Peter. I know he shouldn't be chasing the girls; but after all, it's what all the other young boys of your age outside are doing. Look at it this way, Mark. Boys are like young growing plants. You can train and gently prune a plant, and it will grow into a fine specimen; but if you twist and chop ruthlessly, it will grow into all sorts of weird and distorted shapes. I'm in favour of letting Peter sort this out in his own way. If it turns out that the priesthood is not for him, then it's as well that he finds that out now. But if in fact he has a vocation, then this experience won't do him any harm at all."
This was definitely not the official line, and Mark marvelled at how simple Brother Thomas made it all seem. Feeling happier and more relaxed, Mark began to confide some of his own worries to the brother, and soon the pair were deep in discussion of some of the problems concerning the linking of faith and everyday living. Mark had seen Brother Thomas praying in the chapel for hours on end:
"How do you stick it, Brother?" he asked wonderingly. "I find it hard to concentrate and enjoy the Mass, even for half an hour".
"Everyone keeps telling us that prayer is talking to God" replied the brother. "I think that's where we make our big mistake. Prayer IS talking to God, but that's the less important part of it. Prayer is listening to God, first and foremost, and I'm sure that what God has to say to us is a lot more important than what we have to say to him. Our Lord once said "Listen, you that have ears to hear with". I often think he was being rather funny in a sharp sort of way, just as your teachers might say "wash your ears out, Kennedy" if you aren't paying attention very well in class. He's saying "you've got ears, so use them". Listen to what God has to say".
Mark scratched his head as he tried to assimilate all this. "But how do you listen to God?"
Your catechism tells you that God is everywhere; in other words, in every human being you meet, in the beautiful things all around you, in the things we usually call religious, like the Bible, the Mass and the Sacraments. So just relax and let the message God is trying to give you come through in everything, and I mean everything, that happens to you. That's the secret of prayer as I see it, Mark. Most of the time we tend to try so hard to talk to a God we cannot see and won't let ourselves hear; just try letting God get a word in edgeways, and start the conversation. We do talk to him, but our talk always has to be a reply. After all, it you were to meet the Queen, or someone else important, it would be rather rude of you to try and do all the talking. You let the important person take the lead".
Mark thought about this for a while. "So God is talking to Peter, even in these experiences I'm worrying about?"
"Of course he is" smiled Brother Thomas. "The pity is, though, that the authorities won't see it that way if young Peter gets caught. But don't get hold of the wrong end of the stick; I'm not saying that I think young boys in your position ought to be chasing girls; just that almighty God has his own way of guiding our lives, and it's not always via his official mouthpieces".
Mark rose from the armchair and stretched.
"Thanks, Brother, for what you've said; it's helped a lot".
"Off you go, Mark, and tell young Peter to be careful".
Mark left the room and went out into the garden, blinking in the strong sunshine and revelling in the warmth, suddenly realising how cold and damp it seemed indoors that day. We watched the bees as they busily went about their business among the green, gold and scarlet of the flower beds, marvelled at a pair of dancing butterflies, and basked in the feeling of being young, happy and at peace with God.
With relentless inevitability, the day came when Mark and Peter achieved the dignity of the top table in the refectory, a new generation of small boys occupying the lowlier places. The final exams would be over shortly, and they would then know the brief joys of life in the sixth form, which at St Saviour's was a gentleman's limbo between the G.C.E. 'O' levels and the Novitiate.
"How do you feel about the exams, Pete?"
There was a babble of voices as the sixty or so seminarians of assorted ages tackled the breakfast baked beans and fried bread.
"No wonder we keep farting all day" grumbled Peter. "I wish they'd give us bacon".
"What's bacon?" laughed Mark. "But the exams, Pete; are you going to be all right?"
Mark had good cause to be concerned about his friend, whose academic achievements had not improved over the years.
"Don't worry about it Mark. You'll be OK, and I'll survive; I've survived up till now, haven't I?"
He grinned broadly at his friend. "I've got staying power, you've got to admit that".
Peter's career through St Saviour's had been a chequered one to say the least, and on several occasions the threat of expulsion had hung over him, but somehow he had always avoided the ultimate catastrophe.
The exams were to be held at the nearby convent school, and there was a general flutter of excitement at the thought of mixing with the girls for the sitting of the papers.
"There are some very tasty morsels among that lot" observed Peter as the beginning of the examination period became imminent.
"I tell you, Mark, I know I haven't got a girlfriend now; I must be getting pious in my old age." He glanced sideways his friend, joining his hands and casting his eyes up to heaven. "But a flash of thigh and a glimpse of navy blue still just about sends me berserk".
"I know what you mean" agreed Mark. "It's funny how stirred up you can get just at the sight of a beautiful girl. The way they curve in at the waist and out again over the hips; my God, I don't know how we'll be able to concentrate on the exam papers in the slightest".
But when the day came, the importance of the occasion was such that even the attractions of the girls became no more than a temporary diversion, and the nail-biting tension mounted as the boys and girls waited outside the examination room in their segregated groups.
"Why the hell didn't I work harder?" groaned Peter, as the tension finally penetrated his customary sang froid.
"You know now what the foolish virgins felt like" grinned Mark.
But the Scriptural allusion was lost on Peter, who retorted: "How the hell do I know what the girls are feeling about the exams? I just know that if I'd worked harder I wouldn't be standing here shitting myself".
"Come on, Pete, you'll be OK" consoled his friend. "You have been working, and besides, all that class-work and homework can't have been going in one ear and out of the other completely".
"I just hope they ask the right things, that's all".
The doors opened, and the assembled youngsters moved forward, looking for the numbered desks. The two boys went their separate ways, Mark murmuring to himself an anxious "Hail Mary" as he peered at the numbers on the desks, searching for his own. He found his place, and stood behind the desk.
"Dear Lord", he prayed silently with closed eyes, "help Pete and me to do well in these exams so that we can go on preparing to be your priests".
Peter too was muttering a prayer to himself. "I know I've not been boy wonder at St Saviour's, Lord, but I do want to serve you and I'll try harder in future, I promise. Help me today. And I'll try to be pure in mind and body" he added hastily, as his eye caught the flowing chestnut locks and creamy complexion of the beauty who had been assigned to the desk next to him.
Some days later, the last exam safely out of the way, the two friends compared notes.
"Thank God they're over and done with" Peter sighed, as he sorted through the grubby last minute lists of history dates and Latin irregular verbs before consigning them to the waste paper basket, their function as aides-memoir completed for better or worse.
"Want a fag, Mark?" Though still in general a non-smoker, Mark allowed himself to bend the rules as far as an occasional cigarette.
"Thanks, Pete, I think we've earned it".
The two were strolling among the trees in the jungle a few minutes later, as smoking still required a great deal of circumspection.
"Just one more year in this dump, then it's off to the Nov. Looking forward to it, Mark?"
"I think so; it'll be a challenge, but I must admit I'm a bit scared about it. I suppose it is a step into the great unknown. A little bit like dying, in a way".
"There's a lot to give up" said Peter, reflectively. "I see what you mean about dying. Maybe it'll shrivel up and drop off", he added crudely. "But seriously, I think this talk about dying to the world seems a good way of putting it. The impression you get is that it's a different world that we'll be entering when we go to the Novitiate. It's some thought, though. No sex, ever; no booze, at least for the first couple of years; no money; do as you're told".
Mark shivered. "It sounds so stark when you put it like that. The thought that we'll never be able to take a girl in our arms and say 'I love you';" He paused for a moment. A couple of sparrows were chasing each other through the leafy glades, and the air felt crisp and fresh. "Life outside has a hell of a lot going for it", he continued. "Life inside seems so - well - unattractive, somehow. What makes us want to be priests, Pete?"
Trying to rationalise his wish to be a priest was a problem that Mark had endeavoured to solve on not a few occasions. He had no great or burning desire to convert the heathen in Africa, or in Britain too for that matter. Working in a parish seemed humdrum and ordinary; why did he want to be a priest? Yet he was certain that this was his allotted path; he wanted to be a priest. He had spoken to father Director about it on occasion, and also to his confessor in his weekly frequentation of the Sacrament on a Saturday night, but the best advice he had received was that a vocation was an inner summons, a call to be obeyed, whether one liked it or not, it would seem. The attractions of the world were temptations to be overcome; to give up one's vocation for them would be a contemptible cowardice and treachery. One priest had said:
"You become a priest not because you want to, but because God want you to". Mark thought of the passion and death of Christ; "Not my will, but Thine be done", Christ had prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane. Giving his life as a sacrifice for others in union with the crucified Christ made a kind of sense, Mark pondered; well, what this sacrifice entailed they would learn in the not too distant future.
Mark voiced some of these thoughts to Peter, who, true to form, tended to dismiss them rather lightly. The priesthood was still years in the future, and even the sacrifices entailed in entering the Novitiate were a year away. It was one thing to discuss them in a detached sort of way, but quite another to start worrying too much about them at this stage. The year of the sixth form still intervened, and the possibilities arising from that were distinctly interesting.
During their years at St Saviour's, Mark and Peter had often looked up enviously to the sixth formers; at last they had themselves achieved these dizzy heights. New privileges became theirs; a separate common room to enable them to escape from the vulgar herd; the occasional permission to stay up late for suitable programmes on the television, and even the occasional cigarette, officially permitted in strictly controlled circumstances. The curriculum was very free and easy; in most ordinary sixth forms, the G.C.E. 'A' levels were the goal after two gruelling years. At St Saviour's, the Novitiate followed a single year. In consequence, a little gentlemanly dabbling in Latin literature and basic Greek, together with some English literature, history and general social studies just about summed up the academic activities.
It was during this final year that the dirty picture scandal rocked St Saviour's. Some not particularly explicit glamour photographs had been found in the desk of one wretched boy from the fourth year. The whole school had been assembled after breakfast with the realisation that something Big was in the air. An atmosphere of hushed expectancy hung over the assembled throng, and though it was a full five minutes before the Director strode in before them, there was no impatient shuffling as there would normally have been.
Tight lipped, he quietly announced that one of the boys had that morning been expelled. "This is the reason" he added, his voice gradually rising in volume. "These disgusting pictures were found in his desk". The voice rose to a deafening crescendo. "Pictures like these stink of hell; hell and eternal damnation". In shocked silence, the rows of white faces stared up at the Director, whose seething anger was gradually being brought back under control. In quieter tones, but with a voice full of determined menace, he continued:
"If any more of this filth is ever discovered here at St Saviour's, the instigators will be publicly expelled before the whole school. If necessary, I would close down the whole establishment, expel you all, to purge this evil from our midst. It would be better to close the school and make a fresh start than to allow such a risk of sin and pollution to flourish among us. Consider this as a solemn warning".
With that, he turned on his heel and left the room. After a few minutes waiting in uneasy silence, the boys were dismissed. Mark walked alone in the garden, his mind in a turmoil. The possibility of sin in sexual matters, or rather the near-inevitability of sin seemed to strike him with particular force. He had often been told that the slightest thought in these areas, willingly consented to, was mortally sinful. He had long known this in theory, but now it seemed to come home to him with a dreadful urgency and reality. The world, which had seemed innocent and desirable, suddenly became the haunt of demonic beasts, lurking and lying in wait to entrap him with their disgustingly cloying webs of sensuality. How could one go through life with in-built sexual desires never far beneath the surface, waiting to be roused by the random thoughts and images that existed all around? To open a newspaper or to walk down the street was to be confronted with the occasions of sin. The more he thought about it, the greater grew the sickening sense of despair.
He said nothing about this to Peter or to anybody else, though his friend knew almost at once that something was troubling him. The more he worried, the more sexual thoughts rose to pester him. Desperately wielding prayer like a battle-axe, he drove back the threatening throng, clinging to the thought that as long as he prayed, he could not give full consent to the temptations.
One week, he tried to talk about his worries to the priest in the confessional. "These thoughts are filthy" replied the priest. "Try to think of them in that way; as disgusting rather than attractive. One of the Latin authors had a saying: 'Inter faeces et urinas nascimur omnes'. Just think that sexuality is concerned with those parts of the body that we think of as dirty, unclean. That will make it seem much less attractive. Then your mind will want to turn to more wholesome, cleaner matters". He paused for a moment, then continued in the same vein: "The Scripture tells us that the sinner goes back to his sin like a dog to its vomit. So we must be pure and noble, above the filth of sin".
Needless to say, this advice did nothing to help. "Am I a dirty, disgusting wretch" wondered Mark. "Maybe I'm depraved, a pervert; this is perhaps what is meant by being a dirty old man; the only difference being that I'm still young."
Fortunately, Mark's dismal mooching about did not escape the eye of brother Thomas for long, and it did not take much persuasion for Mark to join the brother in his room, sipping the obligatory mug of hot tea. After much blushing and stammering, and after a few false starts, the story emerged. Once set upon the theme, the inhibitions gave way, and Mark, in tears, poured out his heart and soul to his friend.
Brother Thomas let him continue, the burden lifting as the words tumbled out. "Ought I to leave, brother? I'm not fit to be a priest, I know. Maybe I should look for a proper outlet for these feelings in marriage?"
The brother smiled. "The way you make it sound, Mark, it's a wonder you don't feel that you couldn't inflict such a beast as yourself on some poor girl!" "I'm only joking", he added hastily, "to help you to see how silly it all can look. Not that it is silly; I know you've been through hell the last few weeks. But it is so easy to get things out of proportion, and that's what has happened".
"Let's take things from the beginning. And in the beginning, God made man and woman. The desire of man and woman for each other is a holy thing, Mark, a God-established thing. There is nothing unclean about it, or about the human body, for that matter. Don't ever let anyone persuade you otherwise. We insult God's wisdom and creation when we despise the human body, and unfortunately, there has been a tendency in the Church to fall into this heresy for centuries. When you get to the Novitiate, you'll find lots of this in the old ascetical books. Always remember to take it with a pinch of salt, and you won't go far wrong."
Mark looked at him and smiled tentatively over the steaming tea, and brother Thomas continued:
"Don't be afraid of your desires, Mark; they are good and they are there for a purpose. Talking about bad thoughts; it's a good thing that someone thinks such thoughts on occasion, or there wouldn't be many people around in the world! About mortal sin, too: remember it's not so much a deed done, as an attitude of heart. To be mortal sin, something you do has to be an expression of an evil heart. It takes a lot of wicked determination to commit one; it's not something easily fallen into on the spur of the moment. In fact my own feeling is that very few people ever actually do commit such a sin".
Mark smiled at the brother.
"Brother Thomas, you make everything seem so good, so simple".
"It is simple, Mark; that's how Our Lord made it. 'You shall love the Lord your God with your whole heart, and your neighbour as yourself.' Just think of that and you won't go far wrong. As long as you are trying honestly and sincerely to love God an everyone else, then you can't be far from where God wants you to be. Now off you go, and start smiling again".
Mark left the brother's room, and on a sudden impulse, went along the corridor to the chapel. Inside, he knelt down and prayed: "Thank you Lord for the gift of brother Thomas as a true friend to help and guide me".
He sat down, and was content to enjoy the peace which once again filled his heart. Later, he went looking for Peter.
"Hi there, misery guts, how's it going?"
Peter grinned at his friend. "You've been walking around like a wet weekend for the past while now; I knew something was up, but you seem different again today. Maybe you've been constipated, and have just managed a good shit" he added crudely.
"That's true, in a way."
Mark was happy enough to let it rest at that, and Peter, relieved at Mark's obvious change of mood, forbore to pester his friend for all the details of his recent crisis.
The year slowly passed; winter gave way to the tentative early days of Spring, and the Novitiate began to loom closer.
One day, Peter suddenly grabbed Mark by the shoulder. "What are we going to do in the summer holidays? It's the last taste of freedom before the Nov. Let's do something as a sort of last fling".
"What do you have in mind?"
"Oh, I don't know. A holiday abroad, maybe; something like that".
The practical Mark pondered. "Sounds great; there's only one problem, apart from getting our parents to agree. What about cash?"
This seemingly insoluble problem put a temporary end to the speculation, but the seed had been sown. With two fertile minds bent to the problem, an answer was certain to emerge. It was Mark who came up with the solution.
"I've got it, Pete; why not make our holiday a trip to Lourdes? It's somewhere I've often felt I'd like to visit, and who knows? It might be our last chance, at least for the next ten years or so."
Peter tugged his lower lip dubiously.
"I don't know about Lourdes; wouldn't it be all prayer and so on? Besides how does that solve the money problem?"
Mark waved a deprecatory hand. "Don't worry, the genius has got it all weighed up. First of all, it wouldn't be all praying at Lourdes, not by a long chalk. It's supposed to be a beautiful place in itself, at the foothills of the Pyrenees, snow-capped mountains, crystal-clear streams tinkling through rocky valleys, with little alpine meadows dotted about".
"OK, Thomas Cook, you've sold it to me. But the cash, doubloons, coin of the realm?" he asked, clicking his fingers like a spiv demanding payment for his black market contraband.
"Here's the sheer brilliance of the scheme" replied Mark, modestly. "Parents and grandparents; we've a few of them between the two of us; work out how much at the very least we'll need, and then we'll put our cards on the table. Two young men, about to give their lives to the service of the Church, want to make a pilgrimage to Lourdes to obtain God's blessing and help for the future, and all that sort of thing. They wouldn't shell out for a week in Blackpool for us, maybe, but this is different".
And so it proved. The selling point was irresistible, and with return rail fares calculated, together with a modest amount of spending money, and accommodation arranged at the 'Cite Secours', where pilgrims could stay and simply pay what they could afford, the final hurdles were easily overcome. The families agreed to support the venture, and so the holiday-cum-pilgrimage was arranged.
Mark and Peter's last term at St Saviour's finally drew to its close, and the day of departure from St Saviour's duly arrived.
"Your time at St Saviour's is over" father Director remarked at supper on the eve of departure. "These years have been important, but what lies ahead is of vastly greater moment. You have four weeks holiday before you are due at the Novitiate; use the time well to prepare for what lies in front of you. Your childhood is over; manhood now beckons. May God bless and guide you to the great goal of the priesthood."
The speech was greeted with a cheer by the assembled junior seminarians, who clapped their hands and stamped their feet to speed the departing seniors on their way.
Next morning, after bidding farewell to brother Thomas and promising to keep in touch, and after many slaps on the back and thumps on the arm from all and sundry, Mark and Peter found themselves on the platform of the main line station once again.
"I remember saying goodbye to you for the first time on this very platform, Pete" said Mark. "It seems like a lifetime ago".
Well, it's six years or so, kid; maybe the best six of our lives, if what some of the rumours say about our future lives are true." He groaned and shrugged his shoulders. "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may".
But Mark was in no mood for gloomy prognostications.
"It's an adventure, Pete - see it like that".
"Blood, sweat and tears, more like; still, I suppose it's the price of the priesthood."
"Just make sure you're at Victoria Station next Thursday at 9.00 a.m. sharp. I'll see you there," laughed Mark, leaning out of the window as his train pulled out.
With a laconic wave of the hand, Peter grinned, and turned away to look for his own train.
Precisely seven minutes late, the boat train pulled out from Victoria station the following Thursday with the two intrepid travellers lounging at their ease in corner seats, luggage safely bestowed on the rack above. The lighter clicked, and the blue smoke from the Senior Service cigarettes curled lazily towards the roof. The grimy London suburbs quickly slipped away, and soon the train was racketing along through the Kent countryside, the great adventure of foreign travel now well and truly under way.
"I hope your French is up to this lark" remarked Peter. "I'm bloody useless at it, so you'll have to be chief interpreter".
"As long as we can get directions we'll be fine" his friend reassured him.
"How do you say 'where is the nearest pub?', or 'you have gorgeous legs, baby'?"
Mark smiled at his friend. "If the occasion arises, I'll find the right words somehow; trouble is, I'd be speaking for you, but it would be me who'd get my face slapped".
With the good natured banter, the journey was over almost before they realised it, and within a remarkably short time, the train was drawing up within sight of the cross-channel ferry.
"That must be it", exclaimed Peter, boyish excitement bubbling over, dispelling for a moment the air of maturity he was usually at pains to cultivate.
Passport control safely negotiated, the moment of embarkation arrived. The oily, salty sickly smell of the ship hit them as they boarded.
"God, I hope I won't be sick" groaned Peter.
"Here, take one of these". Mark's mother had made sure her son was well provided with such essentials as seasickness pills, and so suitably fortified, the two friends went on a tour of exploration.
"We're moving" cried Mark, as he suddenly noticed through a window as the quay slipped past, the cranes dipping and swinging, and a hooter sounding mournfully in the distance. Up on deck, they watched the white cliffs recede. A curious sense of regret, almost, seemed to come over them.
"Bye-bye, Blighty" commented Peter, his years spent in the perusal of 'Wizard' and 'Hotspur' not entirely fruitless.
"Come on, Mark. Let's get a drink."
Downstairs in the bar, the atmosphere was warm and fuggy, the beer fizzy and expensive, but it tasted delicious as the ham sandwiches were hungrily wolfed down.
The sea crossing was short and calm; very soon Mark and Peter found themselves on French soil, the sights and sounds of a strange country a source of wonder and delight. Paris was a mad scramble as they crossed from the Gare du Nord to the Gare de Lyon for the journey south. Mark's French proved adequate to the task of seeking directions and ensuring that they boarded the correct train, and so exhausted, they sank into their seats as the express began the long journey across France.
The sky was a vision of gold, blue, scarlet and purple as the train hurtled south, gradually giving way to the darker shades of night. On and on through the long hours of night the express rattled and swayed, dimly lit towns and villages a vague and confused impression.
Eventually, weariness took over, and Peter slept. Mark walked in the corridor to stretch his legs, his mind turning to the experiences which lay ahead.
"Lord, make this pilgrimage a real experience of faith for me" he prayed, staring out into the darkness. "Teach me how to give myself generously to you".
Restlessly, he walked along to the toilet, and after relieving himself, quickly washed his sticky, grimy face. Try as he would, however, he could not rid himself of the acrid taste of travel in his dry mouth. Rejoining Peter, who nodded and lurched with the train as he slept, undisturbed by the motion, he too eventually dozed into a fitful sleep.
Several times he awoke, once to find a bedraggled Peter smoking a cigarette.
"God, I've got a mouth like a piece of shit in a sandlot" croaked Peter. "What time is it?"
Mark fumbled for his watch.
"Twenty past three; we're due in at Lourdes at half past nine".
Between alternate bouts of sleeping, desultory conversation, and staring out at the lightening French countryside, the seemingly endless journey finally drew to its conclusion.
"There's the basilica" exclaimed Mark, and slowly, the long train gradually came to a standstill. Not being one of the pilgrimage trains, only a few passengers descended. Mark and Peter, laden with baggage and feeling as if they hadn't slept for a week, pushed their way down through the crowded streets. Lourdes was already a mass of bustling pilgrims, hurrying back to their hotels for breakfast after the morning Masses. Further and further down they trudged, gazing in wonder at the unending souvenir shops, rosary beads, statues and illuminated grottoes piled high, plastic Lourdes water bottles hung up in bunches, rattling gently in the soft morning breeze.
Finally they came to the large open square in front of the basilica, with its two all-embracing arms surrounding them.
"The grotto's just through there, on the right" whispered Mark, a reverent and awed silence having fallen on the pair as they stood and stared.
"Let's have a look before we go searching for the Cite Secours".
So on past the huge racks of candles for sale, and the throngs of pilgrims queuing for Lourdes water, the two new pilgrims finally stood before the grotto, gazing up at the statue of Our Lady in the niche, the image occupying the very spot where the Blessed Virgin had appeared to Bernardette in what seemed the not too distant past. For a moment, they seemed to be transported back, the marvellous events had only happened yesterday. They sank to their knees onto the polished marble pavement, and bowed their heads. A sense of awe at the holiness of the place had come over them, and they both prayed in their own way, asking Our Lady to look after them and their families.
"Be my mother and guide in my journey to the priesthood", prayed Mark, while Peter groped for his rosary beads.
After a few minutes, the two quietly rose to their feet, and almost reluctantly retraced their steps to the gate at the edge of the Domaine. There, they felt free to talk normally again.
"It's some place, Pete, don't you think?"
For once, the usually irreverent Peter was quiet and thoughtful.
"It certainly is", he replied. "I'm glad you had the idea of coming here, Mark. I think it's going to be an experience we'll remember for the rest of our lives".
Then pressing human needs supervened, and so they quickly adjourned to a nearby cafe where pilgrims were enjoying huge steaming cups of cafe au lait and croissants.
"Let's get ourselves wrapped round a bit of that" said Peter enthusiastically. "Come on, Mark, get that parley-vous going, and sort us out some breakfast".
Half an hour later, rested and refreshed, the young men rose from the squeaking plastic chairs, and toiled up the nearby hill, following the directions Mark had managed to obtain from an official looking gentleman at the gates of the Domaine.
They found that the Cite Secours was a modern, well-appointed camp for communal living, which made an ideal base for their stay. After a good wash and midday meal, they felt sufficiently energetic to retrace their steps back into the centre of the town to explore. They missed the afternoon Blessed Sacrament procession, but joined in the evening torch light procession, their two candles lost in the twinkling mass of surging, singing humanity.
"It really brings home to you the fact that the Church is Catholic, or universal" observed Mark. "There must have been prayers and hymns in six languages at least".
They were walking back through the darkened streets afterwards.
"One in the eye for the Proddies, eh?" laughed Peter.
The first faint stirring of the Ecumenical movement had yet to touch the Catholic community in general, at least in the British Isles. The Catholic Church was the one, true Church, and all the other Christians were simply dabbling at the edge of the pool.
"It's a great family that we belong to; it makes you proud to feel we'll be serving it as priests one day".
They stopped at one of the cafe's for a drink, and content, sat smoking and discussing the day's events. There was a lot to fit into the few days of their visit, and so they agreed to make an early start next day, but not too early, Peter amended hastily. Arriving back at the Cite Secours, they sank gratefully into the narrow bunk-beds, and soon were fast asleep, a sleep that was deep and long as nature took its toll of their exhausted frames.
It was nearly nine when they awoke, and scrambling out of bed, only just managed to make it to the dining room in time for breakfast.
"We'll have to do better than this, Pete" laughed Mark as he dipped the hard roll into the dark bitter coffee in the wide brimmed cup.
"Come on, let's get down to Lourdes again".
They gulped down the hot coffee, and munched the remains of the hard rolls with butter and apricot jam, then it was off down the hill, cameras slapping against their chests as they strode down the dusty road. Lizards basking in the hot, morning sun scampered away as their shadows passed, but before long they were back in the town, exploring the souvenir shops, burying postcards to send back home. Everywhere they went, the darkly beautiful face of the young peasant girl Bernardette gazed at them from a hundred postcards. Mark bought as many different ones as he could find; ever the romantic, he was unconsciously falling in love with the young girl Saint. He said nothing to Peter, fearing his friend's mockery, but he visited the houses and the convent connected with Bernardette with a new fervour. His favourite place was the Cachot, or prison cell which had served the Soubirous family as a home at the time of the apparitions, and to his great joy, an English-speaking priest asked him to serve his Mass there the following morning.
And so the days passed, with the constant round of visits to the Grotto, the processions and the ice-cold waters of the baths. They had heard all sorts of stories about being plunged into the dirty water in which countless diseased bodies before them had been bathed, but nothing daunted, found the water clear and pure when their turn to don the freezing, clammy loin cloths arrived.
One afternoon, they made the stations of the cross on the rocky hillside above the Grotto, Mark content to walk round in his shoes, but Peter, braver or more foolhardy, insisting on joining the tough penitents who made the journey barefoot. Unfortunately, the devotional aspects of the way of the cross were slightly marred when Peter, not watching where he was going, stubbed his toe painfully on a sharp rock.
"Fucking hell" he groaned as the blood oozed out, the old unredeemed Peter surfacing temporarily. But grace triumphed, and with emergency first-aid applied and shoes resumed, the exercise was successfully completed.
The pilgrimage drew to its close; with a last look back at the basilica and Grotto, the two friends settled back into their seats as the express slowly started the long journey back to the north. Many hours later, two dirty, scruffy and tired young men made their farewells as they travelled on the Underground from Victoria to the northbound stations of Euston and King's Cross, before journeying on to their respective homes. Mark sighed.
"Just over a week at home, then it's off to the Nov. Enjoy it, Pete - see you there".
"My God, it's some thought, Mark. The condemned man ate a hearty breakfast".
"Thanks for the past week or so, Pete; it's been a fantastic experience. Glad we did it?"
"Course I am, Mark. It was great. But don't let your enthusiasm carry you away. Keep your feet on the ground, or you're sure to come a cropper when some bugger kicks you up the arse".
"Always the cynic, Pete", laughed Mark. Then his mood suddenly changing, "Take care, Pete; you've always been a good friend to me. I'm glad we're facing the future together".
"Yeah, kid", replied Peter hastily, embarrassed by the threatened descent into sentimentality.
"Just enjoy your last few days of freedom, and then we'll sort out this Novitiate lark together".
"Lambs to the slaughter" he muttered enigmatically to himself as he left the underground train at Euston, leaving Mark to travel on to King's Cross, a couple of stops further on.
As his train drew into the station of his home town, Mark smiled to himself, and resolved to follow Peter's advice, and make the most of the next few days. Life was good, he felt; he was young, and life in its varied fascination lay before him. The Novitiate was something to be feared, up to a ;point; but in a way it held the fascination that any slightly fearful experience exercises. "Childe Harold to the dark tower came", he quoted to himself, shivering with a not altogether unpleasant sense of foreboding. But this was still some days away, and first, there was the joy of homecoming to be experienced.
At home, the family gave him its usual warm welcome; his mother had his favourite meal prepared for him when he came downstairs after a long hot soak in the bath; his sister Brenda made her boyfriend stay and listen to the adventures, while young Tony dug into his elder brother's luggage, hunting for the promised presents.
Mark had always enjoyed a warm and loving relationship with his family; Brenda had been an elder sister who worshipped her tow younger brothers, but none the less kept them in order, while Mark and Tony had done everything together since they had been small children. In the early days before St Saviour's, they had shared a room with twin beds, but more often than not the two little boys had finished the night curled up together in the same bed.
During his years at St Saviour's, this warm family relationship had been a constant delight, with holidays looked forward to with longing, and the return to school an ache to be stoically endured.
Now he was starting his last short holiday with them before the Novitiate; he knew that it would be years before he saw his home again. The few remaining days were precious; but they passed all too quickly, and served merely to make Mark realise the depth of the love he felt for them, and so the pain of separation was all the greater when the day of departure for the Novitiate came. He managed to restrain the tears, though only just, but as he sat in the train, numb with grief, he knew that the family at home would be sharing the same pain.
"Welcome to the Novitiate, brother".
The new title sounded strange in Mark's ears as he passed through the heavy wooden double doors into the stark, stone-floored corridor.
"The other postulants are in the common room, waiting for supper. Leave your cases in your room, and join them there for the time being".
The Novice Master was a gentle, elderly priest, totally unlike the novice Masters of myth and legend, who were first cousins to Torquemada if the stories handed down were true. Feeling a certain sense of reassurance, Mark followed the elderly priest up two flights of stairs and along another corridor. At last, they came to Mark's designated room. Already it bore the title "Brother Kennedy". Inside, it was severely simple, with a bed, table and chair, washstand with jug and basin, and curtianed-off clothes cupboard. The floor was of bare wood, highly polished. A crucifix and picture of Our Lady were the only adornments on the wall.
"I hope you'll be comfortable" smiled the priest. "So freshen up, then join the others in the common room until supper time. Do you think you will be able to find your way there? It's along this corridor, down the stairs at the end, then first door on the left".
With that, he left Mark to his thoughts. It didn't seem too bad after all, he pondered with a certain sense of relief. The Novice Master seemed to be approachable, and though life was obviously going to be Spartan, he felt that it could probably be bearable.
After a quick wash, he followed the directions he had been given, and found the common room without difficulty. Opening the door, he found a small group of young men, talking quietly. He recognised Peter and the three other classmates who made up that year's contribution from St Saviour's.
"Hello, Mark", one of them laughed. "Good to see you made it".
Mark looked round.
"Where's Chris?"
"Chickened out, I think", replied Peter. "I'm beginning to wonder whether he hadn't the best idea".
He then added casually:
"Have a look in that cupboard".
Wonderingly, Mark opened the cupboard door. Inside was a row of pegs, on which hung some small five-thonged whips, and some spiked bracelets. Goggle-eyed, Mark stood and stared.
"What the hell are those?" he gasped.
"I'm told they're called disciplines" replied Peter. "Apparently, we've got to whip ourselves with them, for penance. Bloody crazy, if you ask me. Still, shut that door; I don't know whether we're supposed to know about it yet".
Mark did as he was told, wondering to himself what further surprises the future held.
A few minutes later, a bell sounded and Mark followed the others down another flight of stairs to the refectory, where the small group of young men, feeling somewhat conspicuous in their civilian attire, waited patiently, whispering among themselves.
Suddenly, a distant clatter of footsteps could be heard, and along the corridor in an orderly line processed the novices and community, soberly attired in their black habits. The novices were the previous year's intake who would shortly be professed; there were four of them, tow of whom Mark recognised as being the year ahead of him at St Saviour's. They were immediately recognisable, though they looked thinner; gaunt even, with hair cut short, almost to the bone.
With eyes cast down they waited at the door; the Novice Master then ushered Mark and the other postulants into the refectory, indicating their places. Then the novices and community followed. After a Latin grace, the meal commenced and as expected, the father Superior allowed conversation after a little reading.
Later, the Novice Master assembled the novices and postulants in the novitiate common room, and addressed them.
"Today we welcome the postulants, the young men who have come to begin their religious lives in the Order. You have a great deal to learn, but what is why you are here. Everything may seem rather strange at first, but you'll be surprised at how quickly the Regular Observance becomes second nature to you. You will learn to base your lives on this."
As he spoke, he held aloft a small black book.
"This is the Holy Rule. You will each be given a copy, and it is to be carefully studied. But it is not simply a list of regulations; you must look upon it as a way of life. You must learn to love the Holy Rule. Keep the Rule, and the Rule will keep you."
A shiver ran down Mark's spine, and he glanced at Peter, who winked back.
"Your lives are to be based on three great principles, which are enshrined in the vows you will take at the end of your year here; vows that the Novices are due to take at their profession in a few week's time. These are the vows of Poverty, Chastity, and Obedience. The Rule explains these, and if you follow the Rule faithfully, then the vows will automatically fall into place."
He then paused before continuing, while his audience looked on expectantly.
"And now a few practical pointers. I am your superior in all matters, so any questions or problems, come to me. You will find me, I hope, approachable and ready to help. My job is to teach your the Religious Life; submit to my guidance, and all will be plain sailing. We shall shortly be having night prayers; after night prayers, the Great Silence begins; from then until breakfast there is to be strict silence. Is that understood?"
He then briefly outlined a few more matters of immediate application, then left the common room to join the community for recreation, leaving the novices and postulants to become acquainted during what remained of the recreation period.
There were seven postulants in the year; besides Mark and Peter, there were their three classmates from St Saviour's, Martin, Eric and Tony, and to 'outsiders'; David, who had come straight from school but had completed his 'A' levels and so was a year older than the St Saviour's boys, and finally Ken, an older man in his late twenties, who was known as a 'late vocation'.
The novices took the lead and introduced themselves to the newcomers, and soon the whole group was chatting happily together, the novices trying to answer the questions fired at them machine-gun fashion by the curious beginners.
Naturally enough, the instruments of penance seen earlier were the subject of much questioning, not to say a little ribaldry, though one of the novices portentously announced that they would not find these things quite so funny when they started to use them. They were not used by postulants, but they would be issued with the full complement of discipline and cilice, or spiked bracelet, on receiving the habit after about three weeks.
Peter was muttering something under his breath about 'crackpots' when a bell sounded, and immediately the whole group retired to the church for night prayers.
Later, lying in bed, Mark pondered fearfully on what lay ahead. He had heard of the ascetical idea of being dead to the world, or mortifying the flesh, and wondered whether this dying business was going to be a painful experience.
Just then, a gentle tap sounded at the door, and on his call of 'come in', Peter slipped quietly into the room.
"Just popped in for a chat and a smoke" he announced. "We haven't had a chance to have a gab since you got here."
"Pete", whispered Mark urgently, "What about this Great Silence business?"
"Ah, balls" replied his friend cheerfully. "We'll keep it low, and no-one will know".
He took out his cigarettes, and tossed one over to Mark.
"Should we, Pete?" he asked. "We might get thrown out if we're caught".
"If they throw us out for that, then God help us when something serious happens".
So talking in whispers, sitting by the open window, they compared notes, swapping details of their last few days at home, and first impressions of the novitiate. They agreed that the regime seemed to be almost unbelievably strict, and wondered a little disconsolately about their chances of survival. It was well known that a reasonably high dropout rate was to be expected.
However, the next few days proved that human beings can adapt to almost any situation. The routine was quickly established, and the constant round of prayer, work, recreation and rest became second nature to them. Small treats became highlights almost childishly anticipated.
The novices quickly and skilfully taught the postulants the ground rules, and so by the time they entered their pre-profession retreat, the newcomers, on their own for the first time since their arrival, felt more or less at home.
The day before the profession, the postulants were solemnly invested with the habit, and for the first time stood admiring themselves in their unfamiliar, but thrilling garb. The same evening, they were presented with a copy of the Rule, to be learned and thoroughly assimilated, and also with their instruments of penance. As they sat in the common room at evening recreation, nervously examining the wire spikes of the cilices and the sinister looking waxed thongs of the disciplines, differing emotions ran through their minds; a sort of nervous fear, tinged with a little excitement and distaste; looking back years later, Mark thought just like Victorian brides on their wedding night.
Next morning, when talking was allowed after breakfast, the compared notes, all admitting to having tried them out tentatively, but not with any degree of severity.
The profession day passed in a whirl of activity, and the next day, the newly professed religious departed for the major seminary, leaving their recently established successors in sole occupancy of the Novitiate quarters.
The following day was a Wednesday, a day which in many ways summed up Novitiate life.
At six o'clock the main bell sounded, and a brother came round knocking on every door to rouse the sleeper within.
Wearily, Mark stretched and tumbled out of bed onto the hard boards. Shivering slightly, he quickly washed in the ice-cold water and shaved, a not too difficult task as his beard had not yet attained the density of full manhood. He then knelt down by his bed and said his morning prayers,. Once again the bell rang, and knowing it was time he got himself down to the church for morning meditation, he rolled up his left sleeve, and clumsily tried to fasten the cilice onto his arm. After two or three attempts he finally succeeded, and gingerly rolled his sleeve back down over his arm, wincing slightly as the spiked wire nipped his flesh.
As he emerged from his room the other doors were opening, and he joined the group that silently made its way down the stairs to the church. There, on the stroke of half past six, the half hour's meditation began.
After a short prayer, one of the novices appointed for the purpose read out a passage from the designated book of meditation themes, and then silence once more fell over the assembled community. Trying to keep his throbbing arm off the bench, Mark endeavoured to think about the words he had just heard, but nothing seemed to strike a chord, and soon his mind was wandering freely over all sorts of topics.
"Distractions" he commented silently to himself, and again tried to drag his mind back to the subject matter. Next to him, Peter, his hair shorn in the traditional novitiate haircut, was making similar valiant efforts. He did not notice the cilice, as he had fastened it just tightly enough to avoid its falling off. his knees aching at the hardness of the kneeler, suddenly demanded relief, and so he leaned with his forearms on the bench to shift his position. A sharp stab of pain quickly reminded him of the cilice, and so carefully shifting his weight onto his right arm, he managed to make himself a little more comfortable.
"I hate meditation" he muttered to himself, and doggedly tried to think elevated thoughts. At a quarter to seven, the reader once again rose to his feet, and read the second point which was of as little use to the struggling prayers as the first. The battle of concentration lasted a further quarter of an hour, and then thankfully the appointed priest emerged from the sacristy for Mass. As this brought them back to more familiar ground, most of the novices sighed with relief, and found themselves strangely more able than normal to concentrate on the ageless liturgy in which they were sharing.
Afterwards, however, there was the effort of thanksgiving, which like meditation was a struggle in concentration, without even the help of a point being read out. But after what seemed an age, they heard the raps on the bench which signalled the end of the exercise, and hungrily, they processed to the refectory for breakfast.
Hot coffee, porridge, and as much brown bread and butter as they liked; the young men rapidly demolished all before them. As talking was permitted for a short time after breakfast, there was no temptation to linger too long over the coffee, and so in a short time Mark and Peter found themselves in the garden, where the first task was to roll up the sleeve and remove the cilice, the prescribed period of wear being over.
"Phew, that's a relief" gasped Mark, as he tucked the wire instrument into the front of his habit and examined the weals left by it with a sense of pride and achievement.
"How did you find it, brother?"
"Brother?" exclaimed Peter, "What do you mean, brother? I'm not calling you brother after sitting next to you day in, day out for the past six years".
"But we're supposed to, Pete", cried Mark, ever the law-abiding citizen.
"Save it for when you might be overheard. It's barmy, if you ask me, like this penance business. What would your family say if they knew about that?"
"I shudder to think" grinned Mark.
Just