censer at Benediction, sitting off to the side with the palms of my hands
on my knees all serious while he gives his sermon, everyone in St.
Josephs looking at me and admiring my ways.
In a fortnight I have the Mass in my head and its time to go to St.
Josephs to see the sacristan, Stephen Carey, who is in charge of altar
boys. Dad polishes my boots. Mam darns my socks and throws an extra
coal on the fire to heat up the iron to press my shirt. She boils water to
scrub my head, neck, hands and knees and any inch of skin that shows.
She scrubs till my skin burns and tells Dad she wouldnt give it to the
world to say her son went on the altar dirty. She wishes I didnt have
scabby knees from running around kicking canisters and falling down
pretending I was the greatest footballer in the world. She wishes we had
a drop of hair oil in the house but water and spit will keep my hair from
sticking up like black straw in a mattress. She warns me speak up when
I go to St. Josephs and dont be mumbling in English or Latin. She says,
Tis a great pity you grew out of your First Communion suit but you
have nothing to be ashamed of, you come from good blood, McCourts,
Sheehans, or my mothers family the Guilfoyles that owned acre after
acre in County Limerick before the English took it away and gave it to
footpads from London.
Dad holds my hand going through the streets and people look at us
because of the way were saying Latin back and forth. He knocks at the
sacristy door and tells Stephen Carey,This is my son, Frank, who knows
the Latin and is ready to be an altar boy.
Stephen Carey looks at him, then me. He says,We dont have room
for him, and closes the door.
Dad is still holding my hand and squeezes till it hurts and I want to
cry out. He says nothing on the way home. He takes off his cap, sits by
the fire and lights a Woodbine. Mam is smoking, too.Well, she says, is he
going to be an altar boy?
Theres no room for him.
Oh. She puffs on her Woodbine. Ill tell you what it is, she says. Tis
class distinction. They dont want boys from lanes on the altar. They
dont want the ones with scabby knees and hair sticking up.Oh,no,they
want the nice boys with hair oil and new shoes that have fathers with
suits and ties and steady jobs.Thats what it is and tis hard to hold on to
the Faith with the snobbery thats in it.
Och, aye.
Oh, och aye my arse. Thats all you ever say.You could go to the
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