In my childhood Sundays to me meant boredom. They seemed to be such listless days, hung like hammocks between the bustle of Saturdays and Mondays. Weekends meant release from torturous school but, if Sunday mass meant the preface of confession – and every three weeks it did – then the imminence of that ordeal tightened all my thoughts into a great ball of panic. My mother was a diligent auditor of our souls, and if she said you had to go, ‘attending to your duties’, as she called it, then there was no escape.
As Father Monacle, our confessor, ripened with the years, so his brain seemed to take on a worrying life of its own. He frequently nullified the solemnity of the confessional by repeating your list of sins out loud for the benefit of waiting penitents.
The disturbing part of all this was his unpredictability. Sometimes he’d repeat only one or two of your sins; at other times, if you were really lucky, none at all. But there were those unfortunate moments when he’d blast out the whole, shameful lot.
And not only that. If you’d really shocked him he was likely, as an afterthought, to stick his head out of the cubicle and demand that you go ‘right up to the altar’ to say your lengthy penance. I had already experienced this very embarrassment by the age of seven. It seemed that children and adults were all equal sinners in the eyes of the good father.
Naturally, having to endure this humiliation took its toll. Adults would push their hapless offspring into the box first – to test the waters, so to speak. Father Monacle would start his admonishings, each word highly amplified.
‘Don’t ever be stealing chocolate biscuits!’ he’d thunder. ‘Don’t ever take the name of the Lord thy God in vain.’
You could sense a degree of fearful editing going on in the assembled row of heads.
Miss Collins, the local blatherskite, seemed always to be present, taking up a prime position near the box. My mother claimed this was more to do with nosiness than piety, which was probably correct. After all, who needed to forage among ‘unreliable villagers’ when Father Monacle could provide you with an amplified monologue via the confessional every Saturday evening?
Public embarrassment aside, when you came through this wall of fire the liberation felt like a Damascene conversion. I’d go home elated, get scrubbed and put to bed, to lie there in the dark, contemplating my shriven state and wondering if this sensation of holiness was what Miss McKeague had meant by ‘being in a state of grace’.
Mass held little meaning for me when I was a child. During those rambling sermons, when the adults dozed off, I’d daydream that I was a glamorous singer in a band. Every Sunday I performed the chart-toppers of the hit parade – until the priest’s voice woke me up with the Declaration of Faith.
Mass was an effortless affair, except when it came to receiving Communion. The bolt to the altar was fine; it was the return journey that presented difficulties; I’d sometimes lose my way and be unable to find my seat again.
Using ladies’ hats as markers was not dependable because sometimes the owner of a hat could lose her place too. I tried using the Stations of the Cross as guides, but all that looking up at the paintings on the way down meant less concentration on where I was going, resulting in collisions with the oncoming ‘traffic’. I ended up counting radiators; they didn’t have the tendency to move.
Not surprisingly, the last thing I’d contemplate was the host I’d just received; the solemnity of the occasion never entered my head. When I finally regained the wretched seat in the correct pew, the race was on to swallow the host and get the prayers over and done with – in time to study that fetching hat of Mrs Convery’s or my friend Doreen’s new frock.
Did I gain any solace from these weekly trysts with God? The short answer is ‘no’. These were perfunctory events which induced boredom and fear and gave me a heightened sense of my own inferiority. Sunday was God’s day in name only.
My mother made a special effort on the Sabbath. There was the obligatory roast and – hallelujah! – a dessert: bowls of custard with a tinned pear or peach afloat in a deep lake of syrup.
After lunch, weakened by her labours, she would collapse into bed for an hour. Father, weakened by the thought that she was getting time off and, never one to be outdone, would retire to the couch, injuring it a little more. He’d scan the Sunday Press until all that lunch took its toll; the paper would rustle and droop, in concord with his snores.
Occasionally there were those luckless Sundays when there’d be an important GAA football match on the radio, a match that seemed interminable. Mícheál O’Hehir’s volleying commentary was enough to drive a saint to drink. O’Hehir flung out the names and moves of players in high-pitched, wailing torrents. That familiar sound was enough to drive us children from the house.
In those flat interludes, with the sun shining and the chickens in the yard, I felt a bleak exultance. I was free to roam but at the same time aware of a paucity of feeling. I’d feel the pain of my mother’s absence acutely. Her withdrawal for me meant boredom, longing, frustration, uneasiness; I missed her so much then, and I knew that these feelings would not disappear until she woke up again.
In the meantime I filled the absence with aimless wanderings over the territory I knew so well, and sought calm through jaded fictions. I’d chase the dog for no good reason; or wander into the barn and plunge my hands into the meal bin to feel the depth of the yielding grain.
Sometimes if I felt really impish I’d climb up on the tractor to make an imaginary journey. Gaining the tractor seat was its own reward. I loved to clutch the steering wheel with all my might and feel its tense refusal as I drove through the phantom fields. I’d close my eyes and throw my head back to bathe in the ardour of that steady heat of summer. In those minutes the world tilted and I saw oblivion, and heard the commonplace as some kind of melodious score, adrift and unconnected to me. Meditation in its infancy.
In the background the hens made their clucking speculations of the yard. From the house that rapid football commentary would slow from time to time, and belly out through the open door with triumphant declarations. ‘And it’s over the bar!’ and ‘It’s a goal!’ I’d hear my father raising a shout or oath depending on which team had scored.
All those simple amusements delayed me, rending up the time until mother would wake. It seemed that as she slept she withdrew all joy from me, leaving me lonely and aimless. I knew I had to wait until she rose before I could be returned to myself. She gave me purpose and meaning, made me realise what love was.
Those monotonous Sundays could sometimes free themselves and float up, to our delight, into the dreamy heavens, if only for one day each year. That was when we’d visit the seaside at Portstewart, and round off the day in Barry’s amusement arcade in nearby Portrush. Both these heady destinations were referred to as ‘The Port’. Being the deprived little mites that we were, we looked forward to this rare event with the same fervour we reserved for Christmas Day.
My mother would appoint the chosen Sunday well in advance and proceed to steer father unwaveringly towards it. She knew if she sprang it on him – say, only a week in advance – he’d be likely to come up with excuses for not going. The farm work, for instance, took precedence over any sort of family entertainment. Those two words were an oxymoron as far as father was concerned. But we needed him, and he was keenly aware of this; he was the only driver in the family and could exert a pernicious influence when it came to our mobility.
Mother always lamented the fact that he hadn’t procured for her a driving licence when there was a free-for-all after the war. But perhaps it was for the best; being stressed most of the time, I doubt if she’d have made a good driver. Still, she used this negligence as a stick to beat him with whenever he refused to take her somewhere.
The outing always followed the same pattern. After mass and lunch we children would line up on the sofa, and wait while mother did her face: a lick of powder, lipstick and a dab of Coty scent. Meanwhile father was in the bathroom, engaged in the elaborate ritual of sleeking down his hair with the aid of water, Brylcreem and a comb; without the camouflaging hat this was a ‘botheration’, and we knew it. So we sat mutely on the couch, staring at the rhombus of sunlight moving slowly across the floor, wondering when we could get moving. No one knew better than we did that precious time was passing, but we didn’t dare tell him to get a move on. The six of us lingered in the constricted silence and waited, praying that father’s tense grooming formality might succeed, because if it didn’t he could get in a mood and decide we weren’t going ‘atall, atall’.
Finally: all of us out the door and into the car, at first the Ford Popular and later a Ford Cortina (always a Ford; father rigorously resisted too much change) and we’d trundle off, doing an average of 40mph, mostly in third gear.
None of us enjoyed this journey. Apart from having to contend with the desperate drone of an underworked gearbox, we’d have to suffer the smoke from father’s Woodbines; he insisted on all windows remaining closed, no matter how warm the day. So we’d sit in silent mutiny in the heat and sweat and smoke, suffering slow asphyxiation, knowing that if we dared complain he was liable to turn back and snatch our dream away. This being our only outing in the whole year, we could never risk jeopardising it. Instead I’d alleviate my discomfort with healing fantasies. As the fields and cluttered towns revealed themselves and receded outside the car window, I’d imagine feeling the hot sand between my toes and the waves before me: the rewards to come.
Portstewart is a beautiful, timeless town with a row of dwellings, shops and cafés facing by turns the vigour and calm of the Atlantic. A Dominican college to the west juts out onto a balcony of rock, overlooking with a lofty grace the sweep of sand and sea below. The generous strand is nearly three miles long; to us it seemed to stretch to the other end of the world. For the denizens of north Ulster back then this place represented a soothing release from the stresses of life; for us children it was pure paradise.
The climax of that tedious journey brought us release from the suffering of the car, and gave us the prize of that longed-for beach. Our little legs would have grown stiff and could barely take our weight as we tumbled out. Mother had kitted us out with swimming costumes; we young ladies each had a ruched one-piece in a fetching shade of blue or pink – and each one probably part of a ‘buy one, get one free’ promotion. She herself had a rather overstated one but in a similar style. The boys had their trunks, and father – ever the party-pooper – had no swimming gear at all, since he refused to take part in such frivolity. To him the whole excursion was a blatant waste of time. While we all had fun he’d sit in the car reading the newspaper.
Changing at the beach always presented difficulties, not least because there were no facilities and we didn’t have a windbreak. So we’d all scramble up behind the sand dunes to undress.
Mother, being more worldly-wise than the rest of us, would keep a weather eye open for the ubiquitous peeping toms. On spotting one she’d fire off a volley of choice expletives. We never actually saw anyone but were assured that the ‘dirty oul’ frigger’ had been out there none the less. I often wondered what he’d been looking for. I had the idea that every year it was the same man spying on us and was puzzled as to how he always managed to know the precise day and hour of our arrival. Mother claimed that the ‘dirty oul’ frigger’ was everywhere and had eyes in the back of his head; so I’d struggle fearfully out of my dress and into my swimsuit knowing that no matter what I did, the brute could still see me. …
The sea beckoned. We’d dash into the breakers and spend ages wading and splashing with delight. I gloried in the dynamic otherness of that buoyant world, and wished to remain in it for ever. But sadly the time would come for my farewell and I’d be dragged, kicking and screaming, from its shores.
After all that excitement came the picnic. Father was depressingly tight-fisted and would rather have undergone rectal surgery without anaesthetic than pay for us in a restaurant. So mother would spread a bath-towel on the sand and decant the contents of a large shopping bag. The lighting of the Primus stove was left to father and we’d all stand well back for the ceremony. Over his lifetime he’d perfected the art of making the simplest task look like a murderous assignment. Mother often ended up doing things herself rather than ask him because with each performance there was the petulant aftermath. When it came to the wretched stove, however, she was lost. She didn’t know how to assemble it, and had neither the time nor inclination to learn, having enough to be getting on with.
We all stood well back for the lighting of the stove, hoping it would succeed and not blow up in his face because then there’d be hell to pay. With each failed attempt and spent match, father’s face would grow longer and our hopes shorter. But it usually worked out. With the task accomplished, the parents drank their tea and we had warm milk or a cup of orange squash that had been diluted with such an alarming proportion of water that there was no discernible orange to speak of.
My mother could stretch the life out of food and drink until it begged for mercy. A single, humble tomato could sliver its way around an entire loaf; the salad cream bottle, on nearing expiry, would be watered and shaken vigorously to dislodge the last drop. She could have given Speke and Burton some useful hints on food rationing before they braved the deprivations of Africa.
Tomato and egg sandwiches did not travel well, as I recall, especially not in the boiling-hot boot of a Ford Popular. They’d emerge from their plastic bag well past their die-by date, just yearning to be squeezed into soggy balls and fired into the ocean. We didn’t dare do such a thing, of course, the consequences being unimaginable; besides we were so hungry we’d have eaten anything. Wordlessly, we consumed the fare – sometimes with ‘helpful’ dustings of breeze-blown sand – because there was nothing else.
After the tea and sea it was off to Barry’s, the amusement arcade in Portrush. We’d clamber into the car and trundle off on the two-mile journey to this second paradise. To us Portrush was synonymous with Barry’s. We didn’t see much more of the town itself; father claimed it was a ‘black hole anyway’, by which he meant it was full of Protestants, and for him that was good enough reason to shun it.
Getting us into Barry’s was no problem – we’d race inside like prize sprinters – but getting us out again was a nightmare of tears, tantrums and much dragging of feet. We couldn’t get enough of those moronic merry-go-rounds, sitting astride plastic ponies with mother urging us to ‘hold on tight’.
Afterwards came the dodgems, the ghost train and big dipper. Sometimes on that stomach-lurching circuit those soggy sandwiches would take their revenge. We were denied nothing then. My mother reasoned, naively, that we could get too much of a good thing, and that if we had a go on everything we’d get so fed up we’d leave without a fuss. It rarely happened though. She had to resort to cajoling us with sweets of every description and the promise of ice cream in Morelli’s café back in Portstewart. The bribe of ice cream always worked.
We’d drift along the promenade, licking the dripping ice-cream cones. In those golden moments we really did feel we’d died and gone to Miss McKeague’s heaven.
Father would need his treat too. Before departing we’d follow him into a dingy pub – always the same one: The Slippery Eel on the promenade – and there he’d reward himself with a whiskey and a pint of Guinness. ‘The Eel’ seemed to be staffed by the same people and frequented by the same patrons year after year.
True to form, father would examine the bar counter with his seasoned carpenter’s eye and give it a right good shake. Mother would note these disquieting indications, and shout out the order to distract him. ‘God,’ she’d whisper between gritted teeth, ‘you could take that man nowhere. Let you down a bagful, so he would.’ She was well used to his ways by then.
We were always served by the same barman: fat, tattooed forearms; face like a lump of Play-Doh pummelled by a child throwing a fit; purple parsnip nose. He wore a tight tee shirt which gave him a rather unflattering silhouette. He shuffled his feet, mumbled his words, and brought us our drinks on a dented tray which had no doubt doubled as an instrument of defence and combat during the occasional Saturday night brawl.
When we went to the toilet the floorboards shuddered. When a car whizzed past the window the drink in our glasses shivered. We got Fanta orange and mother had a Babycham, served in what looked like a glass saucer on a stem. With each sip her cheeks would go pink and she’d smile more. She’d frequently end up having a chat with the same woman every year: a middle-aged lady with a recent perm and red ears. Father would become more voluble, engaging some cap-and-braces wearer at the bar, who’d swerve with delirious uncertainty through a range of topics he knew little about. Those wise words of Lord Halifax come to mind now: ‘Most men make little use of their speech than to give evidence against their own understanding.’ And that surely went for father as well.
And we children, having finished the Fanta with lightning speed, with the adults occupied and our day at an end, would quest about for further amusement. Since we were forbidden to move from the table, its surface became the focus of our ennui: we’d lever off sections of Formica with bored fingers and stuff the evidence of our vandalism down the crack of the vinyl sofa seat. When the adults had finally finished and father was on his feet he’d look at the table and remark: ‘God that Formica doesn’t stand the times atall, atall. Nothing but a load of oul’ British rubbish.’ And the barman would sigh heavily, shoot smoke from his purple nose and counter: ‘Aye, it’s the bloody sun that does it, so it does … curls it up like … need tae get a lock of curtains, so I would.’ With that we’d traipse out, experiencing the rare delight of having put one over on the adults.
We slept most of the way home, reliving in our dreams the pleasures of the day, our joy tempered by the thought that we’d have to wait a whole year before we could do it all again.
In childhood I climbed metaphorical mountains. Each year the terrain got harder and the ascent steeper. That one day by the seaside was the ledge on which I rested. Yet all the same it seemed that that one, red-letter, day repaid all the unnumbered days of sadness.