I knew that the de Warlencourts were Catholics, and had been for centuries, so I suppose I shouldn’t have been at all surprised that on our last evening at Cumberland Place, 23rd December, we should be invited to a Christmas Mass at their church.
Their church was in Kensington – where else? – right by the Victoria and Albert Museum. It was called the London Oratory, and it was properly posh. That evening we put on our smartest stuff, our going-to-the-House-of-Lords outfits, and we were decanted from the car with the earl and countess outside what seemed like a mini white cathedral. The night was cold and clear, and about a million Christmas stars shone above the dome of the church. As we filed in with all the smart churchgoers, the inside was a jewel box of gilt and marble. By the light of a thousand candles I looked at the mosaic of Jesus Christ above the golden altar, and he looked back at me.
As we walked down the aisle with the de Warlencourts – who were obviously important enough to sit right down the front – they both seemed to stumble. I put out an arm to save Caro, like a mum crossing the road with her kid, but it was fine – they were both just bobbing a little curtsy to the altar, after which they crossed themselves. As we shuffled into the front pew, I suddenly found it unbelievable that these God-fearing pillars of society were planning to celebrate the Saviour’s birth, and then hold a death hunt for a young black schoolgirl before Jesus had even blown out his candles.
I was sitting between Shafeen and Nel. Shafeen had the honour of sitting between me and the earl, with Caro sitting beyond him, and Nel was between me and a pillar. Someone unseen rang a bell, and the carol service began.
I say carol service – actually, this was not like any carol service I had ever known. This was not a jolly romp through the Nativity story interspersed with popular Christmas hits. This was much more serious, and quite beautiful.
For a start, it was all in Latin. I was not too bothered by the Latin-ness. It was actually nice to tune out and just listen to the music of the words. Of course I’d taken a Latin class at STAGS, everyone had to, but I wouldn’t say I was brilliant. I only caught the odd word here and there. I recognised the paternoster – Lord’s Prayer to you – but that was about it. Shafeen was probably the same level as me. Nel was the real expert, as she was taking Latin for her Probitiones, so I could see she was really listening.
And the carols were amazing. The Oratory had a really excellent choir, who, like the choir at STAGS, gave you that cold-water-down-your-back feeling. The carols weren’t all the well-known Victorian ones – although they did sing ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’ in Latin – but medieval ones, properly medieval, with those lovely crunchy discords and monkish chants. Then came the confession, and everybody knelt at the sound of the overworked bell. Apparently the priest confessed and we forgave him, then the people confessed and he forgave us. At least, that’s what I thought was going on. Of course, I didn’t have a clue what I was saying, but the bits we were supposed to speak were helpfully typed in bold on the service sheet, so I did my best, mumbling along with the rest of the congregation.
Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, beatae Mariae semper Virgini, beato Michaeli Archangelo, beato Ioanni Baptistae, sanctis Apostolis Petro et Paulo, omnibus Sanctis, et tibi Pater: quia peccavi nimis cogitatione verbo, et opere: mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper Virginem, beatum Michaelem Archangelum, beatum Ioannem Baptistam, sanctos Apostolos Petrum et Paulum, omnes Sanctos, et te Pater, orare pro me ad Dominum Deum nostrum.
I would have managed it OK except right at the end of the prayer Nel clutched at my arm and whispered something at me, putting me right off my stride. It sounded like, Where are we?
I thought she had actually nodded off for a minute.
‘In church,’ I said. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes. Where are we?’
‘At the carol service.’
She rolled her eyes with frustration. ‘I’ll tell you later,’ she hissed.