Free A Whisper to the Living by Ruth Hamilton

me.
    I felt empty of grace and of breakfast, as we were forbidden to eat or drink before Communion. We new communicants, eight boys and seven girls, went obediently back to our families while Father Cavanagh droned his solemn way through the rest of the Mass.
    Then it was over. Now I would have to be very, very good, for every misdemeanour I committed would have to be relayed through the black grille of the confessional and right into Father Cavanagh’s ever-inquisitive ear. If sins were left untold and if the Blessed Sacrament was allowed, therefore, to descend into a stomach full of sin, then this would be a sacrilege, for which crime there would be no absolution.
    Yet I felt nothing at this, my first communion with Jesus Christ. What I had expected to feel, what I should feel, I didn’t know, but I was sure that I should not feel so . . . so ordinary, that Jesus should be filling me with grace and happiness, that I should be inviting Him, welcoming Him into my heart and soul. And when I returned to my pew and saw Eddie Higson sitting next to my mother, my loathing for him hit me with renewed force and I fell to my knees to make yet another act of contrition. ‘Lord I am not worthy that Thou shouldst enter under my roof; say but the word and my soul shall be healed. O my God, I am sorry and beg pardon for all my sins . . .’
    After the Mass, there was a party in one of the classrooms and we were given a breakfast of sorts, sandwiches, biscuits and orange juice. My mother and Higson stood awkwardly to one side, while the rest of the parents, obviously regular churchgoers, grouped themselves about the room, exclaiming over what a lovely Mass it had been and didn’t their Mary look sweet in the white frock and wasn’t Jimmy quite the little man in his new suit.
    Father Cavanagh, when he entered the room, made a bee-line for my mother. As consecrated shepherd of this particular flock, it was his bounden duty to round up the stray sheep first. The priest beckoned me to follow, which I did with reluctance as the food was disappearing fast and I hadn’t had much.
    ‘Well now,’ he was saying. “Tis lovely to see the pair of you here, so it is. And you’ll be after setting a good example for little Annie here now, won’t you?’
    My mother nodded while Eddie Higson stifled a yawn – he was not used to being out of bed so early on a Sunday.
    ‘And will you be attending the Mass in the future then Mr . . . er . . . Higson?’
    ‘Depends on the weather. I sometimes do a few houses on a Sunday if the week’s been bad.’
    ‘You work on a Sunday? On God’s holy day? Mercy in heaven, isn’t that a sin now?’
    Higson shrugged. ‘Well, you work on a Sunday, don’t you? I reckon Sunday’s about your busiest day. And if we all did what you’re suggesting, they’d have to shut all the hospitals for a start, wouldn’t they? So do we just leave people to die being as it’s Sunday?’
    ‘Ah well now, that’s a different matter altogether, for hospital work is essential and as for my work, well . . .’
    Eddie Higson interrupted loudly. ‘So’s window cleaning if it pays my bills.’
    The two men glared at one another for a few seconds, then Father Cavanagh turned to my mother.
    ‘Will yourself be bringing Annie to the Mass then, Mrs . . . er . . . Higson?’
    ‘I’ll try, Father.’
    ‘Yes, yes, you do that. And isn’t it time you made your Easter Duties? I have not seen you at Communion, Mrs Higson.’
    ‘I’ll bear it in mind, Father.’
    ‘Aye, you do that now, and God bless you.’
    The priest moved on to speak to the other parents and Eddie Higson grabbed me by the arm and dragged me out of the classroom. My mother followed at a slower pace crying, ‘But she’s not had her party, Eddie . . .’
    ‘Bugger her party. We’re getting out of here.’
    Then, at the far end of the corridor, I spotted two familiar figures making their way towards us. With a great cry of joy, I