Bad Catholics Read online

  ‘When will I be a proper altar server, Mum?’

  ‘When Mr Slavin says so.’

  ‘Will it be soon?’

  ‘It’ll be when Mr Slavin thinks you’re ready.’

  ‘I nearly know what to do, and I can say a lot of the Latin.’

  His mother intoned the priest’s opening words of the Mass, ‘Introibo ad altare Dei.’ Jimmy parroted the server’s response, running the meaningless sounds together. ‘Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam.’

  They smiled at each other.

  ‘Well done, that was very good.’

  ‘What did we just say, Mum?’

  ‘I will go into the altar of God. To God who giveth joy to my youth.’

  He thought about it. Into the altar? The priest didn’t go into the altar, how could he? And Mum wasn’t young, she was old, so what was that about youth? Faith was full of mysteries, he knew that, so he put away the deep mystery of the Mass and moved on.

  ‘How much longer, Mum? Maybe soon?’

  ‘Maybe, but serving at Mass is a very great honour, you represent all the people who’d like to be up there with the priest but can’t be. It has to be done well, because you’re not just serving the priest, you’re serving God.’

  They walked on through the wet Monday streets towards the church and the first weekday morning Mass. The dark sky still showed no signs of dawn and the street lamps gave out a comfortless light. Christmas was only three weeks away but this was where the Irish working-class lived and when daylight came and curtains were pulled back there would be very little show in the windows to welcome the great Feast. Money was too scarce to spend it on entertaining passers-by.

  Eventually they arrived at the parish church. Two other people arrived at the same time and they smiled acknowledgment at each other as they made their way out of the darkness into the light of the church. This six o’clock Monday Mass would last no more than twenty minutes. Other weekday Masses were more leisurely and began at the more comfortable time of eight o’clock, too late for most workers but as early as the new parish priest would permit. He liked the sound of his own voice and a quick Mass with no sermon was not something he approved of. The Monday congregation was always quite considerable, about forty to fifty people.

  The brightly lit church was warm and welcoming after the wet, dark streets. Jimmy and his mother blessed themselves at the holy water font just inside the door and Jimmy snatched off his cap, tucked it in his mac pocket, and ran up the aisle and into the sacristy.

  A harsh voice met him.

  ‘Don’t you know better than to run in church? Have you no respect for God’s house? Get out of here and go back and walk like a good Catholic and don’t run like some wild animal.’

  Jimmy turned and slowly left the sacristy. Father McGinty had shouted at him loud enough for everyone in church to hear. He walked slowly down the aisle, his head bent in shame. Those already in the church, sitting or kneeling, avoided looking at him and embarrassing him further.

  He wasn’t ashamed so much for himself, it was his mum he felt for. Everyone would see him walk down the aisle and then go back to the sacristy and know that Father McGinty had said he was a bad Catholic, no better than an animal. And Father McGinty was a clever and important man, a priest, so he must always be in the right. Jimmy added the shame his thoughtlessness had brought on his mother to his growing store of Catholic guilt.

  Suddenly she was at his side, taking his hand.

  ‘Come on,’ she said in a voice unnaturally loud for the inside of the church, as if she was making an announcement, ‘We’re going home.’

  Jimmy’s brain turned slowly all the way home. This was a completely new thing, a new and totally unexpected star in his private sky. He couldn’t be sure, of course, but he had got the idea that his mum had defied Father McGinty, defied the priest, the parish priest, who had been to Rome and seen the Pope.

  The only other person he had ever heard of who had done something as terrible as that was Tim Folan’s father. He had heard his dad tell his mum that Mr Folan had sworn at old Father Shillitoe one night in the parish club and had never set foot in the club or the church since. Tim Folan and his mum now arrived just after Sunday Mass began and left just before it finished and always sat at the very back. Would that happen to him and his mum now, he wondered. Had his mum really defied the priest and would they have to sit right at the back of church on Sundays? And what about his altar serving, would he ever get to be a server? It took some thinking about. The seven years, eleven months, and twenty-eight days of Jimmy’s life had not prepared him for this.

  ‘What will you tell Dad?’

  ‘I’ll tell him you weren’t well so I decided you should come home.’

  So that was it, he was right, his mum had defied the parish priest and now she was going to have to tell Dad a lie. Now she would have to go to Confession and if anything happened to her before she could get to Confession she would go to Hell for ever and ever and never see God. And it was all his fault because he had run like an animal in God’s house. Jimmy’s sense of horror, sin, and guilt moved into an entirely new gear. Then his mind suddenly retrieved an earlier piece of information which was now ready to be dealt with. God had to be a Catholic or how could He forgive these terrible sins when you went to Confession, especially the mortal sins which closed the gates of Heaven and sent you to Hell for all eternity. And Jesus had to be a Catholic to be on the altar at Mass, because it was only Catholics who went to Mass. If Jesus and God weren’t Catholics then none of the rest could work, could it? So God and Jesus were Catholics after all. Of course they were, and that meant that Mary and Joseph must be Catholics as well because they were Jesus’s family, the Holy Family. Well, that was all right then.

  TWO

  Paddington, February 1995

  ‘People never cease to amaze me,’ said Sister Philomena.

  ‘Really?’

  She laughed and continued in her thick Irish accent, ‘Not you, Jimmy, you don’t amaze me.’

  ‘Is that a compliment or an insult, Sister?’

  ‘A compliment if you’re humble and an insult if you’re proud.’

  ‘I’ll think about that. Where do you want this box of paper towels?’

  She pointed down the harshly lit, institutional green corridor which ran between the staircase and the dining room.

  ‘Down there, in the cupboard under the stairs.’ They walked to the cupboard.

  ‘No, it’s Lucy Amhurst who amazes me. It’s not just that she gives her time in helping out here, it’s that she’s so good with the clients. She has no training or background in care or social work, yet she seems to know just what to say and do for them.’

  ‘It’s a knack, some people have it.’

  ‘It’s a gift. Here, I’ll open the door. Put them on that shelf.’

  Jimmy put the box on a shelf and closed the cupboard door.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘The toilets.’

  ‘Again!’

  ‘Sorry, but let those toilets go for a minute and we’d need to divert the Thames to get them clean again.’

  Jimmy moved away to collect the necessary equipment. One bucket and one mop was never enough. Philomena’s voice followed him.

  ‘And plenty of Jeyes Fluid, plenty of that. I only want to get the smell of Jeyes Fluid when I walk past those toilets, that and nothing else.’

  Bartimaeus House was a day centre run by the Sisters of St Zita. In a more-than-usually run down part of Paddington, it was a shabby, three-storey property, its main door halfway down a grim cul-de-sac. It had been many things in its history before being donated to the Sisters by its last owner, whose generosity had been amply rewarded by the tax benefits he had obtained on the gift. Known locally as Bart’s, it had become an established feature of the neighbourhood. A welcome waited there for everyone who came through the doors. Addicts, homeless, battered women, the abused, the mentally unbalanced, all were offered warmth, safety, food, clothes,
and washing facilities. There was always someone to listen if they wanted to talk, and medical help and a bed for the night could be found if required. Local residents also came during the day for companionship and coffee. Many were elderly people who survived alone and forgotten. At Bartimaeus House they found a place where they felt cared for and listened to. However, Philomena had been told that the enterprise would have to be self-financing after ten years, a target she sometimes despaired of achieving. If she failed, Bart’s would have to close.

  Jimmy had gone to his unpleasant task and Philomena stood, preoccupied by her usual worries, when the first of what she called the ‘night shift’ arrived.

  Damn, she thought, as a hideously dirty, barefoot old man shuffled through the door, is it that time already?

  ‘Hello Mac,’ she called along the corridor, smiling. ‘Are you well?’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Did you have a good day?’

  ‘Bastard.’

  ‘Where’s Norah? You know Norah can come in with you.’

  Mac’s mad eyes glared at her, then he turned and went out to return moments later with a brown and white terrier as filthy as himself.

  ‘Enjoy your cup of tea,’ she said to his back as he pushed through the door into the dining room.

  Philomena wedged the dining room door open then headed off towards the toilets. As soon as she could detect the smell of the disinfectant she called, ‘Jimmy, it’s later than I realised. Leave that and get to the front door. The night shift is coming on.’

  Jimmy didn’t answer. He just put the mop he was using back into its bucket, collected the other reeking bucket and mop from one of the toilet cubicles and took them to the nearby handyman’s store. He poured the foul water into the low sink, put the empty buckets on the stone floor, and left the mops in the sink.

  There was a chair with a newspaper on it by the foot of the stairs next to the front door. Jimmy picked up the newspaper and sat down. From that position he could see most of the dining room and hear what was going on. Philomena was behind the tea urn at the counter talking to Mrs Amhurst, who was setting mugs out.

  Mac sat at a table with a mug cupped in his hands. On the floor beside him, Norah looked up at him with simple and total devotion.

  ‘Does Norah want anything, Mac?’ Mrs Amhurst called. But Mac, in what was left of his mind, was far away. ‘I’ll get her a saucer of milk, shall I?’ she added.

  She poured some milk into a saucer, came from behind the counter, and set the milk down in front of the terrier, who immediately began to drink. She patted the filthy animal gently, then went to the kitchen to wash her hands.

  Philomena’s right, thought Jimmy, Mrs Amhurst is amazing, bloody amazing. Her appearance perfectly described her, a sixty-something lady who lacked for nothing financially. But she had a way of looking at people and responding directly to them. Maybe it was something to do with the eyes, she always looked at your eyes. And she listened, it was as if she was really interested. She was more popular with the regulars than Philomena or Janine, even though Janine had all the charm and vivacity of a young American as well as considerable good looks.

  The front door opened and a young addict sidled in, glanced at Jimmy, and hurried into the dining room. Jimmy smiled at him as he passed. The smile was forced, a requirement placed on him by Philomena. It convinced no one and was not intended to. He wasn’t like Mrs Amhurst. He looked at people’s clothes first, noticed how they walked or stood, listened to the way they spoke as much as what they said. He looked into their eyes last, if at all. He automatically judged them ‘no problem’, ‘problem’, ‘big problem’, or ‘not sure’. It was the ‘not sure’ ones he watched with the greatest care. It was the ‘not sures’ he disliked most of all, but then, there weren’t many people he did like.

  Philomena came out of the dining room drying her hands on a tea towel. Behind her he could see Mrs Amhurst pouring tea for the addict and talking cheerfully.

  ‘A slow start tonight.’

  He nodded. Philomena was one he did like. It was a harmless indulgence he allowed himself.

  ‘But it’ll pick up. There’s too many out there in need of this place for any night to be really quiet.’

  ‘That’s a fact, Sister.’

  ‘It’s good to have you here, Jimmy. I feel much better about Lucy and Janine with you here. Money and good looks are a terrible responsibility in a place like this.’

  ‘I knew you had good looks, but I never knew you had money. If you hadn’t taken vows, I might have done something about it.’

  Philomena laughed.

  ‘Go on, you. I never had money and I never had looks and I never missed either. I never saw the one bring joy or the other last.’

  ‘But you worry about that pair and not yourself? Couldn’t you come to a bit of harm as well, or is The Man Upstairs looking after you?’

  ‘I’ll be all right. If you’ve done time in Idi Amin’s Uganda, Paddington isn’t so bad. And maybe I am being looked after by The One Upstairs, and if so, I think She’s doing a good job.’

  At that moment the front door crashed open and a drunk staggered into the hall. Jimmy was up and had him face hard against the wall with an arm twisted up behind his back before Philomena had moved.

  ‘Easy Jimmy, easy. It’s only Freddo.’

  Jimmy moved back slightly and Freddo promptly vomited.

  ‘Oh, God, sit him outside, then come in and clear that up will you? Some of our best nights started quiet.’

  Jimmy took Freddo outside and sat him on the floor in the alley with his back resting against the wall. He was in no state to worry about the cold. Jimmy poked him hard in the leg. ‘Don’t come in again till you’re fit.’

  Freddo nodded without looking up, rolled sideways, and went to sleep. Jimmy went back inside, closed the front door, and headed to the store room. This job meant cleaning one of the buckets and mops he had left there. He pulled on a pair of bright yellow Marigold gloves and, as he tried to clean the shit out of the mop head under the running tap, pondered on how Philomena took it all in her stride and never seemed to sit in judgement on the trash she dealt with. Maybe she was genuinely good, holy even.

  As Jimmy put the mop down and reached for the Jeyes Fluid it was not the odour of sanctity that he felt was clinging to him. This was his third week as general odd job man and ‘security’ at Bart’s. It was not what he had been used to but the work was easy. Some of the clients might be violent but never in any professional way, so they presented no real problem. He rinsed out the sink and poured some of the whitish fluid into it. Not hard work, but no one could say it was pleasant.

  He put the mop into the bucket, half filled it with water, and hoped they and he smelled more of Jeyes Fluid than anything else, then set off back to his next little assignment. He looked at the floor as he came back to the hallway. Someone had walked straight through the vomit and trailed it into the dining room.

  ‘What the hell am I doing here?’ he said to himself. But he knew exactly what he was doing here. Exactly.

  Kilburn, June 1956

  The group of three girls ran to where Jimmy was standing in the playground. They formed a line in front of him and chanted:

  ‘Jimmy Costello, he can’t dance,

  Because he’s got no underpants.

  Jimmy Costello, he can’t sing,

  Because he hasn’t got a thing.’

  The last word was almost shouted so there could be no doubt what the ‘thing’ he didn’t have was. Having finished their performance, they giggled and ran off to another part of the playground to annoy some other boy.

  Jimmy was eleven and in his last year of primary school. Next term he would go to the secondary modern. Hardly anyone from his school ever passed the eleven-plus exam, at least, not often. This year Terry Prosser had been the only one, the first in a long time.

  Another boy came out of the mass of noisy children and stood beside him.

  ‘What you doing, Jimmy?�
��

  It was Kevin. Kevin was a thief. That wasn’t so bad though, because everyone knew Kevin was a thief so no one gave him a chance to steal anything. Jimmy disliked Kevin, not because he was a thief but because he was stupid. He was always trying to show off but had nothing to show off about. He loved to swear and show how bad his language could be but he had no imagination so he simply parroted the strings of obscenities which everyone knew, even if they didn’t use them in school. He often tried to become aggressive but anyone who stood up to him, even a bold infant, could face him down. He was poor and he was dirty. At his First Communion he had been brought by his grandma and he had been wearing black pumps with a hole in one toe where the dirty grey sock showed through. He often tried to talk to Jimmy because Jimmy frequently stood alone in the playground. Kevin also tried to talk to him because he was one of the very few people who didn’t humiliate or reject him as a matter of course. Sometimes, if Kevin was lucky, Jimmy would even talk to him for a bit.

  ‘Do you want to do something?’

  ‘Like what?’

  A sly look came into Kevin’s eyes.

  ‘Let’s go and shit on the floor in the toilets.’ Jimmy recoiled.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We could leave shit on the floor.’ Then Kevin had a better idea. ‘Or we could wipe it on the walls.’

  He was grinning with enthusiasm. Jimmy was appalled. In his own home no one swore, ever. He had once said fart, and his mother had been visibly shocked, not angry, but shocked. Gently, with sadness, she had explained to him how a home was a place where the family were just that, family. You didn’t bring the dirt of the streets in on your boots, your tongue, or your mind. Everyone had to make sure the home was a place where the nastiness of the outside world didn’t intrude. You couldn’t always get away from that nastiness, but there were places where you didn’t bring the dirt from outside in with you. Church was one and home was another, they were both sacred places.