Excerpt
The family pew was number six on the easterly arm of the church. The church was damp, the pews wooden and straight-backed. Cushions were not provided. The pew was like a bench with wooden walls around it. It was accessed through a little door, opening onto the aisle. The door was kept shut during the sermon. My parents were always late, so I’d be seated in the pew when they arrived. They sat on the aisle side; I sat against the wall.
On the wall directly above my head was the tablet memorial to the church’s fallen from the Second World War. I knew their names by heart. I also knew how many panes of glass were in the church, how many cracks were in the ceiling and how many organ pipes were visible. Now if only there were shorter catechism questions about Clough Presbyterian church.
“Name, alphabetically, the church’s fallen from the Second World War.”
Atkinson R
Boland MP
Campbell JT (Captain)
Coulter JH
Davidson R
Etc.
“Well done, Terry. You must have spent many hours carefully learning the church catechism, Clough version.”
I certainly did, about seventy-eight hours per year. In church I sang the hymns and psalms; I closed my eyes in prayer (provided the prayers were short, which in Reverend Craig’s case was not often); and I studied the physical not metaphysical church during the sermons.
My father (tone deaf and proud of it) sang the hymns and psalms lustily and tunelessly. He closed his eyes and bowed his head ostentatiously during prayer, but he saved the best for the sermons. There was something about the impassioned monotone of the Reverend Craig’s sermons that brought out the latent narcoleptic in my dad. Five minutes into the sermon and my dad’s head would be rocking back and forward, his eyes fluttering; a few minutes later, head slumped forward, his chin would be on his chest, eyes closed; and within fifteen minutes, he would be fast asleep and, joy of joys, snoring.
As you might imagine, my mother did not approve of this. Stage whispers of: “Reggie, Reggie, WAKE UP” would be her first sally to bring some decorum to the situation. If this failed, she would move closer and elbow him in the ribs. This latter move was not without its risks and was only resorted to when my father’s snores were approaching Richter Scale 7 and the church windows were rattling. Poked in the ribs, my father, rudely awakened, had a tendency to jump and shout, “Whazzat?” He’d do this loudly enough that he’d attract the attention not only of other members of the congregation and the choir, who seemed genuinely amused and sympathetic, but also of the Reverend Craig who was neither.
On Sunday after lunch, with my mother and I aboard and a picnic loaded, our car would be parked in the gateway at the side of the house waiting for my father to lock up and join us.
“What’s keeping that man? It’s always the same. Terry, go and see what he’s doing.”
Which actually meant: “Bring him here at once before I get really angry.”
I’d leap out of the Triumph as instructed and run inside. My father would be tinkering with his camera or light meter, the locks for the petrol pumps beside him. My appearance was sufficient; he’d understand what was required, scoop up the camera and the locks, and follow me outside. He’d walk to the road and put the locks on the pumps then come back to the Triumph.
Inevitably, by the time he got settled behind the wheel, a day tripper’s car would have pulled up at the petrol pumps and honked for service. Out he’d get, open up the house (the keys to the petrol pumps were kept inside), unlock the pumps and serve the customer. He’d go back inside to get change, lock the house behind him and lock the pumps after giving the customer their change.
My mother would be sitting in the front of the Triumph, slowly working up a head of steam. He’d run back to the Triumph and be starting the engine just as yet another day tripper pulled up and honked. This scenario, or variations thereof, would be played out several times before some cathartic event involving an innocent and unsuspecting unfortunate brought matters to a head.
A wee man from Belfast would come walking in, a broken fan belt in his hand, shirt wide open at the neck, sleeves rolled up and grease and grime smeared up to his elbows. “Hey, Jummy, the ould car’s buggered. D’ye hae a fan belt for a Ford 8?”
“Reggie, just ignore him, drive away.”
“Hey, mister, c’mon now gi’ie us a hand.”
My father, torn, would hesitate.
“Reggie, stay in the car. Don’t stop, Reggie, REGGIE!”
My father, the Good Samaritan, would stop.
“Look, Terry, he doesn’t care! He’s going to help that guttersnipe and leave us sitting here.”
And winding down the window to the distressed motorist, she’d say, “We’re closed, go away. It’s Sunday.”
The wee man, pausing and momentarily taken aback by this hostile reception, would respond initially with, “Aaah, missus…”
My mother, gesturing for him to be off, would turn his pleading to anger.
“Stick your fan belt up your arse, ya stuck-up bitch.” And with an obscene gesture, he would walk away.
“Drive away, Reggie, just drive away.” And with me cringing in the back, we would.The family pew was number six on the easterly arm of the church. The church was damp, the pews wooden and straight-backed. Cushions were not provided. The pew was like a bench with wooden walls around it. It was accessed through a little door, opening onto the aisle. The door was kept shut during the sermon. My parents were always late, so I’d be seated in the pew when they arrived. They sat on the aisle side; I sat against the wall.
On the wall directly above my head was the tablet memorial to the church’s fallen from the Second World War. I knew their names by heart. I also knew how many panes of glass were in the church, how many cracks were in the ceiling and how many organ pipes were visible. Now if only there were shorter catechism questions about Clough Presbyterian church.
“Name, alphabetically, the church’s fallen from the Second World War.”
Atkinson R
Boland MP
Campbell JT (Captain)
Coulter JH
Davidson R
Etc.
“Well done, Terry. You must have spent many hours carefully learning the church catechism, Clough version.”
I certainly did, about seventy-eight hours per year. In church I sang the hymns and psalms; I closed my eyes in prayer (provided the prayers were short, which in Reverend Craig’s case was not often); and I studied the physical not metaphysical church during the sermons.
My father (tone deaf and proud of it) sang the hymns and psalms lustily and tunelessly. He closed his eyes and bowed his head ostentatiously during prayer, but he saved the best for the sermons. There was something about the impassioned monotone of the Reverend Craig’s sermons that brought out the latent narcoleptic in my dad. Five minutes into the sermon and my dad’s head would be rocking back and forward, his eyes fluttering; a few minutes later, head slumped forward, his chin would be on his chest, eyes closed; and within fifteen minutes, he would be fast asleep and, joy of joys, snoring.
As you might imagine, my mother did not approve of this. Stage whispers of: “Reggie, Reggie, WAKE UP” would be her first sally to bring some decorum to the situation. If this failed, she would move closer and elbow him in the ribs. This latter move was not without its risks and was only resorted to when my father’s snores were approaching Richter Scale 7 and the church windows were rattling. Poked in the ribs, my father, rudely awakened, had a tendency to jump and shout, “Whazzat?” He’d do this loudly enough that he’d attract the attention not only of other members of the congregation and the choir, who seemed genuinely amused and sympathetic, but also of the Reverend Craig who was neither.
On Sunday after lunch, with my mother and I aboard and a picnic loaded, our car would be parked in the gateway at the side of the house waiting for my father to lock up and join us.
“What’s keeping that man? It’s always the same. Terry, go and see what he’s doing.”
Which actually meant: “Bring him here at once before I get really angry.”
I’d leap out of the Triumph as instructed and run inside. My father would be tinkering with his camera or light meter, the locks for the petrol pumps beside him. My appearance was sufficient; he’d understand what was required, scoop up the camera and the locks, and follow me outside. He’d walk to the road and put the locks on the pumps then come back to the Triumph.
Inevitably, by the time he got settled behind the wheel, a day tripper’s car would have pulled up at the petrol pumps and honked for service. Out he’d get, open up the house (the keys to the petrol pumps were kept inside), unlock the pumps and serve the customer. He’d go back inside to get change, lock the house behind him and lock the pumps after giving the customer their change.
My mother would be sitting in the front of the Triumph, slowly working up a head of steam. He’d run back to the Triumph and be starting the engine just as yet another day tripper pulled up and honked. This scenario, or variations thereof, would be played out several times before some cathartic event involving an innocent and unsuspecting unfortunate brought matters to a head.
A wee man from Belfast would come walking in, a broken fan belt in his hand, shirt wide open at the neck, sleeves rolled up and grease and grime smeared up to his elbows. “Hey, Jummy, the ould car’s buggered. D’ye hae a fan belt for a Ford 8?”
“Reggie, just ignore him, drive away.”
“Hey, mister, c’mon now gi’ie us a hand.”
My father, torn, would hesitate.
“Reggie, stay in the car. Don’t stop, Reggie, REGGIE!”
My father, the Good Samaritan, would stop.
“Look, Terry, he doesn’t care! He’s going to help that guttersnipe and leave us sitting here.”
And winding down the window to the distressed motorist, she’d say, “We’re closed, go away. It’s Sunday.”
The wee man, pausing and momentarily taken aback by this hostile reception, would respond initially with, “Aaah, missus…”
My mother, gesturing for him to be off, would turn his pleading to anger.
“Stick your fan belt up your arse, ya stuck-up bitch.” And with an obscene gesture, he would walk away.
“Drive away, Reggie, just drive away.” And with me cringing in the back, we would.