Fandango in the Apse! Read Free Page A

from that.  It was for running up and down
the church pews when she was in confession – I was about five at the time.  The
irony of it still gets to me. 
    The list is endless, so I won’t bore you with it, except to say, the one
that affected me most she inflicted not as a punishment – but out of sheer
spite.  Every year on my birthday and Christmas, a parcel arrived from my
father.  I knew it was from him for two reasons, the first being nobody else
ever sent me anything, the second was the brightly coloured Australian stamps.
    My mother always placed it carefully on the sideboard for me to see; I
could look, but not touch.  Then in the evening once the fire was blazing up
the chimney – well, as much as half a dozen lumps of coal could blaze, she
would place the unopened parcel in the flames then poke at it until it was
nothing but ash.  I ached to know what those parcels contained.
    Clothes changed, I sat in my room and waited for the call from my
mother.  I dared not go down while she was still cleaning up the mess.  Ten
minutes later, we were finally on our way to Mass.  As usual, I made sure I was
a few paces behind her, I loved to watch the odd way she walked, it was all
tight arse and stunted steps.  She had a way of covering ground that looked
like she was trying to hold a red-hot poker up her backside by no means other
than her sphincter.  Highly amusing.
     I had been given my punishment when I eventually plucked up the courage
to show my face in the kitchen.  Today, I would not be allowed in the church
hall with the other children.  Today, I would have to sit beside my mother
through the whole, boring service and when the collection plate came around, I
was to hand over the money I had been saving for months for a pair of roller
skates.  I was heartbroken over the skates, especially as I had only been two
pounds off buying them.  Luckily, she was unaware that the first part of the
punishment wasn’t the blow she had intended. Fraternising with the kids, most
of whom, went to the same school as me, was difficult enough during the week. 
Having to do it on Sunday as well, was to say the least, difficult. I’ll
explain why.
    It was all to do with frilly socks and plaits.  These two things, I can
honestly say, blighted my childhood and were the cause of many a traumatic
nightmare.  Although, to be fair, while I was in the younger years of primary school,
neither of them mattered much.  Young kids don’t give a damn about what you
wear or how you look, you’re just accepted.  However, by the time I got to nine
or ten, I had begun to stick out in the crowd.  Round about that age we were
all beginning to be aware of fashion.  Suddenly pigtails and plaits disappeared
and girls were having their hair cut in actual styles.  I wasn’t.  No matter
how much I begged and pleaded, my mother insisted on doing my hair in exactly
the same way as she had done since the day I started school.  I was a laughing
stock – it still makes me come out in a cold sweat when I think about it. 
Every morning she would make two plaits just behind my ears, these, she would
catch up and tie to the top of my head with a ribbon so the plaits stood out at
right angles.  Do not dare laugh when I tell you this, but I actually went
through my entire primary school years with my head resembling a two handled
sugar bowl. 
    Then, just to add to the trauma, there were also the frilly socks.  Oh,
Lord, how I was jeered over those bloody socks.  My mother always bought me
white ankle socks that had a lace trim around the top.  OK, this may be pretty
when you are four or five…but at ten?   I’ve no idea why she did this, it was
either a deliberate attempt at humiliation, which succeeded brilliantly, or a
throwback to her doily fetish – I’ve just realised I haven’t told you about
that have I? My mother loved doilies, the scraps of frilly-edged material adorned
every surface in our house, there wasn’t an