coffin.’
I’m amazed, astounded, angry.
‘ I can’t believe you never
told me that! Why on earth not?’
Chris shrugs it off. ‘Probably because I
didn’t want you to think I’d been spying on you. I thought you
might have been embarrassed. I mean it was a pretty medieval
affair. Even you’d have to admit
that. And later on it didn’t seem
important.’
‘ But it was three years
later that we met.’
‘ I know.’
‘ And you already knew who I
was?’
‘ No, I
didn’t know . You
were just a face. Seen from afar. The main reason I remembered you
at all was because that day you looked so terribly sad. And alone.
There must’ve been a hundred people there but you seemed to be the
only one.’
‘ Men!’ I said sounding
angry but not as angry as I felt I needed to be. ‘What is it with
them? Can’t they ever tell the truth?’
Chris looks shamefaced. But he rallies
quoting, of all people, Pontius Bloody Pilate.
‘ Ti estin
aletheia ?’ he asks, in perfect Ancient
Greek, of course.
I don’t give him the satisfaction of letting
him translate it for me. This time I pip him at the post. ‘What is
truth? Yeah, right, a damn good question, classics geek,’ I
say.
Portents
My final year at high school - lucky Year 13
everyone called it - started off a drag but blossomed into, among
other things, Chris.
Lucky, unexpected and, I have to say, by
then not unwanted.
Under siege
As you’ll have realised by
now the chipping away of my Catholic faith started even before Gran
died. In fact it probably began with Gran when she spoke up for
women being priests, and probably ended when my quick and dirty,
but not insincere, prayers for Gran’s survival went unheeded. I
wanted to know she was safe in the Happy-Forever-After place but
no
matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t be
sure. Had
even she been sure?
I’d always thought Gran’s
faith was unassailable but her dying words suggested another
possibility, not only great frustration at having to shuffle off
her mortal coil but doubt. Why else would she have railed as she
did? Damn and bugger ! Wasn’t it possible, after all, that she had been terrified
of heading into dark nothingness instead of to
Happy-Forever-After?
On top of all that Mum and Dad had left me
to make up my own mind about the things they’d brought me up
believing. Was it any wonder that by the time I met Chris,
atheistic Chris who strongly believed that God was nothing more
than a myth, as fabulous a piece of storytelling as the Greek
legends which he loved but didn’t literally believe in either, that
I had already crossed from belief to doubt and finally to
disbelief? My faith seemed to have become as cold as Gran in her
grave.
By then I felt free, but also empty.
You can’t go back
In town one day I bumped into a few old
primary school friends - well, acquaintances.
‘ You still liking St
Anselm’s?’ I asked them, feeling a bit homesick for their
company.
‘ It’s cool,’ they said. I
found it hard to know if they were telling the truth or not. ‘But
why d’you want to know? You could’ve come with us.’
And that’s true. I could have but I’d chosen
not to. We were miles apart now, literally and figuratively.
A little bit like Gran, I’d moved on.
Like Gran, I had no intention of coming, or
going, back.
STRANGE MEETING
‘When did you get back?’ I ask.
‘ Couple of weeks
ago.’
‘ That all?’
‘ Haven’t got used to the
place yet.’
‘ Course not. Must be really
strange.’
There’s a pause. Chris hurries to fill it,
anxious maybe that otherwise I’ll lose interest in him.
‘ Got time for a coffee?
Something to eat?’
‘ Sure,’ I say. ‘I’m a free
agent. I’m free.’
‘ My shout.’
‘ I’m a big girl now,
remember.’
‘ Irish independence. How
could I forget?’
We cross the tram tracks, head down the
Boulevard.
‘ You won’t have had the
time to find the best eateries,’ I say. ‘There’s
I’m amazed, astounded, angry.
‘ I can’t believe you never
told me that! Why on earth not?’
Chris shrugs it off. ‘Probably because I
didn’t want you to think I’d been spying on you. I thought you
might have been embarrassed. I mean it was a pretty medieval
affair. Even you’d have to admit
that. And later on it didn’t seem
important.’
‘ But it was three years
later that we met.’
‘ I know.’
‘ And you already knew who I
was?’
‘ No, I
didn’t know . You
were just a face. Seen from afar. The main reason I remembered you
at all was because that day you looked so terribly sad. And alone.
There must’ve been a hundred people there but you seemed to be the
only one.’
‘ Men!’ I said sounding
angry but not as angry as I felt I needed to be. ‘What is it with
them? Can’t they ever tell the truth?’
Chris looks shamefaced. But he rallies
quoting, of all people, Pontius Bloody Pilate.
‘ Ti estin
aletheia ?’ he asks, in perfect Ancient
Greek, of course.
I don’t give him the satisfaction of letting
him translate it for me. This time I pip him at the post. ‘What is
truth? Yeah, right, a damn good question, classics geek,’ I
say.
Portents
My final year at high school - lucky Year 13
everyone called it - started off a drag but blossomed into, among
other things, Chris.
Lucky, unexpected and, I have to say, by
then not unwanted.
Under siege
As you’ll have realised by
now the chipping away of my Catholic faith started even before Gran
died. In fact it probably began with Gran when she spoke up for
women being priests, and probably ended when my quick and dirty,
but not insincere, prayers for Gran’s survival went unheeded. I
wanted to know she was safe in the Happy-Forever-After place but
no
matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t be
sure. Had
even she been sure?
I’d always thought Gran’s
faith was unassailable but her dying words suggested another
possibility, not only great frustration at having to shuffle off
her mortal coil but doubt. Why else would she have railed as she
did? Damn and bugger ! Wasn’t it possible, after all, that she had been terrified
of heading into dark nothingness instead of to
Happy-Forever-After?
On top of all that Mum and Dad had left me
to make up my own mind about the things they’d brought me up
believing. Was it any wonder that by the time I met Chris,
atheistic Chris who strongly believed that God was nothing more
than a myth, as fabulous a piece of storytelling as the Greek
legends which he loved but didn’t literally believe in either, that
I had already crossed from belief to doubt and finally to
disbelief? My faith seemed to have become as cold as Gran in her
grave.
By then I felt free, but also empty.
You can’t go back
In town one day I bumped into a few old
primary school friends - well, acquaintances.
‘ You still liking St
Anselm’s?’ I asked them, feeling a bit homesick for their
company.
‘ It’s cool,’ they said. I
found it hard to know if they were telling the truth or not. ‘But
why d’you want to know? You could’ve come with us.’
And that’s true. I could have but I’d chosen
not to. We were miles apart now, literally and figuratively.
A little bit like Gran, I’d moved on.
Like Gran, I had no intention of coming, or
going, back.
STRANGE MEETING
‘When did you get back?’ I ask.
‘ Couple of weeks
ago.’
‘ That all?’
‘ Haven’t got used to the
place yet.’
‘ Course not. Must be really
strange.’
There’s a pause. Chris hurries to fill it,
anxious maybe that otherwise I’ll lose interest in him.
‘ Got time for a coffee?
Something to eat?’
‘ Sure,’ I say. ‘I’m a free
agent. I’m free.’
‘ My shout.’
‘ I’m a big girl now,
remember.’
‘ Irish independence. How
could I forget?’
We cross the tram tracks, head down the
Boulevard.
‘ You won’t have had the
time to find the best eateries,’ I say. ‘There’s
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