My Oedipus Complex by Frank O'Connor Page A

naturally enough – but he asked the fellow what he wanted, and the fellow said in a deep, husky voice that he wanted to go to confession. The priest said it was an awkward time and wouldn’t it do in the morning, but the fellow said that last time he went to confession, there was one sin he kept back, being ashamed to mention it, and now it was always on his mind. Then the priest knew it was a bad case, because the fellow was after making a bad confession and committing a mortal sin. He got up to dress, and just then the cock crew in the yard outside, and – lo and behold! – when the priest looked round there was no sign of the fellow, only a smell of burning timber, and when the priest looked at his bed didn’t he see the print of two hands burned in it? That was because the fellow had made a bad confession. This story made a shocking impression on me.
    But the worst of all was when she showed us how to examine our conscience. Did we take the name of the Lord, our God, in vain? Did we honour our father and our mother? (I asked her did this include grandmothers and she said it did.) Did we love our neighbours as ourselves? Did we covet our neighbour’s goods? (I thought of the way I felt about the penny that Nora got every Friday.) I decided that, between one thing and another, I must have broken the whole ten commandments, all on account of that old woman, and so far as I could see, so long as she remained in the house I had no hope of ever doing anything else.
    I was scared to death of confession. The day the whole class went I let on to have a toothache, hoping my absence wouldn’t be noticed; but at three o’clock, just as I was feeling safe, along comes a chap with a message from Mrs Ryan that I was to go to confession myself on Saturday and be at the chapel for communion with the rest. To make it worse, Mother couldn’t come with me and sent Nora instead.
    Now, that girl had ways of tormenting me that Mother never knew of. She held my hand as we went down the hill, smiling sadly and saying how sorry she was for me, as if she were bringing me to the hospital for an operation.
    â€˜Oh, God help us!’ she moaned. ‘Isn’t it a terrible pity you weren’t a good boy? Oh, Jackie, my heart bleeds for you! How will you ever think of all your sins? Don’t forget you have to tell him about the time you kicked Gran on the shin.’
    â€˜Lemme go!’ I said, trying to drag myself free of her. ‘I don’t want to go to confession at all.’
    â€˜But sure, you’ll have to go to confession, Jackie,’ she replied in the same regretful tone. ‘Sure, if you didn’t, the parish priest would be up to the house, looking for you. ’Tisn’t, God knows, that I’m not sorry for you. Do you remember the time you tried to kill me with the bread-knife under the table? And the language you used to me? I don’t know what he’ll do with you at all, Jackie. He might have to send you up to the bishop.’
    I remember thinking bitterly that she didn’t know the half of what I had to tell – if I told it. I knew I couldn’t tell it, and understood perfectly why the fellow in Mrs Ryan’s story made a bad confession; it seemed to me a great shame that people wouldn’t stop criticizing him. I remember that steep hill down to the church, and the sunlit hillsides beyond the valley ofthe river, which I saw in the gaps between the houses like Adam’s last glimpse of Paradise.
    Then, when she had manoeuvred me down the long flight of steps to the chapel yard, Nora suddenly changed her tone. She became the raging malicious devil she really was.
    â€˜There you are!’ she said with a yelp of triumph, hurling me through the church door. ‘And I hope he’ll give you the penitential psalms, you dirty little caffler.’
    I knew then I was lost, given up to eternal justice. The door with the coloured-glass panels