"Gerard, wake up, we're late," Maria's shout was accompanied by a vigorous shake of my shoulders.
I'd slept so deeply I found it difficult to lift my body. I managed to reach an arm towards Maria, "Late for what?" I asked. She grabbed my hand, hoisting me up.
"Mass," she said, hurriedly brushing her hair.
The smell of cooking bacon wafted into the room, its savoury hit waking me up. Great Uncle Frankie was Sunday morning chef, concocting a culinary feast we'd enjoy after Mass while he left for the later ceremony.
......
A crowding congregation marched with silent solemnity up the steep hill that led to the jewel in Cavan Town's Crown – The Cathedral.
The granite and limestone of St Patrick and St Felim's Cathedral glistened in another blue-sky day.
Holding Maria's hand, we strolled, my head bowed in thought, thinking about Patrick and Felim. The week before we left Manchester, I recalled asking Dad, "Do Patrick and Felim live in the Cathedral?" He'd spluttered a laugh and pondered, "I suppose they still do, in spirit; that's how it got its name."
Passing through the doors, I stopped, halting Maria with me, "Were Patrick and Felim brothers?" I asked.
Maria dabbed two fingers in the holy water font. "Don't be silly; they're Saints," she whispered, tapping her sacredly wet fingers onto my forehead.
......
She pulled me into a pew as the Priest, dressed head to toe in white and gold robes arrived on the altar. Three boys in plain white, their hands clasped in prayer, followed him. I watched the Priestly preparations with a warm glow – because I thought that when I was grown up, it would be nice to live in a Cathedral like this with my best school friend – just like Patrick and Felim.
But the warmth soon evaporated when Maria's mumbling caught my eye. Her head down, I saw her mouth moving in silent prayer. This struck me as odd, never had I seen my sister embrace prayer so fervently.
I stared at her moving mouth, trying to discern her words, but I couldn't fathom any. She reminded me of a fish out of water, yearning to be thrown back to recover the life before – the sight of her made me sad.
Maria noticed my stare, looked at me and mouthed, "What?" I whispered, "What're you praying for?"
Her lips tickled my ear, "We're at Mass; that's what you do."
"Tell me what you're praying for, and I'll pray for it too," I said, hopeful I might get some clues in her response.
But a sharp trio of shushing sounds, from a woman in front, a man
behind, and a woman to our left put paid to that glimmer of hope. We immediately lowered our heads for the rest of the religious ceremony.
......
With Mass over, there was a marked contrast in the atmosphere outside Patrick and Felim's Cathedral.
The respectful silence accompanying the congregation's entrance was replaced with a relaxed sizzle as they burst into chattering. It felt like a collective tension had been released as people opened up – and talked.
I became acutely aware of the words that surrounded me. More significantly, I figured that if people were relaxed, secrets might be spilt. And so, I mingled – and listened.
......
I soon deduced that the main topic of conversation was the weather. "Isn't this weather great," asked a woman, dressed in a pink trouser- suit, of a man who appeared distressed by his own Sunday suit and boot.
YOU ARE READING
Secrets And Styes
Non-FictionI was seven the summer I travelled to Ireland with my brother and sister. Determined I was, to discover the identity of the tall-man, a ghost who appeared to Dad when he was my age - making Dad proud was a priority. Soon upon arrival, the whispering...
