Exploring my Irishness in England

WordSmith

Gerard Smith

Last week’s column wherein I wrote about my English accent in Ireland generated lots of positive-engagement. The combination of our sense of sound, identity, and nostalgia inherent in the school anthology book ‘Soundings’ resonated with people.

This week I delved back into another school anthology ‘Exploring English 1’ – It prompted me to travel back to my early days as an Irish lad in England to explore scenes from that world; a significant vignette sprung to mind, which I’d like to share with you.

Then, I recall my ‘Irishness’ being highly concentrated: All my teachers in St Joseph’s Primary school were Irish, as were the pupils, and of course, the omnipresent priests.

The street we lived on was ‘mostly’ Irish; yet it was often like a simmering pot of spud soup, which would occasionally boil over, causing fights between English and Irish lads – we lived in troublesome times.

But it was something else about my Irishness that threatened to get me into serious trouble; for it compelled me to do something bad, and as a fateful weekend approached, I forced myself to do a heinous thing.

On that Saturday morning my ears pulsed to the beat of my heart. I unclenched my hands and wiped the sweat on my trousers, at once feeling fresh beads prickle my palms. My breathing was fast and furious, propelled by nervous energy. I was about to commit a crime – a terrible crime.

My crime would be against Marjorie. A fact that gave my violation its 'serious' status. You see, I liked Marjorie – quite a lot. Having to do this to her hurt me more than anything else in the world. But I had to do it; there was no other choice. So, aware doubt was beginning to pull me back, I put my hand on her front door and pushed.

As always Marjorie was there, warm and welcoming, “Hello Gerard, how are you this morning?” she asked, pulling strings tight at the back of her pinny. “Alright,” I said, hoping the one-word answer would hide the tremor in my voice. I stepped forward with my hands behind my back, to conceal their evil intentions.

“What are you here for?” she asked, patting her hair, set solid with lacquer. I moved forward and hovered, while an uncertain sound fell from me, “Erm?” I said, questioning the morality of my motive. “Take your time,” said Marjorie, stepping back to give me a good view of the brightly coloured sweet jars behind her. Knowing I had no margin for error, I executed my diversion tactic immediately. “Can I have five-pence worth of strawberry bonbons, please?” She turned her back on me, “Course you can, sweetheart.” Then – with a deft swiftness, my arm shot forward and plucked a penny Blackjack from its tray. I had it in my back pocket before Marjorie had even touched the bonbon jar. I’d done it – I was now a bona fide child-thief!

I skipped away from the crime scene, sucking on a bonbon. My crime had given me something I seriously needed – a sin.

Because, as the child of immigrant Irish Catholics, I was on the cusp of a momentous occasion: my First Confession and Holy Communion. The learning and build-up to this rite-of-passage had caused me considerable anxiety, so it was a huge relief that I had a real-life sin to confess to the priest.

I swallowed my bonbon as tightness gripped the pit of my stomach, stopping me in my tracks. The tautness gave way to a dull ache, which made me smile. For I knew what the pain was, it was the sin swaddling my soul, and my smile was for the priest – he’d surely be proud of my brevity of sin.

But sadly, he wasn’t. When I proudly confessed my hard-got sin, his shadowy-head loomed and his whispered voice boomed a repetition of my opening line, “Bless me father for I have sinned, these are my sins… you’ve only confessed one,” he said. Had I known I had to have multiples, I’d have gone on a shoplifting spree. I didn’t know what to say. So, I panicked and lied, “I swore at my mother, Father.”

Now, this was a lie beyond the realms of my reality, for I would never dare to swear at Mam.

I felt the weight of a guilt-induced ball-and-chain shackle my feet, causing me to shuffle towards my penance. A penance that was worthless given I’d committed the ultimate sin of lying in confession. And so it was that my First Confession and Holy Communion left me reeling in turmoil.

Back to Exploring English 1, I re-read Brendan Behan’s The Confirmation Suit, it’s as brilliant as I recall. I can confirm, there’s more exploring to come.