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On Wednesdays the bells of St. Michael's Church on the neighbouring hill pealed for a service or, as some said, “choir practice”. They filled me with dread, a reminder of Sunday yet to come. In Eric or Little by Little which I had begun to read, the bell was always tolling. Or the World of School it said, and in that school it seemed that the boys died off like flies. Every Wednesday I remembered someone was dying; on Sundays I nearly died myself – every Sunday. I still feel ashamed that I was so utterly miserable, but so it was; I could not know that religion was being born.
On Sunday morning we went to church wearing Eton suits, mortar boards with bright blue tassels, our shoes polished before breakfast miraculously worn out by church time.
“What have you been doing to them?” the vixen who was our matron used to ask. “Your parents are poor; they cannot afford to buy you new shoes every term!”
Who had said they were poor? They hadn't told me. It was like Eric or Little by Little; or Little Meg's Children. I began to whimper.
“You crying? A great big boy like you! Playing trains were you?”
Yes, but there was no dust, only gravel.
“Don't let me catch you doing that again! The idea – just look at your shoes! Nearly worn right through and new only a week ago!”
She was smart, petite and … well, God rest her soul, I knew I was a horrible child and God would never make me a good boy however hard I prayed. I don't think He ever listened. I really don't.
The other boys stood around and watched; watched with their big, round eyes and hard, expressionless faces. ‘Come not in terror as the King of Kings, But kind and good with healing in Thy wings’. Please God, make me a good boy. He never did, never, never, The
inspection by the matron ended always with me tearful, horribly brushed and neat, indescribably scruffy.
Church was all right; even the sermon, never less than forty minutes, was a respite from tormentors. I remember the relief when I learned that the text ‘I know that my Red