November 2010
I walked into the church and looked around for signs of change. It was nearly fifty years since I was here, but all seemed familiar, apart from the addition of a large board with the work of small children on it. They seem to be all the rage nowadays. No doubt desperate vicars trying to 'reach out' to the next generation in an effort to re-capture his dwindling congregation.
It was rather embarassing to recall the visits I made here as a child. I used to visit my friend, Nuala, who lived nearby. As her parents were rather stern and scary, particularly her father, we used to roam the area in search of amusement. There wasn't much of it to be had in that house.
When she was away from the claustrophobic atmosphere of her home, Nuala became lively and almost brazen. I was fairly quiet at home, and being part of a family with many children, went largely unnoticed by anyone. Her company seemed to spark off a rebellious streak in me which was wholly unexpected. Truth to tell, I surprised myself.
At first we started to explore the downs nearby. There were lots of windy paths and places to hide.
Elvis' 'Blue Hawaii' was popular at the time. I don't recall ever seeing the film, but I suppose we must have seen pictures because we took to dressing up as hula girls. We thought ourselves terribly glamorous in makeshift costumes of swimsuits and crepe paper.
We were in Hawaiian mode, singing and walking about on a sunny afternoon, when a man and his dog appeared.
In retrospect, I don't know why we were so surprised. After all, it was a public place, although we supposed it to be entirely ours.
Understandably, he seemed rather amazed to see two young girls in full exotic regalia amongst the trees in the English countryside.
He started chatting to us in a fairly nondescript way. I can't remember anything about what he actually said, but I do remember his eyes. It was as if they were detached from the rest of him and they made me feel so uncomfortable that I tried to hitch my swimsuit up to my neck.
I'm not sure if Nuala felt the same, but we never went back to play there afterwards. We didn't discuss it . . . we just didn't go back.
Although we knew next to nothing about the murkier side of human nature, perhaps we knew innately that we were playing with fire, and weren't prepared to tempt fate any further.
It was then that we took to visiting the church and the surrounding gravestones. As we were Catholic and this church wasn't, we regarded it as unworthy of respect. No doubt this was the result of our education in the hands of the Sisters of Mercy. Actually, mercy seemed very thin on the ground at my Primary School. One of the nuns told me I'd never pass the 11 Plus . . . so I did!
At first we simply explored all the nooks and crannies inside the building. We peeked around corners and sat on the pews. As our visits progressed, we became bolder. We went right up to the altar, which we would never have dared to do in our own church. Imagine having to confess such a thing to our priest! However, this wasn't the true church.
We went up to the little stone steps to an old pulpit and pretended to preach. We took the cross on the wooden pole out of its socket and carried it around. One day, we opened the old oak door and, finding robe on hooks, we even started to dress up in them and dance down the aisle. In fact, it was during one of these performances that it happened.
We had gone in as usual, checking all the secret places. Not a soul was about. We were about halfway down the aisle when I heard a deep booming voice, 'What are you doing here?'
Nuala and I looked at each other, aghast, shed the robes and ran.
We talked about it afterwards. She heard the same as I did. We concluded we couldn't have imagined it, but we knew there was no-one in the church. It couldn't be God, because He wouldn't be in a heathen church.
We were spooked enough, however, to vow never to go back again. It wasn't long after, that our friendship faded and we made new friends.
I was glad I decided to re-visit the church. I sat down, closed my eye and prayed for forgiveness.