My Mother Wore a Yellow Dress Read Online Free

rosary to be said right up at the altar.
    Every penitent in the waiting row knew that to be given the rosary and the altar by Father Monacle implied that you had done some serious sinning indeed.
    It was a bad beginning and I was determined from that day on never to put a foot wrong when it came to our parish priest and his confessional. I continued to intone that oft-repeated preamble ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned; this is my first confession ’ when I must surely have been on my twenty-first. It shows how well I’d ingested the mantra, how little I understood the whole sorry charade and, most importantly of all, how fearful I was of committing the sin of disobedience and actually thinking for myself.
    My First Communion was a triumphant affair. I was all got up in a lacy white dress and veil, white patent-leather shoes and matching handbag, and carried the essentialaccessories of every aspiring young Catholic girl: a prayer-book with a pearlised cover and plastic rosary beads. The book, with its gilt edging and lettering proclaiming My Holy Missal , had been purchased by my thrifty mother in a 1960s’ equivalent of today’s Poundstretcher. It was printed – or rather misprinted – in Belgium, with amusing consequences. Here and there an ‘a’ would mysteriously be replaced by an ‘o’. That missal would help me to relieve the boredom of many a Sunday mass – I would fervently entreat the Lord to ‘wosh owoy’ my sins.
    In my white frock and matching accessories I looked like a miniature bride and felt like a fairytale princess. I believe there’s a conspiracy afoot within the Church with regard to young girls. We’re given the sensation of that white frock and veil so early in life. It acts as the proverbial dangling carrot and gives the dream of marriage focus.
    Not that I entertained such thoughts that day. As I stood at the altar in my finery it seemed to me that all the difficult days of preparation had been worthwhile. Simply to wear the frock – and be made to feel special for once, no matter how fleetingly – was a reward in itself.
    With Communion done and dusted, Miss McKeague focused all her energies on preparing us for the Religious Exam, a yearly test conducted by the fearsome Father Monacle. It seemed to have no other purpose than to ensure that we were in no danger of even thinking about consorting with the Evil One.
    Certainly we children could have done without it, but for our teacher it was yet another excuse to neglect ‘less important’ subjects, such as history and geography. After all, what was more relevant to a Catholic child: knowing about the world or knowing who had made it?
    Our green-covered, dog-eared catechisms of Christian doctrine were learned by heart and we foughtfeverishly to retain it all in our wee heads until the dreaded day arrived.
    Q. Who made the world?
    A. God made the world .
    Q. Who is God?
    A. God is our Father in Heaven, the Creator and Lord of all things .
    Q. How many persons are there in the one God?
    A. There are three persons in the one God: the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost .
    Miss rehearsed the questions, guiding us with a pencil waved dramatically in the air like a conductor’s baton. We sang out our responses, sometimes falling out of tune – due to inattention or, more probably, temporary brain paralysis – but managing always to end together on an ear-popping crescendo. Most of what was taught and learned was delivered in this lilting manner so that eventually the words took on a meaningless life of their own.
    And for ever and ever Amen,
    And two times twelve makes twenty-four,
    And they all lived happily ever after.
    Rote-learning had turned us all into performing parrots. The pedagogical aim of my early schooling seemed to be ‘learn by heart first and understand later’. We were word-perfect though confused, but what did that matter?
    Miss always