the desks, laid a hand on a head here, on a shoulder there, veered round and headed towards the blackboard, where Miss Veegaete awaited him. She dropped a little curtsy, and took his hand in hers.
The priest posted himself in front of my desk.
“Now boys, you must bide your time just a little longer,”he croaked in a voice that seemed to come from a rusty cogwheel in his throat. “Have patience, the summer holiday is nigh.”
He rested one hand on my desk and gestured with the other half behind his back for Miss Veegaete to sit down. She obeyed.
“But during holidays, as at all times,” the Reverend Father instructed, “we must all behave …” he shuffled his feet, “like good, kind …” he took off his skullcap and laid it on my desk, “Christians.”
Miss Veegaete nodded in agreement.
The priest moved away from my desk towards the centre of the classroom. “Well, we’ve got quite a Noah’s Ark here, haven’t we, with all these animals …” he said, and suddenly, as if by magic, his face took on an indulgent, fond look. There had to be a church directory of regulation smiles and benign expressions, I thought, for priests always smiled in exactly the same unctuous way, as if they were posing for a portrait in oils.
“During holidays, too,” he went on, “we must do our duty every day. Every day without fail … Say the Lord’s Prayer … some Hail Marys, too. And don’t forget to recite a rosary from time to time. And the Acts, of course. Which of you knows the Acts?”
No one moved. The Last Judgement had begun. The shepherd, wolf in sheep’s clothing, pillar of black salt, looked round for a likely victim. His large hands, which he held clasped, were level with my eyes. The skin was wrinkled and scattered with tiny capillary veins, the nails were cracked, thefingers bony and tipped with brownish-yellow stains. One of his thumbs rubbed slowly and raspingly over the other.
Looking past him I caught a glimpse of Miss Veegaete hunched over her desk. She had opened Marcel’s letter and was reading it attentively, holding her fingers to her forehead.
My heart was pounding in my throat. The priest moved a little to one side, thereby obscuring my view of Miss Veegaete.
Peering from under my eyebrows my gaze left his hands and slid up his chest, past the greasy stains and traces of hastily flicked-off cigar ash up to the wide dingy dog collar and the head emerging from it. The thick, shiny lower lip. The ginger hair protruding from the nostrils. The shaggy eyebrows and bulging eyes which, like his hands, had a tracery of little veins.
The hands separated. One slipped into a side pocket of his cassock and reappeared holding a checked handkerchief. The other hand lay heavily on the top of my head.
“
Allez
, come now my boy, let’s hear you recite the Act of Charity …”
I braced myself.
“The Act of Charity: my Lord and my God …” I murmured, summoning up all my courage to flounder on.
The hand left the top of my head and joined the other hand, and together they raised the handkerchief to the flared, bushy nostrils.
He blew his nose, sounding a fanfare of snot.
I fastened my eyes on the swarm of ink stains and names scratched in the varnish of my desk.
“Normally he is perfectly capable of it,” Miss Veegaete gushed from behind the priest’s back. “Normally he’s up to it all right.” The priest turned round. Miss Veegaete hove into view again. She eyed me with dismay. The letter, I could see, was no longer on her desk.
The shepherd was satisfied, now that one member of his flock had been ritually humbled. He strolled down the classroom and pointed to a boy in the back row, who promptly reeled off the whole text.
“Well done. Such diligence is always pleasing to Lord Jesus.”
*
The letter had vanished. Miss Veegaete kept her eyes averted from mine, despite my imploring looks. When the priest drew himself up to bestow the blessing she rose from her chair and stared over
The priest posted himself in front of my desk.
“Now boys, you must bide your time just a little longer,”he croaked in a voice that seemed to come from a rusty cogwheel in his throat. “Have patience, the summer holiday is nigh.”
He rested one hand on my desk and gestured with the other half behind his back for Miss Veegaete to sit down. She obeyed.
“But during holidays, as at all times,” the Reverend Father instructed, “we must all behave …” he shuffled his feet, “like good, kind …” he took off his skullcap and laid it on my desk, “Christians.”
Miss Veegaete nodded in agreement.
The priest moved away from my desk towards the centre of the classroom. “Well, we’ve got quite a Noah’s Ark here, haven’t we, with all these animals …” he said, and suddenly, as if by magic, his face took on an indulgent, fond look. There had to be a church directory of regulation smiles and benign expressions, I thought, for priests always smiled in exactly the same unctuous way, as if they were posing for a portrait in oils.
“During holidays, too,” he went on, “we must do our duty every day. Every day without fail … Say the Lord’s Prayer … some Hail Marys, too. And don’t forget to recite a rosary from time to time. And the Acts, of course. Which of you knows the Acts?”
No one moved. The Last Judgement had begun. The shepherd, wolf in sheep’s clothing, pillar of black salt, looked round for a likely victim. His large hands, which he held clasped, were level with my eyes. The skin was wrinkled and scattered with tiny capillary veins, the nails were cracked, thefingers bony and tipped with brownish-yellow stains. One of his thumbs rubbed slowly and raspingly over the other.
Looking past him I caught a glimpse of Miss Veegaete hunched over her desk. She had opened Marcel’s letter and was reading it attentively, holding her fingers to her forehead.
My heart was pounding in my throat. The priest moved a little to one side, thereby obscuring my view of Miss Veegaete.
Peering from under my eyebrows my gaze left his hands and slid up his chest, past the greasy stains and traces of hastily flicked-off cigar ash up to the wide dingy dog collar and the head emerging from it. The thick, shiny lower lip. The ginger hair protruding from the nostrils. The shaggy eyebrows and bulging eyes which, like his hands, had a tracery of little veins.
The hands separated. One slipped into a side pocket of his cassock and reappeared holding a checked handkerchief. The other hand lay heavily on the top of my head.
“
Allez
, come now my boy, let’s hear you recite the Act of Charity …”
I braced myself.
“The Act of Charity: my Lord and my God …” I murmured, summoning up all my courage to flounder on.
The hand left the top of my head and joined the other hand, and together they raised the handkerchief to the flared, bushy nostrils.
He blew his nose, sounding a fanfare of snot.
I fastened my eyes on the swarm of ink stains and names scratched in the varnish of my desk.
“Normally he is perfectly capable of it,” Miss Veegaete gushed from behind the priest’s back. “Normally he’s up to it all right.” The priest turned round. Miss Veegaete hove into view again. She eyed me with dismay. The letter, I could see, was no longer on her desk.
The shepherd was satisfied, now that one member of his flock had been ritually humbled. He strolled down the classroom and pointed to a boy in the back row, who promptly reeled off the whole text.
“Well done. Such diligence is always pleasing to Lord Jesus.”
*
The letter had vanished. Miss Veegaete kept her eyes averted from mine, despite my imploring looks. When the priest drew himself up to bestow the blessing she rose from her chair and stared over
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