I had mentioned last time that I had to read at Mass. It all went well and Fr Austin – I couldn’t bring myself to call him ‘Frosty’ to his face, despite his pleading – was so happy he asked me to be the narrator for the Passion on Good Friday.
This was foisted on me with squeals of congratulations: sure everyone dreams of being the narrator, you have such depth to your voice, and a solemn, handsome expression.
“Solemn and handsome?” Fionnuala was smirking. “I’ve heard it all. It’ll suit well because our ones all go that evening.”
“Losing in front of your home crowd,” I mumbled, resentful that none of her family would ever dream of doing the readings. But I wasn’t as frightened as I had been at the start. Once the serious palpitations receded, I found that it was a dreamlike, out-of-body affair that was over before you knew it, and helped smelt on another layer of kudos in this strange place that is Tyrone.
Cometh the hour, cometh the man. I was backstage in the sacristy with Frosty and the rest of the ‘cast’ – which turned out to be an oldish, shapeless woman with a haircut I couldn’t take my eyes off (a short, fuzzy, ginger helmet) and what looked like boys’ Velcro shoes. I recognised her from giving out communion; she was to play everyone apart from Jesus. “I’m Jesus,” Frosty announced with a flourish, then deepened his voice unnaturally. “I’m Jesus.”
Jesus is right, I thought, as I took my place beside Fionnuala and the kids in the front row. The rest of her family were all there too – various brothers and sister and parents, plus Genghis – and the chapel was rammed. People standing at the back and up against the walls of the balcony. I thought the choir had trebled in number but it was just those squeezing in for a seat, with smug, guilty faces.
It wasn’t long before I had to go up, solemnly bow in front of the altar – I followed the woman with the ginger helmet’s lead – and take my place on the stage. It was basically me narrating and Frosty as Jesus (his voice fluctuated a lot) until a maid spoke to Peter and the woman read her line: “Aren’t you another of that man’s disciples?” I read mine – “He answered” – and she retorted, as Peter, in a really slow drawl: “I am not.”
The first line was read strangely enough; quite fast, with a strong country lilt. But the second was unbelievable, and I know I wasn’t the only person who noticed. There was a visible straightening of the congregation when she intoned “I. Am. Not.”
I had to keep going as it was me and Jesus again for a while, but in the back of my mind I knew her next character was the guard who slapped Jesus. “Is that the way to answer the high priest?”
Another different voice and I got a flicker of the giggles, and when Peter appeared again with the deep-voiced “I am not”, I was on the brink. I actually laughed a bit and turned it into a cough. I saw Genghis glance up. I needed to be careful of this mirthless mirth.
As I peered up at the crucifixion the woman was shouting “Crucify him!” in the culchiest accent I have ever heard and I was away. Laughing at Mass, on the altar, as our Lord was being crucified.
I tried to fasten on to the images on the walls, to punch some gravity into me, but as I peered up at the crucifixion the woman was shouting “Crucify him!” in the culchiest accent I have ever heard and I was away. Laughing at Mass, on the altar, as our Lord was being crucified.
Then I was saved. By Frosty of all people. He came over and put his arm around me and whispered, ‘It’s okay. I know, it’s heart-breaking.”
On the way home Fionnuala was studying the Mass leaflet. “Were you crying or choking on the altar, Fabien?”
“Oh, I just lost my composure for a bit.” Had I got away with it?
“Good. I thought for a dreadful moment that Fr Austin was going to give you mouth to mouth.”