Shouting In Whispers

At the top of the street in Preston where I lived as a child in the late 1940s to the mid 1960s is a large Roman Catholic Church – St Joseph’s. When last I visited my hometown some years ago I had stood outside the old house where I spent my childhood and teenage years and looked up the street at the distant church and remembered. I had made the journey from my home of 60 years in Nottingham as what I thought would probably be my last visit to my home town. Even after 60 years Preston is, to me, still where I feel most at home! After a few moments gazing at number 18, the little terraced house which had been my home, I drove up Caroline Street and parked near to the church, and the memories came flooding back.

My mother, for reasons I could never fathom, was always strongly anti-Catholic and as a child I can vividly remember being constantly confused and no little upset by her never explained views. Many - indeed most - of the families living near us were Catholic and my two best friends were also of that faith and went to St Joseph’s school. I went to the local Church of England School, St Matthews – although it would have to be said that neither my mother or dad were in any way obviously religious. My mother, however had a strong, and in my view today, totally irrational and unpleasant anti-Catholic streak. Such was her vitriol and vehemence that as a child I always viewed the church at the top of the street with misgivings and no little fear. What went on there I often asked myself, what terrible things did these Catholics do to make my mother so resentful and full of hate I so often wondered? My Catholic friends seemed just like me – the only difference was that many of them went to church regularly – but I always wondered, in view of what my mother so often disparagingly said of Catholics, if there was, unknown to me, something that I should be wary and suspicious of? For reasons known only to my mother, she had no problem with me playing with the Catholic boys who lived in the street - indeed (and even then I thought bizarrely), she almost fussed over them, felt sorry for them and would often comment that it wasn't their fault that they had been born into that faith; as if they were carrying some terrible life burden upon their shoulders.

My mother’s viewpoint always seemed strange and illogical and in the years since, I’ve never reconciled it. As I became older I can remember walking past the main entrance to St Joseph's Church - especially on my way to the football match at Preston North End each Saturday - when perhaps a wedding was about to take place in the Church. I would stop to look through the open doors into the Church to see what it was like, but always from a distance; never daring to actually poke my head through the open door, such was the anxiety and guilt that my mother's words and ire had built up in me. It all looked very grand and elaborate as I peered in from the pavement, but despite my mother’s dire warnings about Catholicism, I never saw any terrible events occurring; it was all very confusing, and no little worrying.

But, in my own, small quiet way all those years ago, I rebelled.

 You see, during the long summer holidays my two friends, Tony & Gary Clarkson and their friends, all Catholics, would often go to play football in the garden at St Joseph’s Church – and I didn’t want to miss out! Through the gate at the side of the Church and behind a high wall there was a huge and rather beautiful garden with a lawn large enough for a small football match. The lawn was surrounded with rose bushes, trellis work and bedding plants and one or two bench seats – all beautifully maintained. Looking back it must have made a pleasant place for the priests to enjoy a bit of peace and tranquillity - I'm sure, too, that it made a pleasant place for photographs after a wedding had taken place in the Church, but in those long summer days it was not unusual for a gang of us to turn up at the entrance gate to the garden with our football or cricket bat and seek permission to play a game on the lawn. The surrounding streets were barren concrete affairs – no grass or gardens - and the local park was quite a distance so this hidden garden was a wonderful Wembley Stadium or Lord’s Cricket Ground for us! And as my friends asked if we could play there I would hang back, silent, unspeaking on the edge of the group – my friends were Catholics, they knew the priests, but I was an interloper and fearful of where I was and what I was doing. My mother and her unexplained and unfathomable hatred for Catholics sat on my shoulder; but I was desperate to be part of this gang and part of the game. At the same time, however, I knew that should I be found out I was risking a heavenly thunderbolt from on high. That, I was prepared to accept as a risk worth taking but had a greater fear of the eternal damnation that would emanate from my mother if she ever found out!

We had to be careful, however. It wasn't just a case of going straight in and playing – we had to get permission. There lived at the Presbytery a housekeeper. She was a veritable dragon and we knew if we asked her then permission would be instantly refused, and we would be sent packing! But there were always a number of Priests in and out of the Presbytery, and often amongst them were young men who were, perhaps, still in training. We always waited until one of them appeared – and permission was always granted!  One or other of these young men would arrange the game for us, helping us to pick teams, deciding who should be in goal, or who would be wicket keeper or who should be captain.  Coats would be put down for goals or the priest would nip inside and re-emerge an old upright chair to serve as a wicket (while the housekeeper scowled disapprovingly from the Presbytery window!) and then we would all soon be chasing about kicking and heading and scoring goals on the lush grass of the immaculate lawn! Sometimes the priests would be in their cassocks but always there to enjoy the fun, to settle disputes and to show off their sporting skills to us kids. But, there was something else – and it stays with me to this day.  Even in the most exciting game, such was the tranquillity and atmosphere, the gentleness and wonder of the garden and the adjoining church, that I remember that we always talked in whispers and even shouted “goal” in a loud whisper! And as the game progressed, I was increasingly just part of the group, I was accepted and not noticed – there was never any comment or thought about whether I should be there – I was simply welcomed with no questions asked about why I was never seen at church or who I was; I was welcome, no strings attached.

 And I wondered what it was that my mother so hated about these people? But my mother was at work so she had no idea that I was committing what to her must have been one of the deadly sins by stepping foot inside this den of iniquity! Of course, I was terrified lest she found out but I never told her – the repercussions would, I knew, have been too painful.

 At the end of the garden were some old outbuildings that led to a door in the outside wall of the garden. These rooms were places for garden tools, old disused church impedimenta and the like – I can remember the Priests referring to the rooms as “the glory hole” and in my naivety I wondered if this was some deeply religious reference and whether it was “glory hole” or “glory hall”. The reality, of course, was that the Priests were simply being disparaging about these junk rooms! If the weather was bad we would often play in them – hide and seek, hunt for treasure in the old dusty cupboards (we usually only found old torn hymn and prayer books!), talk football, swop comics, play marbles or flick cigarette packets (I wonder if I can still do that?). I remember that one day we found an old wind up gramophone and one scratched old record! We played that record over and over again! Looking back the song was dreadful – but it became ingrained on my mind and the whole experience part of my growing up. Even today it reminds me of my mother’s intolerance, of the fear of my getting caught by her and equally of the exciting and secret things we did on those wet summer afternoons in that magical place. And the record?  - I can still remember every single word of “The Hand That Wore the Velvet Glove”

“Last night as I was strolling by,

There on the ground I found a velvet glove,

Whose can it be, and where is she,

Oh where is she,

The hand that wore the velvet glove........”

 At this point my memory has perhaps played tricks. I have always firmly believed that it was sung by Jimmy Durante but on researching this blog I can find no record of a recording by “Schnozzle”. It was certainly recorded by many singers of that 50s generation but which one I may never know. But as I write this I can still hear it, I can still picture the and smell that "glory hole" on those wet afternoons and feel the feelings of those far off days!

So, I parked my car near the church gate where all those years ago I used to stand, on the edge of the group as we kids asked if we could play on the church lawn. I walked through the gateway and stood in the entrance. I still felt an intruder and uneasy about breaking the calm of the place just as I had done all those years ago. In front of me stood the Church buildings, the Presbytery with two or three cars parked there – just as I remember it from all those years ago.  I felt instantly at home, the feelings flooded back. But then I realised it was not the same. Where once was a lovely rose bed with trellis work there now stood some rather depressing and poorly maintained garage like structures. And the beautifully manicured lawn which had served as our Wembley stadium or Lord’s cricket ground – had gone. No benches for priests to sit and think great religious thoughts, read profound devotional texts or click their rosaries, no peaceful tranquillity, no place of beauty in the middle of these rows of mean terraced houses. Instead, the area had been turned into a children’s nursery – with a substantial looking wire fence and metal climbing frames all painted with garish bright colours - what had once been a lovely garden now resembled a prison's secure exercise area; indeed for the safety of the young children that was exactly what it was. All very functional and “today” but all beauty and magical atmosphere gone. I couldn't imagine that the children who come to play in the nursery today would shout in whispers as we had done for there was no sense of tranquillity or of awe; its magical beauty had gone. It was - although beautifully maintained - just garish, cheap and rather nasty tat which I felt would simply encourage loud and unthinking behaviour.  For us, all those years ago, we knew that we were privileged "guests", we had no entitlement to be there, and this fact combined with the beautiful specialness of the place ensured that we looked and acted in awe and wonder. I looked into the distance through the security fencing and there, indeed, were the rooms, the “glory hole” that we used to play in but now, I suspected, playrooms to lots of squealing young children as they are brought there each day by their parents. All as it should be in our modern world. And as I stood there I wondered if, just sometimes today, we increasingly fail to provide or insist upon places of reverence and respect, as we constantly encourage and legislate for open access and entitlement. And I felt a twinge of sadness for what has perhaps been lost and which children of the future may never experience.

Of course, in this day and age that is what we do – we take a pragmatic approach, utilitarianism is the watchword, value for money. The Church has to be seen to be doing something, playing an active role in the local community – there is less and less a place in our modern world for a Church to be simply a place of devotion, beauty and spiritual renewal. It has to be useful. And what better way than allowing or promoting a nursery for the local youngsters. It happens everywhere and with every faith – and who am I to complain – after all it is what society wants and demands. But is it what society needs I wondered as I stood there? Perhaps for the Catholic church – so often in recent years on the back foot in the face of allegations of abuse or lack of understanding of the modern world – it is a good PR exercise and something that they have no option but to be involved with. And in this context a beautiful lawn and trellised garden cannot be justified – “turn it into something useful” would be the Church's “mission statement” and “business plan”! I'm not against children’s playgrounds and the like – they are, rightly, part of the very fabric of our modern society. But I do sometimes wonder if, in our rush to satisfy society’s every whim and demand we are in danger of losing much else. That we must have HS2, or another London airport; that we must do away with “red tape” so that houses can be more easily built at the expense of lovely countryside; that we must ensure that an area like my local and very beautiful country park here in Ruddington has an even bigger (it’s already huge!) children’s play area – all these and a million other wants, needs and demands are all very understandable and laudable.  But whilst they might satisfy our physical, economic and leisure needs will they sustain our deeper emotional instincts or any spiritual needs? Will we be the better and happier for them, will they provide food for the soul and make us glad to be alive? – I’m not too sure about that.   

Somewhere, deep down, I wondered if we are in danger of throwing the baby out with the bath water and losing something that will only become apparent when we no longer have it. When society has done away with all its beautiful and quietly inspiring things, when all that is left is concrete, security fencing, garish climbing frames or bouncy castles and there is no family silver left in the "awe, wonder & reverence cupboard" – what then, I wonder? The answer to that question is short but true: we will have lost a little of the very things that make us human - things like beauty, love, hope, aspiration, reverence, stillness, kindness, empathy with other humans and with the world that we inhabit; these are the things that we turn to when our brash "whizz bang crash world" collapses; when we are in pain, when we are frightened, when someone we love is in danger or is no more, when we are in need, when we want reassurance.  They are important. They are the small, quiet pleasures of which poet and author Vita Sackville West wrote: "Small pleasures must correct great tragedies". They are our humanity.  And as I stood there the words of Joni Mitchell’s famous 1970’s song “Big Yellow Taxi” ran through my mind:

“They paved paradise and put up a parking lot

With a pink hotel, a boutique, and a swingin' hot spot

Don't it always seem to go

That you don't know what you got 'til it's gone

They paved paradise and put up a parking lot

They took all the trees, and put ‘em in a tree museum

And they charged the people a dollar and a half to see them

No, no, no

Don't it always seem to go

That you don't know what you got 'til it's gone

They paved paradise, and put up a parking lot.....”

I was pleased for the local kids that they had a nursery to go to, just as I had gone  all those years ago to played football and cricket on the manicured greensward. But I also thought that they might also be missing things that the shady church garden offered to me and my friends – peace, tranquillity, a green haven in the middle of the narrow cobbled streets and the tightly packed brick houses and the towering, long gone, cotton mills where my mother and aunties and uncles worked. It was a time and place for us to experience a different world, to learn about respect, calmness, simple beauty and perhaps see birds in the trees or maybe the odd squirrel..................  in short, to experience the awe and wonder of the place. And I wondered if today's youngsters will ever experience or feel the need to "shout in whispers" as we had done on sunny school holiday afternoons when we scored a goal or hit a six in that hallowed place. But, of course, shouting in whispers or seeing a squirrel doesn’t have an economic worth,  they don’t win votes or impress banks or gain government grants, they don’t impress 21^st century man and his mission statements and business plans – all things that are so important in our modern busy, black and white, utilitarian, pragmatic, unforgiving world.

So I stood in that gateway and remembered. As I stood there I hoped that perhaps a priest might emerge and ask if he could be of assistance. I would ask if I could see inside the Church and in so doing satisfy my curiosity as to what it is actually like in there after all these years. I have stood and marvelled in hundreds, perhaps thousands, of great churches, mosques, mausoleums and temples throughout the world - the Taj Mahal, the Church of the Blood of the Saviour in St. Petersburg, Canterbury Cathedral, the Thomaskirche in Leipzig, York Minster, St Mark's in Venice, Hagia Sophia  and the Blue Mosque in Istanbul, the Mesquita in Cordoba, the Duomo in Florence, the achingly beautiful cathedral in Burgos ...... an almost endless list. I have stood humbled, inspired and awed in St Peter’s in Rome and in the Sistine Chapel, I have looked in wonder and jaw dropping amazement at the frescoes in the Basilica of St Francis in  Assisi, and I have quietly wept inside at the glorious magnificence, the awe inspiring spiritual reverence, the humility and the humanity shown by Sikh pilgrims at the Sikh Golden Temple in Amritsar. So, I knew the sort of thing that I might see in St Joseph's – the confessional box, the high altar, artwork depicting the stations of the cross perhaps, statues of the Virgin and so on. And I also knew that all these places are, in the end, only an arrangement bricks and mortar which could, if some builder wished, be re-arranged in a different form to make a hotel or a prison or a large mansion.  But I also believe, profoundly and certainly, that as places of worship, reverence, awe and wonder and spiritual renewal they are vital to us for they give us just a little glimpse of what it is to be human and that is why they are worth preserving.

But no priest came out and as I waited, expectant, hopeful, I thought of my long forgotten friends – especially my best friend, Tony Clarkson now long dead. And I wondered what had happened to the young priests who ran around the grass, their cassocks swirling, passing the ball and scoring a goal and celebrating, almost silently, with us – and at the same time, kindly, keeping us rough kids in order. Maybe they are all now aged bishops and cardinals in Rome with their purple and scarlet zucchetti caps and ferraiolo capes; and maybe, too, they might remember those long gone days in St Joe’s garden in Preston and the games of football and cricket with a crowd of scruffy local kids – I hope so.

By now it was late afternoon, my pilgrimage into my past was almost done. Home called. I climbed back into my car and set off up New Hall Lane to the motorway and south to my home of sixty years in Nottingham.  And as I accelerated into the M6 motorway's fast lane, the late afternoon Lancashire sun setting low in the sky, I thought that perhaps I would return to revisit my roots once more before I can no longer make the trip and I knew what I would do if I did return to my home town. I'd stand in that church gateway once again, but this time, I promised myself, I would wait until a priest appeared. I wouldn’t knock on the Presbytery door – that old dragon like housekeeper just might still be there and even after seventy years she would surely say "What, not you again, no you can't play football - clear off" and she would send me packing! So, I’d just wait and when a kindly looking Priest emerges I’d step forward and say “Please, Mister, can I see inside your church?” And just maybe he’d allow it – and in doing so I’d be able put behind me my mother’s irrational and unpleasant  rants and  I'd remember only the good things like the tranquillity of the garden, the games of football and cricket, the kindness of the young priests, the old scratched  record and, yes, the “shouting in whispers”.