Leo is the initial one among us to display signs of impatience. He exclaims, “Oh dear, this is incredibly dull!” and we are barely midway through what one can describe as a Protestant version of a Mass.
Johnny enquires, “Do you reckon we can leave now?”
I retort, “Firstly, it’s not tedious, and secondly, no, we cannot depart. This is essentially, religion, history and so forth.”
However, I must confess they hold an element of truth. It’s not particularly enjoyable and is gradually becoming quite tiresome. A glance at my watch reveals that we’re barely 15 minutes into the process.
I hold a smile on my face, lip-syncing to the hymns with an energy that mirrors my attempt at getting through the spoken Irish examination.
I nudge Brian and encourage him to sing.
He responds, “But I’m not familiar with the lyrics.”
I reply, “Then mime it. Dude, if you want to prosper in life, you need to excel at bluffing.”
They do look the part, credit where it’s due. I outfitted them in pristine white shirts and sleeveless, diamond-patterned sweaters. Then I groomed their hair with Brylcreem and combed it sideways. I’m not sure why I imagined that would make them appear more Protestant, but, so far, no one has questioned us.
The woman of the cloth, pastor, or whatever you prefer to address her as, makes eye contact with me and I respond with one of my renowned winks. She’s roughly a decade my senior and, if one may phrase it so, quite attractive for a woman in her profession.
A lot of individuals feign interest in order to secure admission into specific institutions, say for instance, St. Adomnán’s. I whisper the lyrics, “Make Me a Channel of Your Peace,” under my breath. “I was under the impression that it was one of ours. Perhaps there are hymns that fall into dual categories. Much like James Lowe being both, Irish and a Kiwi?”
There’s not a moment where I’m not pondering over rugby.
Despite my best efforts, I’m having a tough time picking up the rhythm of things here. I’m sitting when I should be on my knees, then I’m kneeling when I should be upright, and then I’m standing when sitting is the only reasonable response. It takes me back to when I attended a wedding in Donegal and all the guests spontaneously broke into line-dancing. Shania Twain’s ‘Man, I Feel Like A Woman’ was blaring and I seemed to be the only one without a clue.
Once the event is over, we all straggle outside to linger in the car park until she makes her exit from what we’ve unspokenly agreed to call the chapel. To the lads, I say: “Leave all the chit-chat to yours truly, the Rossmeister, alright?”
Leo moans: “I’d rather head home and watch intoxicated brawls on YouTube.”
I counter: “Don’t you also aspire to attend a reputable school?”
His retort is swift: “I’d prefer to lounge about the entire day, watching tipsy shenanigans unfold on YouTube.”
“Well,” I say, “Your mother wants nothing more than to see you at a reputable school and I’ve made her a solid promise to get you in at St Adomnán’s. So, let’s at least try to don the guise of seriousness, shall we?”
I stroll up to the lady in charge, opening up with a sunny, “Well, hello there!”. I’ve always been great with first impressions.
She returns my greeting and her voice is adorned with an upper-crust English accent. “Why, hello. I don’t believe we’ve met.”
I reply: “Well, that is curious as we are regulars here!”
Her smile conveyed her doubt. No use hoodwinking these sort of individuals because even in dim confessional they have eagle eyes.
I decide to level with her: “To be completely frank, it’s our premiere visit. But I pass by often and your sign grabbed my attention, ‘We’re Hiring! Jesus the Carpenter Seeks Joiners!’ Quite clever, I must say.”
Her response? “Why thank you. I spotted it outside a church in Minnesota.”
I didn’t quite know if the place really existed or she was pulling a quick one on me, hence my non-committal response.
“Minnesota, huh? Amusing. So, should I address you as Sister, Vicar, or Reverend?”
“Just call me Alice,” she replies.
“Alice? How lovely,” I say.
“You belong to the Catholic faith, don’t you?” she inquires.
The clairvoyance of these people never ceases to amaze me. I respond, “Are we radiating such a strong Catholic aura?”
“It’s fine,” she insists, “I’ve often stated that our differences are more historical than theological.”
“I just expressed the same opinion over breakfast. Coincidence, isn’t it? Let me introduce you to Brian, Leo, and Johnny.”
“They seem like charming lads,” she observes.
In my moments of petty confusion of when to kneel, stand, or sit, I say, “They can be a handful sometimes – always leaving wires on the table. They’ve been questioning me about the Almighty recently. I’ve always been fascinated by the signs, so we thought we’d come see what it’s all about.”
“What you can find here is eternal life,” she says with a smile, and in her eyes I sense a flirtatious glint.
“Did you catch that boys? Eternal life!” I exclaim.
Brian retorts, “Can we leave now?”
The prospect of eternal life with my children? I think I’ll skip on that.
“Relax, Alice,” I assure her, “He’s truly interested, just jesting.”
“That’s nice,” she adds, “because many feign interest just to secure admission into specific schools, St Adomnán’s, to illustrate.”
“St Adomnán’s? Could you remind me again which one that is?”
She says, “It’s there, just across the street.”
“Do people generally engage in such practices?” I ask.
Once a year, about 20 times, I see new faces suddenly appear. Families with their children, scrubbed up and dolled up in their finest, perfectly coiffed. And all these people really want is my signature on a form,” she concludes.
Unobtrusively, I extract the form from Leo’s grasp and tuck it into the pocket of my trousers. She proceeds to say, “The reason I devised a test was to deter the time-wasters.”
I curiously ask, “A test? What do you mean?”
She explains, “We are constantly in need of more readers — unfortunately, many of our regular attendees are no longer with us.”
“You want the lads to read?” I ask.
“No, I want you to read.”
“Me?” I question.
Yes, if you’re sincerely committed to the faith, this would be the perfect way to get a feel for it, as per your terminology.”
Images of Sorcha cloud my mind, reminding me of the rage she exhibited when I was responsible for getting our boys expelled from St Kilian’s. The backlash I faced was almost as severe as when I attempted to decode a Taylor Swift song’s lyrics in a mansplaining manner.
With some hesitation, I state, “Alright, I’ll take it for a spin.”
Alice responds with, “I’ll expect you next Sunday.”