The conversation was not about motor racing; it was about the point count!
THE RACE
“Who will win the race today do you think?”
“You know Miss E will, she’s got the power, but Per Q can lead from the front, so he
has the advantage.”
This conversation in the car going to Sunday mass was not about motor racing, it
was about the point count at the end of the service.
Miss Esmond was a jolly hockey-sticks type who had come to live in Arklow late in
life. We knew nothing of her past other than it was reputed that she had sung at
Covent Garden. “If that’s true, then she only sang the onest,” said my father who was
fed up that what should have been happy congregational singing, had now become a
contest. The contestants being the priest at the altar, and Miss E with the booming
voice and the power on the ancient organ at the back of the church.
Fr Quiggley was small, dark and reasonably handsome, and he had been a member
of the Vienna Boys Choir. Not many in Arklow had even heard of it, but we were
suitably impressed. He was not at all the normal run of the mill new Curate, he had
the enthusiasm and confidence of youth, not always obvious in Ireland in the fifties.
What we loved most about him was his speedy masses, which during Lent were a
daily event. We timed him; his record was eighteen minutes, which was unbeatable.
The old mass was great; the priest’s back was toward you except for the blessings
which suited us fine. The Latin mass was so conducive to being in your own space,
and depending on the mood of the time many options were open, provided you did it
quietly.
Snoozing was the first choice, but what with the cold of the church, the awful high
pews and wooden kneelers with splinters, it wasn’t really conducive. Studding your
fellow penitents was OK, but you saw the same boring old faces day after day, and
apart from observing that Miss Murphy needed to pluck the whiskers from her chin
urgently, wasn’t really inspiring. Racing the priest in the Latin I confess was one of
my main joys; of course, I never could beat Per Q ‘cause he was a champion, but
against others I didn’t fare too badly. Day dreaming was my very best, lying on
golden beaches (never having been to one) with blue skies was a favourite, and quite
a shock when reality hit and you were back under grey skies. Yes, Latin was music to
the ear.
Sunday was different, always a full house, as it was an obligation and of course we
had the on-going competition between the two performers.
The Byrnes would be in one row, usually the same boring place every week, with the
Daddy holding up the aisle side. He would send a message for us to sing up, to
which through clenched teeth we would reply that we not only couldn’t keep up, but
that since most of us were altos, we couldn’t even reach up. That’s always been a
bone of contention for me, having to change octaves regularly.
It would start by Per Q inviting the congregation to join the singing, with that she hit
the organ such power as to make your teeth rattle. There were no such things as
hymn books, so likewise no information as to what was on the agenda, so by the time
you recognised it, Miss E was already out of the blocks and away. She was very
‘ikey’, as sometimes it was speed and other times a holding back just a fraction of a
beat was all it took, but the result would be the same. The organ and the priest never
ended up as one, and as for the congregation, they were a bit like the comrades tail-
enders reaching the finishing line.
The final blessing was given through clenched teeth, Miss E closed the organ with a
resounding bang of victory and we went home to count our bets and wait for the next
performance.