Erwin Mortier - Shutterspeed

‘Now don’t expect me to do the same,’ concluded the priest, and beneath him lips curved into smiles, even though everyone had heard his little joke umpteen times.

A glow of satisfaction travelled down my spine. All was well. The minute hand of some great clock had shifted exactly in time with the measures of the world, everything fitted and all existence was simply there, running neither fast nor slow. I let myself drift along on the current of pre-ordained moves until the Communion was over and Miss van Vooren snapped her fingers.

The youths jumped to their feet. I trailed after them to the sacristy, where the canopy awaited us. It was heavier than I expected.

We carried it to the prearranged spot in the nave, just in front of the altar.

‘Just take a small step outwards now,’ said Miss van Vooren.

My fellow bearers did as they were told, causing the canopy to unfold overhead.

The priest descended the altar steps holding aloft the monstrance, in which the Sacred Host formed the centre of a sunburst surmounted by two putti bearing a crown.

‘Go for it. Not too fast now,’ the priest muttered, taking his position under the canopy.

From the aisles came the churchwardens holding candlesticks with lighted candles.

‘ He is my refuge and my fortress; my God ,’ sang the choir as they came down from the rood loft to wait for the others by the portal.

The column began to move. I had some trouble keeping up.

‘Attaboy,’ Uncle whispered to me as we moved past the pulpit, and Aunt wiped a tear from her eye.

The doors of the main entrance swung open. A brilliant wave of sunlight broke over us, bringing a rush of hot air from outside. Behind us the congregation began leaving their pews to bring up the rear of the procession.

‘Get on with it, mate,’ hissed the boy beside me. The two of us were holding the back poles of the canopy. ‘Come on, keep up …’

‘Shush, lads, shush. No arguing,’ muttered the priest, without turning his head.

We proceeded through the churchyard where the graves lay baking in the sun, past the headstone from which my smiling father gazed straight through us into the void.

The almshouse biddies were all in their front gardens, where tables had been set up with bunches of lilac and statues of saints. They clicked their rosaries in Morse code, they knelt for the Holy Sacrament and crossed themselves as we passed, making good the rent for the next year.

We continued past the fields and then along the railway embankment, where the meadow sloped down to the stream. The choir walking some distance ahead of us rang out in double descant: Lord who goes with us and strikes water from the rocks .

‘Get a move on, Alderweireldt, get a move on,’ hissed the tall boy ahead of me. ‘Or we’ll mess up the formation.’

‘They can wait,’ said the priest, to reassure me. The muscles in my upper arm and in my wrist were turning numb. Sweat trickled down my back.

The column shuffled to a halt by the entrance to the chapel of the new cemetery, which was surrounded by a row of freshly planted cedars.

‘You’re doing fine …’ Uncle Werner murmured from somewhere behind me.

I nodded, but was glad for the chance to rest the base of the pole on the ground while the priest went inside.

It did not happen until we were almost back at the church. We had to stop and wait for a car to turn around because the driver had ignored the gamekeeper’s whistle up the road.

My mind must have gone blank. I heard the boy beside me fulminate: ‘Alderweireldt, watch out! Eyes as big as saucers, and blind as a bat — Alderweireldt!’

Only then did I notice that the others had started moving again, and I found myself lurching forward to right my end of the canopy with my pole, which consisted of two sections. The upper section was tipping forward at an alarming angle, and the next thing I knew it shot free from the base.

This sent me reeling backwards, and I fell against someone’s legs. I scrambled to my feet amid horrified consternation.

The tall boy had tried to catch my pole but had not been able to stop it thudding against the back of the priest’s head.

I saw our shepherd stagger and something flying through the air. The gold crown in the monstrance had come loose. It bounced off the asphalt and under the tall boy’s foot, without him noticing, so that he tripped on it and flailed his arms wildly to keep his balance.

Miss van Vooren shot forward to steady him, then snatched up the crown from the verge and fumbled it back into place. She threw me a murderous look.

Uncle retrieved the top half of my pole and reinserted it in the base.

‘Worse things happen at sea,’ he offered.

After that he stayed at my side, helping me to hold the pole upright. I kept my head down all the rest of the way, convinced that a thousand eyes were fixed on me.

In the sacristy there was a mortal hush. Miss van Vooren was applying a small poultice to the priest’s neck.

‘That was some fine mess you got us into,’ he said.

I was relieved he did not sound too angry.

‘I told you he was far too young,’ Miss van Vooren said crossly.

‘His pa used to do so well …’ said the priest.

‘His pa …’ she echoed. She breathed heavily down her nostrils, then began to help the shepherd out of his surplice.

We stood in the corner dragging our vestments over our heads.

‘If we don’t get our money,’ the tall boy snarled at me, ‘I’ll smash your face in, you idiot.’

One of his mates pointed to the sacristy closet, the doors of which were open. He poked the tall boy with his elbow, indicating the shelves with repeated jerks of his head.

‘You be the lookout,’ the tall boy hissed at me. His hands disappeared into the closet.

‘Watch out for those two,’ muttered the other boy.

They hadn’t noticed a thing. Miss van Vooren was too busy helping the priest to disrobe.

A cork popped softly at my back. I heard the tall boy taking great gulps. One of his friends whispered: ‘Give over, my turn now …’

There was a scuffle.

‘What are you boys up to?’ boomed the priest from afar.

‘Quick,’ hissed one of the boys.

I felt the fumble of hands against my shoulder and found myself hugging a bottle of communion wine.

The others pulled their most innocent faces.

I turned round to find Miss van Vooren glaring at me.

‘I might have guessed,’ she said, in a rage so cold as to frost my lashes with ice crystals. ‘Taking after your father, I do believe.’

When I got home the relations were already drinking their aperitifs under the apple trees. Uncle had dragged the dining table outside. Aunt was in the kitchen putting the soup in the blender.

‘Well I never! Here’s our acrobat!’ cried a cousin of Aunt’s. ‘Catch a bit of circus fever last night, did you?’

‘Lay off him,’ said Uncle, ‘he’s had a rough time.’

I sat down, made myself small, shrinking from their presence like a hedgehog curling up in its nest.

They were good-natured folk. The women had big, blotchy arms bulging out of their sleeveless dresses, and by their second glass of port pink blotches began to appear on their cheeks too.

‘One sip and I see double,’ cooed Aunt’s eldest sister. ‘So many people here all of a sudden.’ There were guffaws in the background. ‘You’ve got a twin sitting right next to you,’ she went on, squinting at me. ‘Alike as two peas.’

The afternoon wore on. Roast chickens were carved and stewed pears ladled out with lashings of syrup. A numinous hush descended on the table.

At about three, when half the company had gone out into the road to watch the cycle race go by, a car pulled up in front of the house. Aunt had just started cutting the cakes. High heels tapped sharply across the cobbles in the back yard.