The God Squad by Paddy Doyle

tell the nuns about the incident, before deciding I didn’t care.
    I walked through the town, hands in my pockets and head bowed, desperately aware of being watched by the entire community. Down the street Mother Paul was waiting.
    ‘Get your hands out of your pockets and lift up your head, God knows you’re bad enough. You’re a disgrace to yourself, worse still, you’re a disgrace to the school.’
    Hard as she tried, she could not keep her voice down and it rose gradually with every word. People passing looked at her, then at me.
    ‘If you had lifted your feet the way I have been telling you to, none of this would have happened, but you didn’t. No, you made a fool of yourself and you brought disgrace on all of us.’ She reminded me for the second time that I would never set foot inside the rails of an altar again but this time she added, ‘as long as I am alive.’ She jabbed me with her sharp pointed finger and made me walk in front of her.
    ‘Lift your head, put back your shoulders and in the name of Almighty God will you lift that foot of yours,’ she said.
    On Sunday afternoon visitors came to St Michael’s. They were usually relations of some of the nuns or well-to-do people from the locality. Very occasionally a relation of one of the boys would turn up. When visitors did arrive we were expected to provide entertainment for them by singing or putting on a short play. I felt important being on show. I always sang the same songs: ‘A Mother’s Love is a Blessing’ or ‘Two Little Orphans’, which delighted the nuns and their guests. Mother Michael smiled while playing the piano and scowled if I didn’t reach the notes as she liked me to.
    Everyone clapped politely when I was finished and I bowed to them as I had been trained to do. If there was time we would put on a short play,
Tweedledum and
Tweedledee
that finished with all of us singing ‘Little Mister Baggy Britches’. Some people laughed out loud while others smiled politely. When the show was finished, a trolley containing china cups, and plates stacked with cakes was brought into the hall. We remained on the stage as the visitors ate and drank. The voice of John McCormack singing ‘Ave Maria’ crackled through the horn of the black gramophone at the side of the stage, which Miss Sharpe wound up before lowering the heavy needle onto the record’s edge. She quietly warned us not to stare at people eating, then, as she stood out of sight of nuns and visitors, she spoke about McCormack’s sweet voice and the crispness of his diction. A clear voice that never missed a note or lacked breath. He opened his mouth when he sung, he took deep breaths, he didn’t sing through his teeth or his nose. His voice flowed, never wavering.
    It was not uncommon for Miss Sharpe to become completely carried away as she listened to her favourite singer. Whenever she was minding us she used to put his records on and it was at such times that some of us would take the opportunity to try and look up her skirt. Quiet arguments arose about the colour of her knickers. We’d dare each other to look up her skirt, taking turns, nervous of being caught.
    I had been given a miraculous medal for my Communion. As Mother Paul put the silver medal with its blue string, around my neck, she reminded me of its significance. It was the symbol of purity and chastity. I used to take it off, and slide it across the floor as near to Miss Sharpe’s feet as I could get it. As she stood entranced by the music I’d pick up the medal and at the same time look up her skirt. If she did notice me I was certain I would be able to explain my presence by saying that I had dropped the medal. Afterwards we’d group together and laugh at what we had seen.
    There were times when she wouldn’t notice the record had finished or that we were all talking. She’d become annoyed when she realized we were not in the least interested in the music and order us out into the yard, apparently