The God Squad by Paddy Doyle Page A

unperturbed by the fact that it was raining heavily.
    ‘It’s spilling,’ I’d say, pointing to the windows.
    ‘Get out,’ she’d shout, ‘a drop of rain is not going to kill you.’
    I ran around the wet yard, chasing leaves that had been prematurely blown down or skidding into wet and slimy clusters of them, enjoying trying to remain upright and laughing when I landed arse first on the ground.
    There was one part of the yard that was always dry because a section of the building protruded out over it. Here I would squat down on my haunches and with my arms outstretched get two other boys to pull me along the concrete. In the twilight, or winter dark, the studs on the soles and heels of my boots would leave a trail of sparks in their wake. Causing sparks was one of the things I enjoyed doing most. To create them I had to run as fast as I could and kick the heel of one boot hard against the ground.
    Like many of the other boys I often came in from the yard with my hair plastered flat down onto my head and my clothes soaked, but nobody seemed to care. It was not uncommon for us to sit and eat our evening meal with rain water dripping from our clothing onto the dining hall floor.

CHAPTER FIVE
     
    In May 1958 most of the older boys in the school were told to write to a relative. Many of us had never met the people we were being asked to write to, and even if we did, couldn’t remember them. The letter writing was supervised by Mother Michael, the nun responsible for our schooling, and their purpose was to ask for a two week holiday away from St Michael’s. All the letters were written under her close supervision.
    She told me to write to my aunt Mary. I looked at her, surprised.
    ‘Don’t look so stunned,’ she said, ‘you do have an aunt as well as an uncle.’
    It was three years since I had arrived in the school and though I remembered my uncle, I had never heard of any aunt. Mother Michael wrote a standard letter on the blackboard which she instructed us to copy. The address was in the top right hand corner and the date underneath.
    ‘Dear . . .’ she had written, telling us that ‘the blank line is for you to fill the name of the person to whom you are writing.’
    ‘
Dear Aunt Mary
,’ I wrote, before looking at the blackboard to copy what was written on it.
    ‘
I hope you are well as I am myself, thank Dog. I would like to come and spend a fortnight with you if you would not mind. I will be good, and do everything I am told. Mother Michael and Mother Paul send you their good wishes. I am very happy here, the nuns are very good to me. I pray for you every night. I look forward to hearing from you soon,
    I remain,
    Your nephew,
    Patrick.
’
    Mother Michael went around checking the letters. She slapped her wooden ruler down on the desk of one of the boys near me. It made a sharp crack which startled the other boys.
    ‘Always a capital G for God,’ she shouted.
    She picked up my letter, and asked me to spell God.
    ‘G.O.D.’ I answered confidently. She walked to the top of the classroom with my letter in her hand.
    ‘This is more of this fellow’s clowning,’ she said. ‘Not only does he tell lies and bring the school into disrepute, now he has taken to making fun of God Himself.’ I watched her face redden as she rushed towards my desk. Thinking she was going to hit me, I cowered. She banged her clenched fist on the desk.
    ‘Spell God,’ she demanded again.
    ‘G.O.D.’ I said.
    She handed me the letter and asked me to read the first sentence. As soon as I looked at it I realized my mistake. I reached for my pen to correct it.
    ‘Read,’ she shouted.
    ‘Dear Aunt Mary,
    I hope you are well as I am myself, thank Dog.’ Some of the boys laughed, but stopped suddenly when she said there was nothing to laugh about. She referred to what I hadwritten as blasphemy, one of the most serious of all sins. Kneeling at the top of the classroom, I was forced to say an ‘Act of Contrition’ before