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Saturday 21 March 2015

Sunday School

Sunday School

The dead time after Sunday lunch
Lies heavy on the day
As Dad sits reading his paper
Absorbing sordid stories of fights and fornication
Waiting for the house to fall to rest
While Mum does her fussing about
Busy, but pre-occupied
About the coming afternoon alone with Dad
Washing and wiping my face
Polishing my appearance
Dressing me up in Sunday Best
Transforming a rowdy child into a little angel
A reflection of a clean and happy home

Sent off through the silent streets
On my best behaviour
To walk to Sunday School
And receive religious education
With a promise of sweets if I’m good
And possible Hell if I’m bad
But definitely no tea
And early to bed

A Methodist Chapel built in stone
Soot-blackened among the houses
Its grey doors opening into the hall
Of musty smells and dusty floors
Little classrooms with metal-frame windows
Hard chairs and benches
Just like proper school, but less fun
Cheerless and comfortless
To hear stories, miracles and parables
Chapter and verse
Read from a black-backed bible
Of Jesus and Jerusalem
Mary and Joseph
And the meaning of love for one another

Then, topped up with goodness for another week
Running home for some play before tea
To strain the last dregs from the day
And wake Mum and Dad from their afternoon lie-down

No interest in what I’ve been doing
The hymn-singing and prayers
Nor the collection for the missionaries in Africa
But a strained atmosphere at the tea-table
Mum walking on eggshells again
And Dad not speaking, staring hard into the fire


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

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