Dog-Latin

John Kilkie

1963

At half past six on a freezing morning in January 1963 I gently closed the door of our tenement house behind me and quietly made my way down the stairs of the close into the street. The snow had stopped but more had fallen during the night; the pavement was indistinguishable from the road. Under the thin street gas lighting I carefully high-stepped my way to the middle of the road where the snow wasn't so deep and began the slog up the hill to the chapel. I was twelve years old, an altar boy, and it was my turn to serve at the seven o'clock midweek Mass.

The sacristy at St. Mary's had a small room reserved for the use of the altar boys. It adjoined the main sacristy but had its own door leading from the grounds so that the boys could come in and get themselves ready without disturbing the priest. When I arrived, the lights were on and the door unlocked, evidence of the existence of a housekeeper I had never seen and so I let myself in and quickly donned a soutane and surplice, then sat down and awaited the arrival of the priest. I left the door to the main sacristy ajar so that I could see which priest it would be, not that it mattered but some were easier to get on with than others. ... (continues)