The May Procession .

“Hail Queen of Heaven, the Ocean Star' echoed from a series of megaphone speakers that were attached to the Convent roof. It was the first Sunday in May dedicated to those who had a close affiliation to The Virgin Mary. This was the day when the focus of attention was withdrawn momentarily from the Priests of Killea Church and aimed squarely at the Convent Nuns who rose to the occasion with pomp and ceremony. It could be suggested that this was a “Women's day out” in celebration of another Woman, The Virgin Mary, a day when Priests and Men took a back seat and left it to the ladies.

Heathen Protestants lay in bed or walked their dogs in the park, but the real faithful of the village thronged en masse to the Convent on Sunday afternoon to witness the spectacle. It was a hard day for myself and my comrades “The Fir Bolg”. Our group of Altar Boys had been handed the hated May Procession assignment by our School Teacher a gleeful Sean O'Mullain. I am sure he just took one look around the classroom and knew immediately who to appoint. Other Altar Boys hands shot skyward after he popped the question seeking volunteers, but no doubt, his attention was drawn to those whose eyes focussed on the wooden floor hoping their lack of exuberance signalled a definite non-committal to the upcoming event.

It was all part and parcel of a time when the majority of Dunmore residents were practising Catholics save for a few Protestants who lived in “the big houses” along the village. It was reported that they did not believe in “The Virgin Mary”, that they considered she did not exist, and would all end up in Hell for their non-conformity to popular opinion. My home was not feverishly religious, nevertheless Sunday Mass was strictly attended, and of course, my Altar Boy duties saw to the rest. My Grandaunt lived with us during my young years and she was as devout a Catholic as any of The Convent Nuns. Her bedroom was adorned with pictures and relics, and her sacred heart picture stared down from above her bed as a warning to all sinners who entered her room. The picture had a light attached to the bottom of it, which illuminated the eyes of the longhaired Jesus within the frame whose eyes followed you no matter what part of the room you stood in. She loved religion, never smoked, and detested drink. This made for an uneasy relationship between herself and my Aulfella who favoured the latter, and puffed to his hearts content on Woodbine cigarettes.

Her favourite exclamation was “Oh sacred heart of Jesus”, which she would often use after listening to tales of sacrilege concerning sinners who lived a half mile away in distant Dunmore, or on other occasions when she observed the Aulfella stretched snoring on the sitting room couch after consuming a dozen large stout or more in Katie Bills Pub.

The dreaded Sunday arrived and my Grandaunt was delighted. “You will be serving Mass at the Procession she enquired?” “Yes Nan ”, I replied, wishing I was a Protestant and playing football in the park instead. The Procession itself was a strange affair; it could hardly be called a procession. Half the entire village proceeded to enter the front door of the Convent, snake around its back garden, and then exit through the back door on to the road where the least fervent of the community gathered to watch the others pass by. It then re-entered the Convent yard and ended up in the Chapel. The journey between the back gate and the front gate afforded an excellent opportunity for Aulfellas, my own included, to lose their bearings at the tail end of the procession. This would see them swiftly depart the proceedings and head up the road past Burkes shop to Bills Pub where they would re-group. The sudden departure often went unnoticed by Wives and Grandmothers, but not from the keen eyes of young Altar Boys who yearned to be heading in the same direction.

A group of old women who were called “The Children of Mary” led the procession every year. In a way, it was confusing for a child to attempt to understand why old women such as these should be called such a name. Neither was under sixty, and as such demonstrated limited physical capacity for the task they had been charged with, leading the procession, while at the same time carrying a statue of The Blessed Virgin high on their frail shoulders. As such, the procession was a stop start affair, as the old women negotiated a few steps here and there in the Convent grounds. They wore long blue robes and lace veils, which made them look like beekeepers, and carried the statue on a type of stretcher similar to that used by “The Apparatus”. Whoever had choreographed the stretcher bearing had failed miserably in their task; Nurse Barry (The local District Nurse) fronted the stretcher, in the company of her life long companion, Mary Sullivan. Nurse Barry was almost six feet high and Mary only 4 feet high, the Virgin therefore was forever tilted dangerously to one side akin to a motorcyclist negotiating a sharp bend on his machine

The Convent school girls, dressed up in white communion outfits with veils to match, came next, as did a sprinkling of hand picked young fellas from Killea School, then the Nuns, after that it was our turn led by Father Power. Finally the most devout of the Parish, which included a selection of Parents and Grandparents. After that, the procession was reduced to those who had no choice about being there but had not implemented a “Powers Pub” exit strategy similar in fashion to some of the Aulfellas.

Along the roadway was the most dangerous for us Altar Boys. A number of issues confronted us; the footpath was lined with people from all over the Parish which included some heathen enemies from our battles in the Dunmore wood. They would group together and snigger as we passed, “The Fir Bolg me arse”, and “Robin Hood is a sissy” were some of the harsher taunts we had to endure. Reprisal was out of the question as Mothers and Grandmothers peered from the crowd focussing on their respective offspring and commenting on how angelic and holy they looked in their Altar Boy's clothes. Either a Mother or a nosey Aulwan in the crowd would have immediately identified a retaliatory finger or an f-off sign, and retribution would have followed in earnest later on that evening. It was however totally demoralising for Knights of our distinction to be humiliated by a bunch of heathens and not be able to retaliate.

All the while, the hymns bellowed out from the speakers, “The Bells of the Angelus” and other holy favourites echoed down the harbour and beyond. At intervals, the whole thing came to an abrupt halt while a decade of the Rosary was broadcast through the speakers by a Nun perched high in one of the lofty rooms of the Convent. I forget how many decades there were, but the stopping and starting continued for at least two hours until finally the “Children of Mary” almost bent to the ground from the effort, staggered into the Convent Chapel.

Father Power would then take over and as usual, because he spoke so softly, those beyond the front two seats of the Chapel never heard a single word he said and used the word “Amen” at intervals to hide their total ignorance of his narration. Finally, at about three o clock, the ceremony would end for another year, and I would make my way home carrying a small case, which contained my Altar Boys clothes.

My enduring memory of the event was in returning to the house one evening to find the Aulfella, (who had used the procession exit strategy) snoring on the couch, the open bellows of a button accordion stretched across his chest, and a terrier he owned sleeping near his head. The door opened and my Mother and Grandaunt entered filled with piety after walking up the road from the procession. “Oh sacred heart of Jesus” exclaimed my Grandaunt upon seeing the Aulfella.

From the Short Story Writings of Mick D.