Читать книгу Seminary Boy - John Cornwell - Страница 31

AS MY FIRST week passed, the rhythm of the day, punctuated by a huge jangling bell rung by the school captain, settled into a routine of classes, study periods, manual labour, runs, drill and hurried meals. But religious devotions dominated: meditation before the early morning Mass; Low Mass celebrated every day of the week, followed by private thanksgiving; with High Mass in addition on Sundays and feast days. There was a homily, known as ‘conference’, after High Mass; prayers before and after each lesson, and Angelus recited twice daily. There was grace before and after every meal, community prayers before lunch, spiritual reading after tea, Rosary after supper, and night prayers before bed on weekdays; Compline on Sunday evenings. Confessions could be heard each evening after supper. There was private spiritual direction on Thursday afternoons when confessions were also available. Many boys spent time in church during their scarce leisure periods.

On my second day, coming out of the refectory after tea, I was accosted by Father Anthony Owen. He was a stiff-necked man in middle age with thinning sandy hair and remarkably bowed legs, hence his nickname, ‘Bowie Owen’. He understood, he said, that I could read music and wanted to test my voice for the choir. We walked to the choir practice room where there was an upright piano.

After taking me through several scales, he said: ‘You’ll make an excellent alto, but open it out! Let yourself go!’ Choir practice, he said, was every day after tea. ‘But there are advantages, Cornwell. Outings, special treats.’

Suddenly the door was flung open and boys of all ages began to enter. Father Owen distributed music sheets for Mozart’s ‘Missa Brevis’. The youngest boys jostled in friendly horseplay while the older ones – the tenors and basses – affected a sense of disdain.

Father Owen, standing at the piano, took each of the four voices separately. Then he turned to face us as he conducted us in harmony with minimal gestures, closing his forefingers and thumbs at the dying fall of a bar in a gentle pinching gesture. At one point, looking at me directly, he put his hand to his ear as if to indicate: ‘Let it out!’ When we had finished the Gloria, he bowed and implored us not to be late for practice the next day.

As I was leaving, he took me by the arm and drew me back into the room. ‘That wasn’t too bad, was it, Cornwell,’ he said. ‘I think you’ll be a useful member of the choir. But let’s hope that your voice doesn’t break too soon.’

Until then I had never given any thought to the fact of my voice breaking.