CHAPTER TWO
We are all born sinners.
To be purged from sin, Catholic children are anointed with oil, blessed, and cleansed with holy water. Provided these children grew into adults who upheld the word of the Lord, baptism guaranteed their entry into the Kingdom of Heaven.
It was why Auden, at little over six-months-old, was draped in a white gown to be christened by our parish priest, Father Andrej. It was, in my mother’s words, a necessary ritual to ensure Auden was sinless and accepted as a child of God.
I did not understand why such initiation was necessary. Were not all children…children of God? He was the creator of all, was he not? What sin could a six-month-old possibly commit that would alienate him from God before he could even talk?
Questions like that, however, earned you a slap on the wrist, for how dare you question the Almighty Father?
I waited in the living room while my parents finished preparing for the ceremony, my white trousers too short and my white collared shirt too tight.
There was not a lot of money to spare, so clothing, especially ones worn on such rare occasions, were not a worthwhile expense.
The clothes I wore belonged to a boy from church, several months younger than me, while Auden wore my old christening gown, the white silk loose around his shoulders.
“There is something wrong with him.”
I lifted my head, gaze landing on my mother who stood in the hallway with my father.
She wore a long, white linen skirt and a pale pink blouse, auburn hair rolling down her back in gentle waves.
Lines of worry creased her forehead, light makeup bringing colour back to her pale cheeks.
Her hands trembled in front of her, only pausing when my father reached out to clasp them with his own.
“All babies are different,” he said. His dark hair, the same shade as my own, was combed neatly to one side, a single curl falling over his forehead. Hanging from his neck was a golden crucifix, the white collar of his shirt unbuttoned as though granting Jesus a window to the ceremony.
“I know that, Marcus. I am not stupid!” my mother insisted. “But there’s something wrong. He doesn’t cry, he doesn’t smile, he doesn’t even look at me.”
It was true that Auden rarely cried. Not for food. Not for a nappy change. Not even for attention. The last time he cried was the day he was born. You barely got more than a sniffle or a squirm out of him.
My father said that made Auden the perfect baby, but my mother disagreed. It made her anxious. She feared that she was a terrible mother, unable to determine the needs of her baby.
I overheard many discussions in the middle of night when my mother would cry, the word failure falling from her tongue in breathless sobs. If my father was there to reassure her, he wasn’t successful.
“Mumma?” I spoke up, daring a step toward her.
I hated seeing her upset. I had deemed it my responsibility to comfort her when my father could not, yet I had not mastered how to do so without escalating things further.
The only solution, in my young mind, was to take on the role of big brother and ease her burdens.
“Do you want me to help Auden get ready for you?”
“Not now, Augustus,” she waved me away, massaging her forehead as though I were causing her pain.
A heavy weight pressed down on my chest. Guilt, perhaps? No, it was fear. A selfish safeguard. For I knew that if I failed to resolve my mother’s problem, to ease her burden, it would become my problem. The only way to protect myself was to protect her.
“I can help,” I tried again. “I can—”
“I said NOT NOW!”
I flinched at the raised voice, backing away before the shout became a punishment.
My father shot me a look that said go away. And so I did.
***
Clothed in white, feet blistering in shoes that did not fit, I followed my parents to the front of the church to greet the parish priest of St Augustine’s.
Father Andrej was a middle-aged man born of Polish immigrants, his ash-coloured hair shaved close to the scalp and his thin framed glasses magnifying his wide, grey eyes.
His parents moved to England after the Second World War, though it wasn’t until he was ordained as a priest that he arrived in the small town of Rose Chapel.
He shook my father’s hand, and then my mother’s, greeting Auden with a warm smile only to be met with a blank expression. When he stepped forward to ruffle my hair, I hid behind my father, his long legs a shield.
Apologising for my shyness, my father followed the priest toward the front row of pews, my mother scolding me quietly as she adjusted Auden on her hip.
I sat between my parents, legs swinging back and forth as more people piled in, floral perfume and incense filtering through the air. Auden remained still on my mother’s lap, his light brown hair combed neatly out of his blue eyes, just as bright as the day he’d first opened them.
Strangers approached our pew to greet Auden, making faces in an attempt to draw out a smile. He rewarded them with nothing but a slow blink, his blank expression unwavering.
I grinned, satisfied with the disappointed expressions on the strangers’ faces.
I did not like them very much, but after my disrespectful behaviour with the priest, I was not permitted to ignore them.
I let them pat the top of my head and pinch my cheeks, swallowing back my words of protest. I could bear it all if it drew them away from Auden.
St Augustine’s was the only Catholic church in Rose Chapel, standing solemnly with an ensemble of moss, ivy and algae crawling along the weathered limestone, indiscriminate in their invasion.
Sunlight poured through its tall, arched windows—many of which were stained with various depictions of Jesus Christ, the Apostles, and Virgin Mary, casting an array of colour onto the worn marble floor.
The majority of Rose Chapel’s population were followers of the Church of England, but a small number were Catholic, and they were all piled inside the church to welcome the newest member of their community.
A soft hymn announced the start of the ceremony, Father Andrej leading the procession toward the large, dark oak altar draped in a gold and white cloth.
My gaze lifted toward the light fixtures above me, a stark contrast to the 15th century architecture.
There were artworks lining the top of the walls to my left, scenes of Jesus’ crucifixion painted in vivid detail, blood dripping from his crown of thorns.
This obsession with Christ’s brutal and agonising death were everywhere, with a large sandstone sculpture of Jesus on the cross displayed behind the altar, a confronting reminder of his eternal sacrifice.
“Why did Jesus die for us?” I had asked my mother once.
“To save us from our sins,” my mother answered, “and to restore our relationship with God so that we can have eternal life in Heaven.”
Guilt ensnared me, forcing my gaze down to my feet in shame. Jesus died and suffered for my sins, yet I was a sinner. I owed it to Jesus to do better, but the Devil lingered inside me, claws buried deep in my flesh.
There were no images of the Devil inside the church. No snake slithering into Eden. But I could feel him, hiding in the shadows, waiting to devour those whose thoughts strayed.
It was said the Devil was not welcomed in a place of worship, that he was forbidden entry. Though if all of God’s creatures were welcome, would that not include the Devil? Was he not one of God’s creations?
A nudge from my mother snatched me from my wandering thoughts, gaze sliding to Auden instead. He was fiddling with the hem of his christening gown, blissfully unaware of the Devil and his presence in the church.
Father Andrej recounted the origins of sin—of Adam and Eve’s disobedience in the Garden of Eden, the consumption of fruit that deemed all of humanity sinners.
I did not understand why their sin was now Auden’s to bear. Why did he need to be absolved of a sin that wasn’t his own? He was innocent. Blameless. And yet he was carried to the basin of holy water by his godparents anyway, two members of the church who hadn’t even met him until this moment.
I watched the scene unfold from the pew, wincing at the scream that erupted from my brother when the water rolled down the back of his head.
I wanted to eliminate the water then and there for making him cry, envious of the sun and its ability to evaporate water with its heat.
The heat of my anger only resulted in my father’s hand on my shoulder, warning me to behave.
Following the ceremony, we attended a small church-held event to celebrate Auden’s official entry into the Catholic church. It was in a small, modern hall behind the church, and everyone who attended was invited.
There were far too many people, all of whom I wanted to avoid, so I remained glued to my mother’s side, listening to her conversation with a middle-aged woman with short black hair and smoke on her breath.
My mother was a small, thin woman with freckles painted across her nose and cheeks, hazel eyes hidden beneath long lashes.
Auden shared her bow-shaped lips and small round nose, though his eyes were so clear and bright, you could see yourself reflected as though peering through a mirror. My eyes were my mother’s, a blend of green, brown and gold.
“I heard Joanna’s daughter…” The black-haired woman lowered her voice as she leaned closer to my mother, looking around wearily as if to ensure she would not be overheard. “I heard she had an abortion last week.”
A gasp was my mother’s response.
“I know,” the woman said as I busied myself with colouring the picture of John the Baptist that had been distributed to all the children. “How tragic. The Devil got to her. Joanna is a mess.”
I flinched at the mention of the Devil, dropping my pencil in the process.
“Is that why she hasn’t been to mass?” my mother asked. I reached down to retrieve the pencil, sliding off my chair and crawling under the table. “Augustus, sit still.”
I abandoned the pencil and climbed back onto the chair as the woman said, “That’s right. Embarrassed, no doubt. Horrified. I would be too. A daughter like that? It’s just not right! That poor child!”
“It’s awful,” my mother agreed, reaching to wipe the dribble off Auden’s chin, “we must protect our children and keep the Devil far, far away.”
I winced and shifted in my seat. For two women who claimed to worship God, they sure seemed to talk about the Devil more than Him.
Noticing my unease, the black-haired woman studied me for a long moment before suggesting, “Augustus, sweetie, why don’t you go play with some of the other children while Mummy and I talk?”
The suggestion was so mortifying that I deigned to respond.
It was not that I did not like the other children.
There were some I played with at school, joining a game of hide and seek or a round of handball.
But, if given the option to approach strangers or sit alone drawing, I would always choose the latter.
I preferred my own company—other people did not always act the way I wanted them to.
It was easier to be alone rather than learn to contain them.
“It’s alright,” my mother said, fingers gently raking through my curls, “he likes to stick by me when there are lots of strangers around.”
“Ah, a little bit of a Mumma’s boy, is he?”
“A little bit, yes,” my mother mused.
I finished colouring while they chatted away, their conversation turning to other women in their circle, some whose husbands were cheating on them, some who hadn’t attended a recent wedding, and some who they simply did not like.
Their voices became senseless muttering as my mind fixated on which colours to select for different sections of the drawing.
I wanted the water to be blue, but I needed a darker shade in the deeper part of the river and a lighter one where John the Baptist stood with Jesus.
Once satisfied, I held up the paper to my mother.
A small smile spread across her face as she examined it. You could never quite predict what reaction you would get, what mood she would be in, so it was a relief to receive her approval. She leaned down, kissed the top of my head, and told me to draw on the other side of the paper.
“How is the little one doing?” the woman asked, her gaze settling on Auden who watched me draw from our mother’s lap.
“Oh,” my mother’s smile faded, “I don’t know…it’s hard to tell. He’s a good boy, but…”
“But?”
“Well,” my mother lowered her voice, and I strained to hear her over the sound of chatter all around us, “he’s not really…
meeting any of his milestones. He doesn’t respond to his name, won’t look me in the eye.
He won’t even smile. I’m worried. I don’t know if he’s comfortable, if he’s sick, if he even… if he even likes me.”
“Oh, sweetie, all children are different,” the woman said gently. “My second was a lot slower than my first.”
“I know. I just…I feel like he’s really behind.”
“If you’re really worried,” the woman said, placing a hand over my mother’s, “attend mass more regularly and pray for God’s guidance. Trust in Him. Only he can help you and your beautiful little boy.”
My mother did pray for God’s guidance, but it was the Devil who answered.