Strumpet City by James Plunkett

Author:James Plunkett [Plunkett, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, (¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯), Classics
ISBN: 9780717140589
Google: Jrk6AAAACAAJ
Amazon: B008PDC12O
Barnesnoble: B008PDC12O
Goodreads: 16340319
Publisher: Gill & MacMillan
Published: 1978-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SIX

On Thursday, sixth of June 1912, Feast of Corpus Christi, white being the liturgical colour, Father Giffley took the eight o’clock mass. That evening, during the procession of the Blessed Sacrament, the Introit kept recurring to him. It had been his intention to speak briefly on it at mass, but at the last moment he had changed his mind. He could not bring himself to say:

‘In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost.

‘He fed them on the fat of wheat, alleluia; and filled them with honey out of the rock!’

To address metaphors of wheat and honey to unfortunates who were spending most of their time on strike seemed inappropriate. Father O’Connor, however, had found no such difficulty. During the ten o’clock mass his voice had penetrated to Father Giffley through the partly open door of the vestry. He told his listening congregation that however much they might lack for material comforts in comparison with the more well-to-do, as Catholics they had access to a daily Banquet which was nothing less than the Body and Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ Himself. Here was a spiritual food, necessary to salvation, which was the daily right of the poorest Catholic in the world, but forbidden to the non-Catholic, however rich in worldly goods he might be. Here truly, said Father O’Connor, was no mere bodily fare, but the fat of wheat referred to in the Introit of the mass, here was the honey out of the rock. For these riches, the gift of the Father, let them join the psalmist in rejoicing to God our Helper on this great feast of the Body of Christ.

Father Giffley walked rigidly and angrily as the procession moved about the church grounds. Under the canopy, borne by four Confraternity men, Father O’Connor held the monstrance aloft, the chasuble draped about his shoulders and upheld hands. He had been celebrant at solemn benediction. Father Giffley, dressed only in surplice and soutane, assisted by holding his cope on the right-hand side; Father O’Sullivan assisting in the same manner on his left. Before them, walking backwards with occasional wary glances behind, a young altar boy offered incense from the Thurible. Three puffs of aromatic smoke rose at each incensing, accompanied by the threefold tap of the Thurible against its silver-coloured chain. Behind the priests walked the little children. Some with surplices or white veils, some even with bunches of cheap flowers sang ‘O Sacrament Most Holy, O Sacrament Divine’ and kept glancing about to locate their parents among the onlookers. Their voices reached out beyond the church grounds into the streets, which were hot and stuffy under the evening sunshine.

Where had the children got the flowers? Father Giffley wondered. Some had come from wasteland plots, for he himself had told them to gather the humble flowers that were free to all—the daisies, the buttercups, the wild, unnameable growths that for all he knew might be weeds. But some had the more cultivated kind.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.