Being Emily. Anne Donovan

doon the aisle, couldnae even take his turn tae carry the coffin.

      Only when the familiar strain started,

      Hail Queen of Heaven, the ocean star.

      Only then did it hit me as we walked doon the aisle after the coffin and I was blinded wi salt water.

      I’ve no been tae confession since.

      Jas and me were sitting in the café at lunchtime, rain on the windae blurring the street outside, spinning out two coffees and a chocolate muffin between us.

       Is that bad, no going to confession?

      When Mammy was alive we used to go every month. You’re supposed tae go once a year at least – so I guess, technically I’m still okay till Easter.

       Why don’t you want to go?

       How can I kneel there and tell a priest I hate a baby?

      You don’t, but.

      I do.

      I looked at my watch. We’d better get back.

      I never expected you to be in school the day.

      My da thought it was better for us.

       What you doing later? Will you go to the cemetery?

      Da didnae want to. He doesnae feel that’s where she is. He’s asked someone fae the chapel to say a rosary with us in the house. Patrick will be here the night and Janice thinks we should all be thegether.

       What do you want to do, Fiona?

      Hide.

      * * *

      Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.

      The furniture was pushed back so we could kneel doon in the living room. Mr Gallagher said the first part of the prayer and the rest of us joined in; Da and the twins loudly, me and Patrick quieter and Janice no saying anything, except Amen at the end. As I worked the plastic beads through my haunds, the words of the prayers leaving my mouth on autopilot, I stared at the statue of Our Lady. It was a plaster Madonna hauding Jesus in her airms, and one of the baby’s fingers was chipped at the edge.

      A few weeks ago Jas and me visited the chapel efter school. He walked round, looking carefully at everything; the crucifix, the wee light that’s always kept burning, the altars to various saints. I never expected all this, he said. I’ve only ever been in a church for school services and it’s dead bare.

      That’s the Church of Scotland. They don’t have statues.

      We’ve got pictures of the Gurus too, but in the Gurdwara it’s the word that’s important – the holy book.

      The Guru Granth Sahib.

      Hey you’ve been swotting up.

      I still like the statues but – I guess it’s what you’re brought up with.

      We stood in fronty Our Lady, golden stars round her heid.

      Da always lights a candle at Our Lady’s altar, carries rosaries in his pocket. But Mammy never liked statues of her – thought she never looked human. No real, like Jesus, suffering on the cross. She wanted pictures of Mary daeing a washing or making a dinner.

      The Fifth Glorious Mystery. Our Lady’s Coronation and the Glory of the Saints.

      Ten past eight. We’d be finished soon, make a cuppa tea, sit for a while, then it’d be time for bed and it’d be over. We’d all dreaded it so much, this day, and there’d been endless discussion about how we should mark it, what we should dae. Visit the graveyard, said Janice. Too depressing. Go for a meal, said Patrick. Too much like a celebration. Stay aff school, said Mona and Rona. Aye right. No one but Da had been keen on the idea of the rosary but in the end it was the right thing. An ordinary Tuesday evening of an ordinary day, made extraordinary by what was gaun on inside us all. The repetition of the familiar words, the feel of Rona’s airm next to mines, the quiet respectfulness with which Mr Gallagher led the prayers. A deep calm descended on the room, and, for the first time, I felt she was still with us.