Holidays at home were, again, expected to be spent either soberly by perhaps helping
in the parish or, with special permission if the need was there, by working at some odd job
– in keeping with one’s lofty vocation - to earn enough cash to survive the rest of the
year. Grants from educational authorities were unheard of for the priesthood at that time.
Many of us simply had to find some work to get enough pocket money to get through the
term. Food, lodging, laundry were provided. Books could be borrowed from the library.
But transport back to the place had to be paid for and there were the small things such as
stamps, toothpaste, boot polish, haircuts, soap, football boots - not to mention liniment for
injuries sustained by the spectacularly rough and brutal fouls common among seminary
teams - razor blades and innumerable other necessities all had to be paid for.
Plus tobacco! An ounce of Three Nuns judiciously packed into a small pipe and
smoked under strict control would last me nearly two weeks. Charlie - an ex-barber - did
fine haircuts for 6 old pence (2 ½ new p) for the foreign missions and trained others to do
the same. A razor blade, vigorously rubbed each day on a special curved glass block
obtainable once for a life-time of use in the seminary shop would last for a whole term.
Alcohol never had the chance to pass our lips since there was no question of going out
for a pint. Somehow, everyone survived and those who did happen to have wealth from
home, good holiday jobs, savings from previous careers or obtained hard cash from rich
relatives or supporters were certainly discouraged from flaunting it.
My own great and continued miracle was that throughout these years my Post
Office savings account never dropped below £5! It was boosted by holiday earnings and
then gradually declined as the weeks went by. Just before a crisis I always seemed to get
a cash injection from my Parish Priest, Canon McHugh ( who always promised or
threatened to come and see me but never did until my ordination) or some utterly
unexpected source. Such as getting pyjamas or socks from the Catholic Needlework
Guild - which were invariably made for gorillas and thus were sold for hard cash to
bigger clerics. I even ‘earned’ the princely sum of five shillings ( 25 new pence) by
having one of my feet washed on Maundy Thursday by the Rector – the traditional
Maundy Money. This paid for 2 ounces of pipe tobacco – smoking for three weeks or so!
The spring and summer terms formed one long period of six months with no release
except for Easter Monday which was the only day (apart from a student lying on his
deathbed) when the family could come and visit. They could arrive after breakfast and
stay until about 4.00 p.m. and take one out - individually and in a car! - between those
times. In many ways, this day was to be dreaded rather than welcomed. It broke up a
sustained period of institutional habit and it took a week to get settled in again. The good
thing was that the family could see where their dearly beloved spent six years even
though all kinds of quaint places and customs had to be explained to them.
The summer holidays lasted for eight weeks and some went off on continental and
exotic jaunts, others got all pious and helped out in shrines or places of pilgrimage, a few
just sat around at home and did nothing while a goodly number found a job to fill their
coffers for the next year. Each student had to report to their parish priest at home and
bring back a report of their behaviour on holiday. Lack of such a report - or one stating
that the lad had not been seen or been living any kind of ungodly life during this time -
would certainly raise eyebrows, cause questions to be asked and, possibly, result in the
equivalent of a red card and the early bath. Again, this made sense and was perfectly
acceptable if one had nothing to hide.
The real problems arose with holiday work. Permission from the Rector had to be
obtained and this was seldom given after the first two years when, normally, the clerical
collar became compulsory at all times except in bed and the bath. This was after the
reception of the ‘Tonsure’ - more of which hereafter. Fortunately for those of us from an
outside Diocese this permission had to be obtained from our own Bishop. Leo Parker, by
the grace of God and favour of the Apostolic See Bishop of Northampton, was a sensible
and frugal man. He was not mean ( he paid for my first cassock and continued my weekly
pocket money allowance of 2/6 - 12 ½ new pence - throughout my first four years of
training) but was more than willing to allow a student to work during the holidays and not
have to wear the clerical collar while doing so. Thus in the Christmas holidays I did odd
jobs for a grocery shop ( my usual stint at the Post Office sorting mail was not available
after Christmas) but during the summer I spent six of the eight weeks working from 7.30 in
the morning to 5.00 at night cheerfully mixing soups in the Nestle factory at 1/6 an hour
plus the perks of being able to buy coffee, chocolate and, of course, soups at rock bottom
prices at the end of every week.
It was common enough for students in general to work in the holidays but the regular
labour force would express great surprise when told what I was being trained for and
horrified at the length of the training. Mixing soup was monotonous and soul-destroying
for the first week or so. After that it became quite tolerable and was enlivened by the
change of soups one had to mix - tomato, peas, oxtail, mushroom, onion or even celery.
This last was the worst simply because the smell of celery remained on one’s clothes and
in one’s pores more or less permanently. On getting home I used to leave my working
togs in the garden shed, streak upstairs to have a bath and still smell and taste celery for
the rest of the evening.
One old boy in the factory had been doing this same job for 25 years and was quite
happy and contented but slightly deaf and forgetful. Whenever he asked what I was
training for and was told it was ‘for the priesthood’ he always understood it was ‘to be a
policeman’ and commented on how I was going to be a little one if I ever made it!
The second summer holiday - the first two weeks of it, anyway - was made
unforgettable for me because, as the junior sacristan, I had the option of going back to
help with the clergy retreats. My fare was paid plus the princely sum of £10 per week to
prepare and help 50 or so priests of all ages while they made their annual retreat from
Monday to Friday. Seeing them, all shapes and sizes, young and old, grotty and elegant,
mumbling their Mass or saying it with devotion, eating - some of them quite disgustingly -
very nearly put one off any idea of becoming a priest. The three or four volunteers who
had decided to earn some money in this way were all and always appalled by the thought
that, in years to come, they too might become like some of these priests. It was a very
salutary lesson.
For two summer holidays I graduated from the more or less menial work of soup
mixing to a white-collar job at the local office of H.M. Inspector of Taxes. Knowing my
aspirations to the clerical state the local supervisor put me in charge of the section
dealing with Church of England clergy tax returns. It could have been a golden
opportunity to start yet a few more religious conflicts by mismanaging these returns but as
far as I am aware there were no complaints and – for once – I must have done something
right. The pay was marginally better than that earned by my soup making skills and the
hours were shorter.
Back in the seminary the first two years were spent in studying Philosophy in all its
branches with Scripture and Church History thrown in by means of two lectures each per
week. Philosophers went out into the world – in aforesaid groups - wearing black ties, not
clerical collars, and tended to look like undertakers. Since my hope was that the tie would
only have to be with me for two years I never untied the knot so as not to wear the thing
out. The result, at the end of that period, was the tiniest knot known to man; hard and
solid and shiny.
Philosophy remained a closed book to most of us in spite of passing three examinations
a year by regurgitating wisdom which an intelligent parrot could have coped with. It only
came into its own when we started theology and lots of terms, definitions, ways of thinking,
discussing and arguing started to make sense. Church History and Scripture were very
poor relations and were taught by listening to lectures of 45 minutes each, never being
allowed to discuss or, God forbid, ask a question, and having sheets of notes given to us
which - word for word - reproduced the lectures. The result was that, except for a few
dedicated students with incredible consciences, we did not listen to the lectures but wrote
letters home, did other work, caught up on previous notes or even worked ahead on the
subject and dealt with it in more depth. It is amazing what one can do by just sitting in a
bench among a hundred others and looking vaguely intelligent. Yawns, chatting, head
down in one’s arms or other signs of distraction were the give-away to be avoided. On
one famous occasion, the day after a general election when the results were coming out
on the radio, an entrepreneur rigged up a wire and earphone from the wireless down in
the den and a constant string of notes went round the lecture hall giving up-to-date state
of the parties. To this day I am convinced that the lecturer knew what was going on but
doggedly ploughed on regardless. He also rejoiced in the nickname of ‘The Mole’
because he was a small, shrivelled and very shy but charming man who never looked up
throughout his rapid reading of his lectures.
The drop-out rate in those first two years was about a quarter. Mostly because a
man realised he had no ‘vocation’ or was so informed by the Rector. A vocation being
clearly defined as ‘ the acceptance of a candidate by his Bishop’ and in no way any inner
or mysterious calling or urge or conviction that one ought to become a priest. Since
Bishops and Rectors and other ‘lawful superiors’ could only judge by externals, this calling
depended on one’s behaviour at all levels and the general impression one gave to
others. An Oscar-winning actor may have been able to keep up a front and play a part
consistently enough to bring about such a conviction in others; perhaps some did. But it
would have been incredibly difficult and rather pointless to one’s future. Some were
requested to leave for one or a string of misdemeanours or ordered to do so for
something spectacularly evil (breaking bounds by going off on one’s own into the village
was about the only such crime known at the time. Nobody ever went off with one of the
maids since they were specifically designed by age and shape and temperament not to
present any temptation). A few left because they simply did not have the intellect even to
pretend to understand Philosophy and found the study utterly impossible, and these were
the ones who probably would have made the best priests and whose departure was
usually regretted most.
One particular example of this was the departure of an elderly and lovable ‘lay brother’
from a religious novitiate about a mile from us. The custom was that the superiors decided
who should get ordained – never mind the wishes of the individual - and they came to us
for their intellectual preparation. This chap had been a happy lay brother for over 30
years and had no wish whatever to become a priest. He dutifully attended all the
Philosophy lectures but when it came to the three hour written examination - and I was
sitting next to him and scribbling away pouring out all my new-found knowledge – he
simply put down his name and the date and then sat back and slept. When, at the end of
the next term, he did exactly the same his superiors took the hint, had the wisdom to
acknowledge their mistake and he cheerfully went back to his chosen way of life.
A very few were judged to be intellectually more than able but so obviously idle that
they did no work whatever. One man left because even the mention of blood, childbirth or
any part of the anatomy inevitably resulted in him fainting rather spectacularly. Some left
solely because they were materially very well off and could not put up with the simplicity of
life and the plethora of - very often pointless – rules.
Those who survived where then due to receive the first of the Minor Orders, or,
more accurately, the Tonsure which officially made them into clerics. All these grades of
orders are now part of history but at that time there was a solemn and much valued
ceremony at the beginning of one’s third year when the Bishop would brutally but
liturgically cut off five bits of hair (representing the sign of the cross) and thus ‘tonsure’ a
man as a sign that he was being given to God. Great hilarity was caused by those badly
bald who had little to offer in this symbolic way and the Bishop needed a sharp eye to find
five bits of hair on the man’s scalp. At the other extreme, if a man had a fine head of curly
hair, a fringe or quiff, then the Bishop took some delight in ruining his hairstyle for some
months to come by hacking off - with very blunt, ceremonial, silver scissors - the new
cleric’s hirsute pride and joy.
The serious part of the ceremony was that it made one a cleric, part of the
Church’s hierarchy (though a very lowly one) and you were ‘incardinated’ i.e. started to
belong to a Diocese. It also meant that the clerical collar had to be worn with the suit,
one’s tie could be handed on to some more junior student who was so desperate as to
want a worn-out tie and one could become the leader of a group of walkers or runners for
the afternoon constitutional. This, in practice, was the most important since it meant that
you could choose two other members of reasonable attitude and decide how far to walk,
where to go to, how fast to run and how soon to get back to savour the rest of the
afternoon period. You also started to be called ‘Reverend’ in official lists and documents
even though, face to face, the professors still called you ‘Mister’. Never, throughout the six
years, did a professor call a student by his Christian name.
Being ‘blocked’ was the dreaded event before tonsure and other minor or even
major orders. This entailed putting off the acceptance into the reverend state of the clergy
because of some doubt in the minds of the authorities as to one's ability and/or
worthiness. It was not all that common but did happen every year and especially to those
who belonged to the Southwark Diocese since the decision was made by the seminary
authorities and rubber-stamped by the Bishop. We outsiders tended to be far less worried
about this because if the Bishop of Northampton or Nottingham or whatever was to be told
that his student had what we now call ‘an attitude problem’ he would either scoff or decide
to sack the man himself. Blocking was a method of getting a student to pull his socks up
but more often than not resulted in a man leaving and giving up. If someone were to be
really considered to be unsuitable then they would be asked to leave and this odd
method of encouragement would not be employed.
It is now only of historical interest but at that time, after the Tonsure, candidates
for the Priesthood had to go through a series of minor orders - Lector and Porter,
Exorcist and Acolyte. Followed by the Sub-diaconate and then the Diaconate which led on
to ordination. These were conferred through the next four years in interesting ceremonies
when the newly acquired ‘office’ had to be ceremonially exercised; the Lector did some
reading, the Porter opened and locked the church door and rung the bell, the Acolyte (
officially the only one who had the duty and ‘power of orders’ to serve Mass) carried a
candle. But, fortunately, the Exorcist did not have to cast out any devils; he was simply
given the power and authority to do so but only with the expressed permission of his
Bishop.
The sub-Diaconate was a strange sort of order since it did not confer anything in
particular. It was more a braces and belt effort to delay the positive step of becoming a
Deacon; just in case the candidate changed his mind or his Bishop changed his. The only
obvious duty a sub-deacon had was to participate in Solemn High Masses in full and
special vestments ( but without a stole) and spend a goodly amount of time standing still,
wearing a humeral veil and holding the paten. ( If you are not familiar with these technical
terms - look up good dictionary). A Deacon, on the other hand, took the formal step
(actually taking a solemn and symbolic step forward during the ordination ceremony) of
being permanent, accepting the law of celibacy and being given the power to preach,
teach, officiate at baptisms and - above all - distribute Holy Communion. He was invested
with a stole – officially the priestly vestment – put worn on one shoulder only. ( The
symbolism seems to be that a deacon assumes only part of the burdens of a priest who,
assuming them all, wears the stole on both shoulders). At that time there were no
Eucharistic Ministers and it was considered grossly improper for anyone other than priest
or deacon to touch a consecrated Host under any but utterly extreme circumstances
( one of which was always quoted as being acceptable: if a Host was accidentally dropped
down the cleavage of a lady communicant then neither priest nor deacon should not –
ever - grope for It!)
The first year was, perhaps naturally, the most difficult. Most of those who left did so
during that time although some gave the whole thing only a matter of weeks and left in the
first term while others got cold feet three or four years into the course or even - on some
rare occasions - just before the Diaconate. Time went by quite quickly in an ordered life to
which one adapted. It was not all work, prayer and misery. There were plenty of
opportunities for hobbies, reading, music, plays and Gilbert and Sullivan [ there is an
infamous picture still around of the cast of ‘Iolanthe’ with myself in the title role as a fairy.
Make-up thickly applied worked wonders but it took a long time to live down the disgrace
that, at the dress rehearsal, my first entrance was made with myself – supposedly a fairy -
still wearing glasses!] as well as sport and, above all, time for, with and by oneself. The
rule which barred others from one’s room was a great blessing since otherwise a lot of
privacy would have been lost to the more garrulous types and time would have been
wasted making coffee, playing pontoon or even [ the one thing that could have been
useful and not a waste of time] just discussing the subjects being taught. There was no
television except on rare state occasions when one was hired for the whole community.
We did not have transistor radios, record players, kettles, toasters or access to
telephones.
The size and state of luxury of one’s room improved year by year - there was a grand
‘moving day’ at the end of the long term when all went up a grade. By the end of my stay
there, partly due to my prestige ‘job’ – Head Sacristan ! no less - I had a large room on
the first floor with a good view, posh furniture in comparison to some and a bathroom next
door which only a few shared. As already said, we became institutionalised; which is
always a great help whether in prison, hospital, place of work or even at home, but is also
a danger when the scaffolding is taken off and one is launched forth into a different world.
