Nostalgia with Margaret Watson: We all shared a moral code which helped us survive the hard times

Margaret Watson writes: But there was one thing we always had plenty of and that was our unwavering religious convictions.

Coming from a large family, descended from Irish immigrants, we lived and breathed the Catholic faith, not only on Sunday at Mass, but every minute of the day.

We bowed our heads whenever the name of Jesus was spoken and we stopped and made the Sign of the Cross when a funeral hearse passed.

And we rattled when we ran anywhere because we had so many medals hung round our necks.

Our beautiful church with its candles, incense, flowers, stained glass window, embroidered altar clothes, statues and gold crucifixes, was a refuge to me as a child, especially after my father died when I was only 12.

My first church was St Joseph’s in Batley Carr, which I attended while I lived in Springfield, but later when we moved to the Flatts area, I went to St Paulinus in Westtown because it was nearer.

In those days our churches were never locked up – not even throughout the night – which meant we could go in to pray anytime and nothing was ever stolen or damaged.

Our church in Batley Carr was attached to our school which had actually been built before the church, something I will be writing about later.

Sometimes I’d sneak away from my friends at playtime and go into church to sit and drink in the peace and beauty surrounding me.

But this was nipped in the bud when our parish priest Fr Scannel saw me praying in church one playtime, and didn’t like it one bit.

He thought I was up to something and told our headmistress Sister Saint Agnes, who stepped in and put the church out of bounds at playtime for everyone.

We children were taught to say our prayers in the morning and at night and before and after meals, thanking God for everything we ate, even though sometimes it was only fat and bread.

At playtime when the Angelus bell was rung, we knew we had to break off playing to bow our heads and say the Angelus prayer.

We were brought up to believe we had a guardian angel who watched over us, and much of my strength and optimism came from believing this.

Even after dad was taken from us at the young age of 48, my family never despaired because in our hearts we knew he was still with us – in spirit, if not in body – and we would see him again one day.

Our faith might have been different to that of most of our neighbours we grew up with, but whatever religion we practised, we all shared a moral code which helped us survive the hard times.

Catholics relied on a faith which was rich in symbolism and liturgy, while our “protestant” friends shared a faith which was Bible-led and more practical and down-to-earth.

We Catholics lived with our heads in the air and our Methodist friends had their feet firmly on the ground, but between us we probably got it right.

They might have worshipped in unadorned churches which smelled of old hymn books and carbolic soap but we really did share the same basic beliefs.

The children in my family all grew up befriending children who attended chapels not churches who sang happy rousing hymns.

I always felt their chapels were livelier than ours and their children seemed to have a better time – even though their parents, unlike ours, weren’t allowed to have a drink or a flutter on the horses.

But they had wonderful “faith” suppers and harvest festivals, beetle drives and concerts, all of which were great fun.

And, as I said earlier, their hymns were among the most cheerful and foot- tapping I’d ever heard.

I have always believed that Methodists live the longest, not only because they don’t imbibe, but because their lungs get more exercise through their powerful hymn singing.

Our friends from other chapels which we attended in Springfield and on The Flatts, revealed themselves to be lovely, good-living people who did great things for the local community, and instilled in their children, as ours did, right from wrong.

My sisters and I loved going to their chapels, but we never neglected our own, and most nights after we’d done our cleaning chores at home, we’d rush off to attend some service or other at our own church.

There were plenty to choose from whether it was Benediction or the Rosary or the Novena or a meeting of the Holy Angels, or Children of Mary.

Today it saddens me that so many of those little chapels I enjoyed going to as a child have since closed down.

Fortunately the two Catholic churches I attended, St Joseph’s, Batley Carr, and St Paulinus, Westtown, are still with us.

But their congregations are nothing like as large as they once were something we could never have foreseen when I was a child.

In my day, if you didn’t get to church in good time you couldn’t get a seat and it was standing room only.

But still, two of our Catholic churches, St Thomas More’s in Chickenley, and St Anne’s in Thornhill were forced to close.

The main problem in all our churches is that younger people are no longer going to the churches which their parents did.

It is left to older members to run the churches both financially and physically until the day comes when they can do it no more.

The vote is taken as to whether they should fight on a little longer, but all too often they realise they cannot.

Fortunately, the few churches still open, are opening their doors to those who have been forced to close theirs.

Long may they continue to do so.

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