Low life | 16 April 2015

To say that Oscar was warmly welcomed as he stepped through the massive oak door into a chilly House of God for the first time in his life on Easter day would be an understatement. Delighted crones came bounding up, mewing and moaning at the rare and unexpected appearance in their midst of an innocent child. One of them thrust her face in his and excitedly interviewed him. ‘What’s your name then, my dear?’ she said, thrilled to meet someone under 70. Oscar diffidently but courageously answered that he was called Oscar. ‘What? What?’ she said, deaf as a post. ‘Do you know what the little chap’s name is?’ she asked my mother, who was standing nearby.

Oscar and my mother live in the same house. They had walked hand in hand up the lane to the church together in the Easter Sunday sunshine. But in spite of this, and try as she might, my mother could not remember her great-grandson’s name right at that moment. She looked intently at Oscar for about five seconds, then she said, ‘I’m sorry. It’s completely gone.’

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Extricating ourselves from the welcoming committee, we chose a pew near the front. Eventually the organ ceased piping, and the vicar, magnificent in snow-white cassock and pale blue stole, mounted the pulpit stairs and welcomed us. ‘He is risen!’ she exclaimed. ‘He is risen indeed!’ we answered raggedly. Then she said how honoured and thrilled she and the congregation were to have children attending today. (Nods, indulgent smiles, little moans of pleasure.)

The children might be happy to know, she said, that chocolate eggs had been secreted around the church for an after-service Easter egg hunt. Considering that it was by no means guaranteed that children would be attending that morning, and the chocolate eggs had been purchased and hidden about the ugly old church by arthritic fingers in faith and love, I was moved to hear this.