The former Archbishop of Dublin, Dr John Charles McQuaid, has been getting a bad press recently. He has been described as an ogre, a cold, remote and unfeeling person, who ran his diocese with an iron fist.
But I won't have a word said against the man. All the bishops in those days were over-zealous. They spent their time warning us not to do this, that and the other, otherwise - as sure as the nose on your face - we would go straight down to Hell, without even a brief stop in Purgatory on the way. They were doing their best. They were men of their time, we were children of our time.
I have to confess to a vested interest here. I want to reveal that the great Dr McQuaid confirmed me in Booterstown Church, Blackrock, way back in 1952. He tapped me on the cheek and uttered the immortal words, "You're a good boy." That was the first big encouragement I got in this life. To get a commendation like that from the most powerful man in the State after de Valera as the biggest was some boost to the ego.
Confirmation Day
It was a day I'll never forget. In fact, it was a year I'll never forget. I had had spent six months in bed with pleurisy and the doctors were sure I was going to die, but I proved them wrong. I got back to my class a few weeks before Confirmation Day. The powers that be had to make a big decision. Had Kilfeather been sufficiently briefed in religion to be allowed to make his Confirmation, or should he wait until next year? After a summit of educational heads it was decided to give me the green light.
The days of waiting for the big decision had left me in a very anguished state and my confidence was zilch. The thought of having to face the ogre McQuaid with only a short few weeks of instruction in the Catholic religion was terrifying.
I had another problem on my mind on the big day. I had forgotten my school cap. I had the rest of my uniform - the blazer, the tie, the grey trousers - but no cap. When I arrived in the school grounds I was given a hell of a lecture about my incompetence and "letting the school down". After that, I was in a state of absolute mental collapse. I was the only one in the school photograph without a cap. To say I stuck out like a sore thumb would be an understatement.
After the severe lecture, the photograph and a pep talk we paraded up Booterstown Avenue to the firing squad, watched by thrilled, adoring parents with little box cameras recording the historic day.
In we went to Death Row, hoping to Christ (literally) that we would be able to answer any heavy religious questions thrown at us by John Charles. I was still in a state of shock about the missing the cap and my knees were beginning to buckle. I felt ill. I hung in, however, and had the presence of mind to get as far inside the pew as possible and to try to make myself smaller than I actually was. To be on the outside of the pew left you a sitting duck. It meant you were either a genius who knew all your Catechism or a lunatic egotist.
Question time
Then the Great Man appeared, tall and stern, without a flicker of a smile on his severe countenance. He walked slowly down the isle, asking questions of every row. It was a slow, dripping-tap kind of psychological torture. He was getting closer to my row all the time. Then . . . there he was, close up, this legend. He asked the first boy in the pew a question which he couldn't answer, then he asked the second, who also hadn't a clue.
I was praying fervently that they would all miss because - believe it or not - I actually knew the answer. All my intelligent friends weren't quite as bright as they thought they were. I don't know what had been doing in class when I was out sick. Anyway, Dr McQuaid, who must have been wondering at how poorly prepared we were, put the million-dollar question to me.
I nearly shouted out the answer with excitement. He looked at me with great admiration in his eyes. I suppose he was thinking that he might a future bishop in front of him. He tapped me on the cheek and said: "You're a good boy." It was the biggest break of my life. I was ecstatic. I was walking on air. A world that had been full of doom and foreboding some hours earlier, was now a place of joy. I was now a full qualified soldier of Christ, not like the rest of my buddies who were getting into the loop under false pretences. I knew my Catechism and was being enrolled by right. All doubts were gone. My feeling of inadequacy and stupidity, even my missing cap, were forgotten.
Pastoral letter
Years later, when I joined the Irish Independent as a journalist, it was clearly understood that any pronouncement by the Archbishop was to go into the paper without a comma being changed. There was consternation on one occasion when one of his pastoral letters got lost. It later turned up in the wastepaper basket. An unfortunate young reporter did not realise the importance of the script had thrown it away. He was left in no doubt that this was a sacking offence, but after a lot of toing and froing, he was allowed to stay on the staff, a wiser and worldlier man.
However, in those days Dublin journalists were grateful to John Charles for one thing: he gave us a chance of a free trip. It wasn't much of a junket: he used to lead the Dublin diocesan pilgrimage to Lourdes every year. It was a vital assignment and a reporter from every newspaper had to go along and report every squeak - hoping beyond hope that a miracle might happen so that you had a scoop.
No, it wasn't a great junket, but it did get you out of the office, away from the Dail and the courts. It was also fraught with danger - because if you made a hash of it, by misquoting the Archbishop, for instance, your future was all behind you.