Joan Wiles

For weeks we have prepared for this day. Father Daley has given us instruction every afternoon.

‘And what does Corpus Christi mean, children?’

‘The body of Christ, Father.’

‘And what happens at that part of the mass we call the consecration?’

‘The bread and wine are changed into the body and blood of Our Blessed Lord.’

‘Correct. And this miracle is called?’

‘The miracle of tran-sub-stan-tiation, Father.’

Whenever he speaks of such matters, he lowers his eyelids; rocks back and forward on his heels and extends his hands like a mystic in ecstasy. The slightest cough or whisper breaks his communion with the Divine. The culprit is hauled out, ticked off and made to kneel on the splintery floor.

When he considers us to be sufficiently composed, we practise receiving the sacrament. A reading book, passed from child to child, serves as a communion plate.

We listen moon-eyed, to stories of saints who survived without food: Saint Francis of Assisi, Padre Pio, Blessed Theresa Newman. Their only sustenance was the sacrament of the Eucharist. Some were visited by the stigmata. Every Friday, the wounds on their hands bled copiously. The pain was excruciating.