It was a rare  oul day in the thriving borough of Andersonstown in West Belfast. Rare in the sense that a golden sun shone down from a cloudless sky turning grey pavements into sparkling slabs embedded with hidden diamonds, windows gleaming with rainbow smiles. The population of the surrounding district were encouraged to cast off winter blues, divest themselves of bulbous layers and light heartedly, where possible, skip to their places of employment.

There hadn’t been a day like this for quite some time and folk were going to make the most of it. Indeed a higher authority might have planned it this way, because today, April 3rd, the pupils of St Teresa’s Primary School, Glen Road, were to be treated to an unexpected outing. A trip to the local park to become one with nature, to smell the flowers, pick some for Mum on this glorious day, gambol and gallop like little forest people intent on fun. Or, a dip in the outside pool, Pickie Pool, as it was named, located at the very back of the Falls Park, to splash, play, dive, swim and cool of in the crystal clear waters.

No – it seems that these sensible activities would not be enjoyed on this great morning, the powers that be would decide. And decide they did! The children were to attend an outdoor Mass – an outdoor Mass! What joy! But the children didn’t seem to mind and that was the main thing, it was all the same to them. They would be escaping the confines of the dreaded classroom, the boredom of repetitive lessons and the fear of wrong answers. Their silvery, young voices echoed around the playground, excitement manifesting itself in their rosy cheeks and unfettered exuberance.

One little girl appeared to be a little more ecstatic than most – nun material perhaps! Teresa Killen danced and jigged circles in front of her best friend.

“Do you think the Holy Woman will be there, do you?””                     

“Teresa, it’s the Holy Lady, Our Lady, God’s Mother and I don’t know.” the long suffering Claire answered.

“Right, girls. Form a line, two by two.” The authoritarian voice of Miss Owens cleaved the air. Silence prevailed instantly. It wasn’t that she was a strict teacher but that cane she owned was deterrent enough. No lawyers or judges in this particular era to curtail corporal punishment in schools or to protect the rights of children. Marching like soldiers on parade, the little group traversed the school yard to the back lawn of the parish church where the priest of the day awaited, enjoying his time in the sun also. The makeshift altar was draped in white linen with purple overtones, as was our resident saint, Father Rory – purple was the colour for Lent  sacrifice time for sinful, penitent Catholics. Quite a good ploy for dieters and smokers eager to slim or quit. Forty days and forty nights without their chosen demon would either kill or cure them.

“Claire, Claire, isn’t it lovely out here. Why is the Mass here instead of inside? Is the chapel broken, is the roof leaking? Does Jesus just like the sun?” Teresa’s words tumbled over each other until Claire loudly whispered:

“Teresa I don’t know. You have to be quiet. Miss is looking at us. Sshhh!”

“Sorry Claire but isn’t it grand.”

She sighed contentedly and gently took her friend’s hand as Father Rory prepared to address the worshipping crowd.

“Welcome children. Sure isn’t this a great turnout for our first outside Mass. The Good Lord has deigned fit to give us this lovely day to adore him.”

No mention of the daily weather forecasts and the fact that they had been studied for weeks to  ensure this lovely, God given dry weather.

“On your knees, children.”  Miss Hillen, the headmistress possessed one of those loud, strident voices, which vibrated through every eardrum, and poured into dark corners  to extract malingers and frighten little souls into submission. The children dropped rather than sank gracefully to the ground, their fear was so great. All except Teresa. So intent had she been on picking daisies from the grass and so terrified of what she saw there, that Miss Hillen’s voice was indistinguishable from the roaring in her head. The child froze. Her tiny knees were not going to touch that grass, she was sure of that She would run first, run home, home where it was safe, home where there were none of the slithery, slimy, sliding, squirmy fat pink worms, entwining, circling, climbing over each other on the ground at her feet.

“Teresa Killen, down on the grass now,” Miss Hillen shrieked over the heads of the crowd. “Now, do you hear me?”

Slowly Teresa’s paralysis broke  and she looked at her friend.

“Claire, don’t you see them? On the grass. Crawling worms. Hundreds of them. Really. Say you see them Claire.”

But Claire shook her head, concern for her close friend lending her courage, and standing she clasped Teresa’s hand.

“Girls, girls! Kneel now or the cane for you.” Miss Owens joined in the threats. Teresa knew that if she lowered her eyes she would see them again, coiling and curling like slippery eels, ugly slick mini monsters. But she wouldn’t allow her friend to suffer on her account, so keeping her eyes firmly fixed on Claire’s face she slowly bent and knelt among them.

There is no after to this story. Imagined horrors or not, over excitement perhaps being the cause, the terror in that child’s heart on that day in 1960 was very real and very terrifying. She feared the creatures but loved her friend more. Neither her teachers nor her parents ever knew about the trauma she suffered. Did she faint? Was the unmitigated horror too much and was the memory of that day lanced from her   mind. She succumbed to untold horrors and revulsion without sound, without protest. Did the bouts of depression which haunted her adult life take root on that fateful day?