The Catholic minority at the inn was treated with respect, for a landlord could do no wrong, especially the landlord of a free house where such excellent beer was on tap. On Catholicism at large, the Lark Rise people looked with contemptuous intolerance, for they regarded it as a kind of heathenism, and what excuse could there be for that in a Christian country? When, early in life, the end house children asked what Roman Catholics were, they were told they were “folks as prays to images,” and further inquiries elicited the information that they also worshipped the Pope, a bad old man, some said in league with the Devil. Their genuflexions in church and their “playin’ wi’ beads” were described as “monkey tricks.” People who openly said they had no use for religion themselves became quite heated when the Catholics were mentioned. Yet the children’s grandfather, when the sound of the Angelus bell was borne on the wind from the chapel in the next village, would take off his hat and, after a moment’s silence, murmur, “In my Father’s house are many mansions.” It was all very puzzling.

Later on, when they came to associate more with the other children, on the way to Sunday school they would see horses and traps loaded with families from many miles around on their way to the Catholic church in the next village. “There go the old Catholics!” the children would cry, and run after the vehicles shouting: “Old Catholics! Old lick the cats!” until they had to fall behind for want of breath. Sometimes a lady in one of the high dogcarts would smile at them forbearingly, otherwise no notice was taken.

The horses and traps were followed at a distance by the young men and big boys of the families on foot. Always late in starting, yet always in time for the service, how they legged it! The children took good care not to call out after them, for they knew, whatever their haste, the boy Catholics would have time to turn back and cuff them. It had happened before. So they let them get on for quite a distance before they started to mock their gait and recite in a snuffling sing-song:

‘O dear Father, I’ve come to confess.’

‘Well, my child, and what have you done?’

‘O dear Father. I’ve killed the cat.’

‘Well, my child, and what about that?’

‘O dear Father, what shall I do?’

‘You kiss me and I’ll kiss you.’

a gem which had probably a political origin, for the seeds of their ignorant bigotry must have been sown at some time. Yet, strange to say, some of those very children still said by way of a prayer when they went to bed:

Matthew, Mark, Luke and John,

Bless the bed where I lie on.

Four corners have I to my bed;

At them four angels nightly spread.

One to watch and one to pray