1966
The priest mutters his way through the Latin prayers during early morning Mass as we boys kneel in adoration in the dusty half-light of the crypt under Westminster Cathedral. The celebrant stands at the altar with his back to us as he performs the work of a master craftsman, and he whispers the prayers. I look up during the elevation of the host and watch the fishes in the mosaic depicted on the arch above the altar, as I have done hundreds of times before. There is Our Lord walking on the water and there’s the ship containing the apostles who are scared by the storm. Fish abound in the picture, and I try to count them. Having had nothing to eat I often feel faint at the priest’s recitation of the ‘Agnus Dei,’ during which he bends slightly and taps his chest three times. Why I do so at that time of the Mass I have no idea and today I pass out momentarily. Sister Immaculata frogmarches me out of the crypt and sends me on a trot around the car park outside. I find Mass on a completely empty stomach a bit of a trial as we only get breakfast afterwards. Nevertheless, I am struck by the dual simplicity and dignity of the ceremony, with the priest in sparkling gold vestments on Saints days. To my young brain, the whole ceremony is rich with deep meaning, which is beyond my comprehension, and represents the magnificence of the supreme orderliness, which is the Catholic Church. Everything is in its place and the whole organisation reminds me of an ancient clock which ticks away over the centuries and never loses a beat. During the hush of the consecration of the host, I hear the low mumbling and tinkling bells of other Masses which are going on in the various crypt chapels.
On Sundays we have crispy rolls for breakfast, which I look forward to all week, after which we shiver in the playground while one of the boys produces a model car to which Father Comerford solemnly attaches a ‘Jettex’ propellant capsule which he ignites with his matches. Soon the car whizzes around the playground and promptly bursts into flames to the accompaniment of wild cheering. Then the cathedral choir boys go off for their pre-High Mass rehearsal in the song school and my two elder brothers, Tony and Rupert, are among them. I am too young for the cathedral choir, having just joined the school and designated a probationer. Roger Pugh teaches singing to us probationers and encourages us to make the same noise when singing as we do when we run around in the playground. We oblige, and the result is the finest choir in Europe.
Every Sunday we wear our smartest uniforms as we file into the cathedral for High Mass and take our places in the front two rows facing the grand altar. The interior of the church is constructed out of miniature red bricks, reminding me of Lego and, for a little boy of my size, it’s vast. I cannot see the roof as it soars up above my head shrouded in darkness. Above the high altar is a decorative baldacchino which, to me, is as big as a railway bridge, and hanging over the sanctuary a massive crucifix keeps sentinel over the proceedings. The organ is growling in the background as the church begins to fill up. Some people kneel whilst reciting their rosaries and knots of people cluster around the votive candle stations as they light candles and kneel in prayer. No one is talking and all I can hear is the shuffling of many feet and the creaking of chairs as they quietly take their places. Sister Immaculata fusses over us like a mother hen and ensures that we have our missals open at the correct page. My own Mass book contains a section at the end of the service called ‘post communion’ and I have concluded that it is for when the priest posts off holy communion to people who have been unable to attend.
The Mass comes to an end and the Cardinal processes out, blessing the people left and right and smiling broadly, his silver spectacles glinting in the candlelight.
When Cardinal Heenan arrives at the door of the Church, he is met by the most senior canon, the bells are rung, the organist releases the swell pedal a little to warn the crowd that things are starting to happen, and they stand up. The canon offers the Cardinal some holy water with which he crosses himself and sprinkles a little on the assembled company of clergy. He is wearing a rochet, which is a simple white vestment, a cappa magna, a long dark red cloak which trails along the floor, and which is held up by attendants, and a biretta, which is a purple upside-down strawberry punnet with a flowing silk tassel.
Accompanied by the attendants who carry his train, the cardinal visits the chapel of the Blessed Sacrament and there, kneeling at the altar, he makes a short prayer. Then he comes in procession to the high altar and, as he progresses, he blesses the celebrant and other ministers who kneel to receive his benediction. Eventually he goes to his throne, which is against the wall to the left of the altar, the gospel side. The throne is magnificently decorated in the liturgical colours of the day including the coat of arms of the prelate emblazoned on a shield which is suspended above. He takes off his biretta and cappa magna while the servers bring the vestments from the altar. The deacons at the throne assist the cardinal to put these on. Finally, a deacon puts the mitre on the cardinal’s head, he holds the crozier in his left hand and goes to the altar, blessing the clergy as he passes.
When the cardinal arrives before the altar steps to begin Mass he gives the crozier to its bearer, the second deacon takes off the mitre and all reverence the altar. Meanwhile the celebrant of the Mass comes to the altar with his ministers, he stands at the cardinal’s left before the steps, a little back. The deacons of the throne stand behind the cardinal, the deacon and subdeacon of the Mass stand to the left of the celebrant and a little behind him. The other chaplains or servers of the cardinal are positioned behind these.
The first Master of Ceremonies (MC) is on the Epistle (right hand) side, the second MC on the gospel side. The trainbearer stands on the Epistle side. All except the Cardinal and the celebrant and canons kneel. The Cardinal and celebrant start the prayers at the foot of the altar: introibo ad altare dei, the celebrant answering the cardinal: ad deum qui laetificat juventutem meum. And so, the Mass gets underway while the congregation look on in wonder at this beautifully choreographed liturgy, much of it dating back to the Roman catacombs. It all happens to the accompaniment of ancient Gregorian chant and sublime polyphonic music from the rich treasures of the renaissance, sung by the Cathedral choir.
The Mass comes to an end and the Cardinal processes out, blessing the people left and right and smiling broadly, his silver spectacles glinting in the candlelight. Sister Immaculata makes us stay on for a few minutes to allow the bulk of the congregation to leave and also so that we may say a quick thanksgiving. As we file into the school refectory for lunch a little later there are gasps from the boys as they observe a box of chocolates on each of our dining tables, presumably a gift from a well-wisher. On a raised platform is a table for Father Veal, the headmaster, Father Comerford, the assistant Head, and any guests. As it is a Sunday there are a few guests and they drink wine, but we do not. Father Veal has a little hand bell which he rings when he gives us permission to talk during meals. He also rings it when he requires us to be quiet. On bad days we never hear the bell, so we eat in silence and observe the gloom on the high table. At lunch on Sunday Father Veal turns on the radio as usual and we listen to the news, included in which is the statement that record numbers of people have just attended Mass in Westminster Cathedral.
Quite often Sister Immaculata takes us to the cathedral during the week to visit the Blessed Sacrament in a special chapel set aside for devotions. We follow the nun quietly through the echoing cathedral where we see people praying, strolling around or lighting votive candles.
My favourite service in the cathedral is Sunday Vespers. Again, we probationers occupy the front two rows and follow the service in our missals. The psalms at Vespers move me to tears sometimes, even as a boy of 8 my sensitivity is acute, and I am transported by the sight of five priests in gold copes among the clouds of incense. During the incensing, while the altar is prepared for Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament, the organist plays thunderously and it is this part of the ceremony that I look forward to most of all for the organist is Nicholas Kynaston who, we are told, is internationally famous.
We have to go to confession once a week and for this we visit the cathedral. Confessional boxes are dotted all over the church but there is one confessional box at the back, up against a pillar. That is where Father Veal, our headmaster, hears confessions. We all queue up for that one despite the availability of at least ten other confessional boxes. Simon Morgan, a boy in my class, collects up some specimens of mosaic which are left in a pile in one of the side chapels, and which is in abundance, and he makes a human figure out of plasticine and then decorates it with the pilfered contraband. Father Veal had warned us all sternly about removing mosaic from the church and Morgan knows this but, nevertheless, he foolishly shows his work of art to Sister Immaculata who praises it to the heavens and sends him to Father Veal to show him also. This he is very reluctant to do, but, regardless, he bravely knocks on Father’s door and goes in. Father very splendidly guesses what has happened and tells Morgan off lightly with tongue in cheek.
I am probably the most unpopular boy in the school because I am disagreeable, arrogant and needlessly violent. I even attack boys who are twice my size and in doing so attract swift pugilistic retribution. On my birthday I am allowed to throw a tea party in the refectory which takes place at the same time as normal school tea on the other tables. I am permitted to invite my friends to this party but, having none, decide to buy some favour with the other boys. I therefore invite all my chief persecutors to the tea, and this causes raised eyebrows, although they are all grateful and a ceasefire ensues for a short while. One evening I am just about to close my eyes after ‘lights-out’ and I feel somebody sitting on my bed: it is Father Veal. He gives me a severe and angry talking-to which is paternal and sincere, and after this I promise to mend my aggressive ways: thus the process of healing begins.
Quite often Sister Immaculata takes us to the cathedral during the week to visit the Blessed Sacrament in a special chapel set aside for devotions. We follow the nun quietly through the echoing cathedral where we see people praying, strolling around or lighting votive candles. The Blessed Sacrament chapel is off a side aisle to the left of the high altar and when we enter, we see many people kneeling down, some are holding rosaries and whispering the prayers. The centre of devotional attention is the gold tabernacle on the altar which is surrounded by lighted candles and flowers. I smell the sweet odour of the incense of past decades and the attendant hush is in striking contrast to the rumble of the London traffic outside in Victoria Street. I have no difficulty in saying prayers as I am transported by the beauty of the chapel and the fervour of the people around me and my childlike approach to prayer, which has never left me, was formed during those visits to the cathedral.
Suddenly, and without warning, we are treated to “Good morning, how are you today?”
2024
I have not attended a Novus Ordo Mass for about 40 years, having given up religion in protest at first, and then having rediscovered Catholic Tradition through the good offices of the Society of St Pius X. In spite of this, whenever I am in the area of Victoria and the Houses of Parliament, I am drawn to looking in at the Cathedral, my old alma mater, which is a few yards away from Victoria Station. In my boyhood the cathedral was blackened on the outside with soot from passing traffic and hemmed in by office buildings. In those days the entrance was down the side of the building, off Ambrosden Avenue. Nowadays things are quite different, the buildings surrounding the cathedral have gone and a pleasant piazza has been constructed, reminiscent of Italy. There are a lot of beggars. The building itself has been scrubbed clean and the original front porch has been opened up to public access. Entering through the front porch I am still reminded of the old days as the vastness of the interior is still overwhelming.
There is just one confessional now and it takes a lot of hunting to seek it out. Nevertheless, there is a queue for the box, although the cathedral is not as busy as I remember and many people wandering around seem to talk out loud. I am just in time for midday Mass because I see a priest, dressed shabbily, stonking up the altar steps. I was witnessing the start of a Low Mass (do they even call it that these days?) and as the celebrant spoke down the microphone a few people noticed what was happening and took their places in the nave. Most people carried on chatting and buying their copies of the Tablet, which was selling at the back. I beat a hasty retreat.
I have watched a few sung Masses from Westminster on Youtube and the overall effect of these is deeply upsetting for someone, such as me, who was present in the glorious days of the 1960s. The choir is certainly not up to the old standard and sounds rather polite these days. The whole Mass is completely disjointed and disconnected. The priests process to the accompaniment of Gregorian chant but, no sooner have the clergy arrived, than the celebrant, standing yards away from the altar, starts a bizarre intoning of the beginning of the Mass in English. He seems to be singing to the tune of the old preface. Suddenly, and without warning, we are treated to “good morning, how are you today?” Gabble. Gabble. The music to the Mass is not in the least liturgical and seems, to me at least, to form a kind of background accompaniment to the goings-on at the altar. When the choir sings, nothing happens at the altar as everybody sits down and waits for the high-brow noise to cease. One can imagine many of the clergy thinking to themselves as they peer furtively at their watches: “why do we spend money on this choir?” I don’t blame them for thinking this! The choir is no longer singing liturgically, and it thus condemns itself into oblivion. The Novus Ordo Mass is simply unsuited to classical music, and hymns, lots of them, are too boring. No, the best thing to do is firstly, close down the choir school, something which post-Vatican II clergy have been trying to do for years, and then organise a pop group to lead congregational singing from the back of the church. In any case, now that Pope Francis tells us that all religions lead to God, there is no real point in carrying on at all with Westminster cathedral and its choir, which are run at a huge expense. Perhaps it would make a good supermarket, occupying a prime site as it does.
Joseph Bevan has just published his memoirs, Two Families: A Memoir of English Life During and After the Council (Os Justi Press, 2024), available from the publisher or from Amazon.
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