Looks in awe at the statues of Jesus and the Virgin Mary. He wonders who has more money, the Pope or the Queen: the feudal Roman Catholic Church or the British monarchy and aristocracy. Speculates whether, as a painter and decorator, it is better to be a Catholic or a Protestant. He’s scared at first. Real dad Henry used to say to him as a kid: Dinnae go in thaire, son, or the funny fellys in the frocks’ll git a hud ay ye. But it was very posh, not like the old kirk in Penicuik with the Reverend Alfred Birtles, the minister with the hair growing out of his nose, who had a strange dampish smell that Jonty always associates with church. He sees the confession booth, enters and sits down, like they do on television. He senses that the other side is occupied and, sure enough, the hatch slides open. The thin hands of a man are partly visible through a grille. There’s a fresh smell of aftershave, and the polished wood of the box, not like Reverend Freddie Birtles’s musty, dank smell.
