Januariad

‘Frankie!’ says God. ‘Frankie! Get up out of that hole. And bring your spade.’

‘Who’s that?’ says Frankie. ‘Who’s talkin”?

‘Get up out of that hole, I said. It’s me, God.’

Frankie looks around the road but he can’t see God anywhere. ‘Is that God there now? This minute?’

‘Who else would it be, Frankie, talking to you from on high? Climb out of that hole right this minute.’

Frankie gets out of the hole, trailing his spade after him. ‘It’s not lunchtime yet,’ he mutters.

‘You think I care about your lunch?’ shouts God from somewhere. ‘We’ve business to take care of, boy.’

‘I’ve got beef today. I got a bit of horseradish in there as well. Beef sandwiches.’ Frankie’s standing at the edge of his hole on the side of the road. There’s orange cones all along the way keeping the cars off him. ‘Two beef sandwiches,’ he says.

‘Listen now Frankie. I’ve a job for you. You need to walk up to that man there and hit him hard with that spade in your hand. Hit him hard on the head.’

Frankie blows out his cheeks. ‘You mean Mr. Reilly there?’

‘Yes, Mr. Reilly there, reading that clipboard with his back to you.’

‘Mr. Reilly’s the boss of me.’

‘I don’t care if he’s the queen of Sheba, you’re going to give him a good auld rattle with that spade.’

‘I’m supposed to dig ‘til I get to the pipes. That’s what Mr. Reilly told me.’

‘It’s not every day you get a commandment from God, my boy. Quick! While his back’s still turned.’

Frankie leans over and picks a fuschia flower off the hedge. He pinches the stem off and sucks at the base, but he can’t get any sweetness out. ‘I’ll be in trouble,’ he says quietly. God hears him.

‘In trouble with who? I am your God!’

‘Sister Maisey. Sister Maisey’ll be angry. She told me not to hit anyone.’

‘Sister Maisey works for me!’ came God’s voice. ‘She wants you to do what I tell you.’ Frankie goes up on his tippy-toes to look over the hedge. He can see four sheep but no God.

‘Mr. Reilly’s not wearing his hard hat.’

‘That’s his own fault, Frankie! It’s no one’s fault but his own.’

‘Sister Maisey made me beef sandwiches.’

‘Who is your God, Frankie? Is it some auld biddy? Or is it the voice in the sky? Who came all the way down here to tell you to bate that man with your shovel?’

‘You did, God.’

‘That’s right, young man. I’ll mind Sister Maisey for you.’

Frankie sighs and hefts the spade with both hands. ‘I’ll never understand mass,’ he says, breaking into a run.