WARNING: SOME STORIES MAY CONTAIN DISTURBING SCENES
’And Jesus died to take away our sins.’
The children sat quietly, listening to Miss Pringle as she spoke. So enthralled were they by her lesson, they never fidgeted, yawned or scratched. Indeed, Miss Pringle had never known such a wonderfully disciplined Sunday school as her own.
She sat back, adjusted her glasses and smiled. ‘Craig,’ she said, looking to one of the boys. ‘How was Jesus killed?’
Almost without thought, Craig replied: ‘On the Cross Miss Pringle. ‘
A warm glow entered her body. Never did they get a question wrong. Such a perfect class, she knew. All twenty of them, never a question wrong, always happy, always good. Of course, it had not always been like that.
Miss Pringle well remembered a previous time, her class unruly, and only half a dozen children in all. That was no good at all, she remembered. ‘No good at all,’ she said one day to the vicar.
The good Reverend looked at his Sunday school teacher, a sigh about to escape his throat. ‘I know, I know, Miss Pringle, but I really don’t know what to do.’
A delicate thing, Miss Pringle nonetheless had a fiery temper. Suddenly her eyes blazed as she wondered at the ineptitude of her leader. ‘Well something must be done, and fast,’ she snapped.
Shortly after, she was sat at class, staring about an almost empty room. ‘This life,’ she was saying, ‘is a prelude to the afterlife. For when we die, we will be together in Paradise.’
Of course, the concept was too much for such young souls to understand; and anyway, the few who were there were too busy kicking each other to listen to what Miss Pringle said. But persevere she knew she must.
The blame for such unruliness – for such declining numbers – laid squarely with the parents, she decided. Atheism was advancing, religion and morality declining. Sometimes, she decided, parents just didn’t deserve their children. For children, she knew, were receptive vessels for whatever ideas were placed in their heads.
Perhaps that is why Miss Pringle decided upon her mission – her mission to fill her Sunday school with young souls.
‘You seem adamant, Miss Pringle,’ the vicar had said when she voiced her determination to fill her class.
’I am, vicar. We simply cannot sit around allowing this decline to set in.’
‘And how do you propose to do it?’
Miss Pringle smiled. ‘Oh, I’ll find a way,’ she said.
And here she sat in front of her ever-expanding class, feasting on their discipline, and sure she was at the forefront of God’s work.
Class over for the day, she walked home. It was a pleasant walk on a pleasant Holy Day. The sun shone brightly and the entire road was quiet, the only person about being a small boy sat by the path and obviously bored.
Looking about her, Miss Pringle approached, determined to get another member for the class.
‘And what’s your name?’ she asked with a smile.
The boy looked up at her, scowled, and said: ‘Pete,’ adding, ‘not that it’s any of your business.’
Irritated, Miss Pringle immediately got to work, taking our her knife and checking the road once more before slitting his throat.
The following Sunday, Miss Pringle sat in front of her class. ‘Good morning, children,’ she said. ‘I’d like you all to meet Peter. ‘
© Anthony North, October 2001
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