For my last contribution before handing this space over to a new contributor under Sofia’s new editor, I’ve chosen to home in on the subject of confessing. Not having been brought up to attend regular confession with a priest screened behind the dividing wall of a confessional (and personally finding this idea creepy), rather than being able to vouch for its merits, I’m looking here at the often embarrassing or shameful business of owning up to someone or a group of people for something that one’s done, accidentally, carelessly, mistakenly or unthinkingly, or for some reason failed or forgotten to do. Such situations are usually not matters of serious sins of commission or omission, and an actual apology may not always be required or even relevant. What I have in mind is a situation where one risks losing face – if not reputation and possibly good standing in one’s community – or one anticipates being a disappointment to someone one loves or respects.
Because it is tempting to fool oneself into thinking the chancy business of owning up and ‘facing the music’ can be avoided, one puts off doing so, but at one’s peril. It can easily end up as a worse situation to deal with, particularly if it involves a lie which one fails to share with another essential party – for example, the substance of an excuse given to decline an invitation, a lie which the perpetrator has failed to share with his or her partner. The lie risks exposure in response to a comment from the would-have-been host.
I recently heard a story from a friend about a hill-country farmer in her village, which illustrates what can happen when one fails to come clean. The bare bones of her story involved an affluent couple who had come to occupy the manor house. The glamorous wife had aroused the curiosity of the village, especially that of the Sewing Bee members, who persuaded their convenor, the wife of the hill-farmer, to invite her to their meeting. The lady was duly welcomed and apparently enjoyed the meeting. Soon she willingly joined the monthly hosting rota, and, wanting to impress the group when her turn came round, she produced champagne and canapés instead of the usual coffee and biscuits.
One day soon after the newcomers arrived it so happened that the farmer was striding across his land when he spotted a dog he didn’t recognise, apparently without its owner and worrying his sheep. Without hesitation he lifted his gun and shot the dog, something he was well within his rights to do.
When he arrived home that evening, his wife told him that the distressed lady of the manor had called at the farmhouse and at all the cottages in the lane wondering if anyone had seen her dog, which was apparently a Crufts champion. He then put two and two together, and realised to his horror that the mutt he had shot was their new and now popular neighbours’ dog. Recognising that this would put his wife in an awkward position, he failed to share his concern with her and, making an excuse to leave the house, he returned to the field taking his spade with him to bury the dog there.
On returning home his conscience nagged him; reluctantly he told his wife, but not for three days. She was particularly upset on their new neighbours’ behalf, and she sent her husband round straight away to apologise and explain his action. The lady of the manor was understandably furious and couldn’t understand why there had been such a time lag before receiving the farmer’s explanation. Instead of her having to apologise to him for the dog’s behaviour and the village being on his side, the whole sorry saga ended with the farming couple being bad-mouthed and cold-shouldered by the community.
My turn now to ‘fess up! In the last issue I wrote how my sister and I had dared my grandmother to climb a tree. We didn’t! She did however skip 100 skips without a break aged 76, and because she certainly wouldn’t have approved of my ‘porky’, I felt a confession was in order before I quit!