The Wrong Good Friday

Easter has this habit of sneaking up on you. It keeps you on your toes. You never know for one thing, whether it will happen in March or April.

Perhaps therein lies its special charm. Christmas, by contrast, is so pre-ordained. On the 25th December there will be stockings, presents around the tree, phone calls from home, blockbusters on telly and too much rich food.

Whereas Easter… Inevitably, I suppose, the associated magic goes back to childhood. My siblings and I were sure of only two things about Easter: a break from school and a clutch of chocolate eggs. There could be a turkey. And if our father was feeling flush and the weather was clement, there might even be a short break from Belfast to the County Down coast.

Best of all, Easter might coincide with a visit from grandparents “across the water”. In which case, there would be presents. I remember vividly sitting with my brother and sisters around what seemed like an enormous box, pulling out treasures buried among the stuffing: small eggs, big eggs, model cowboys and Corgi toys.

Although Northern Irish society was based on religious denominations, I was never even sure about the religious significance of Easter. I still couldn’t explain the difference between Easter Sunday and Monday, for example, and Maundy Thursday denoted simply an extra half-day’s holiday.

But Good Friday is different. Although I’d describe myself as a-religious, the crucifix is an undeniably potent symbol. I want to teach my child that chocolate is good, in moderation, but crucifixion – any cruelty – is an abomination.

And that’s one important reason why I find the French concept of Easter unsatisfying. So profound has been the secularisation of society here over roughly 200 years that Good Friday isn’t even a public holiday. Easter is just an excuse to stock the supermarket shelves with fancy confections. Eat them on a Sunday and take the next day off school or work.

As a Geordie builder I know is given to say, “It’s not right, man.”

Thus we’ve tried to create our own traditions in order to spice the Easter weekend with a little magic for our daughter. She’s 13 now: an age when peers are starting to display worrying signs of teenage “attitude”. I asked her what Easter means.

“It’s a chance to be with family and friends,” she replied.  I’m glad. That means our campaign is working.  In the absence of hot cross buns, Good Friday involves a dinner of more than our customary one course followed by an edible preview of Sunday’s chocathon.

Then we tend to watch a family movie. Not, I stress, Pasolini’s The Gospel According to St. Matthew, but something lighter like The Philadelphia Story.  Saturday is sacrificed to necessities like the weekly shop and Final Score. Sunday, though, is when it all happens. Ever since our progeny was old enough to crawl, we’ve “animated” - to use the French term - an egg hunt.

Easter is also so special because it coincides with the awakening of spring, so it’s a great ruse for tempting obdurate children out of doors. The sole year when it really rained on our parade – and despite misgivings about the chestnut parquet in our old house – we staged it indoors by chalking rabbit prints leading every which way from the cat flap.

Since living nearer like-minded friends, the hunt has expanded to involve a cross-country circuit, a bevy of adult planters and two teams of searchers. Onlookers must wonder about these perplexing foreigners.

Monday is an opportunity to make believe that it’s Sunday and enjoy the “grasse matinée” or lazy morning that the previous day’s preparations forced off the agenda. The afternoon may feature a long walk to ward off chocolatosis.

Last year, Easter coincided with some unseasonably hot weather in April. This year, it’s popped up in the middle of March, only a few weeks after the half-term holidays.  Our daughter will be at school on Good Friday and my poor wife will be treating her clients.

I’ll cook something special and look out an appropriate film to elongate the evening and underline that Easter, despite the orthodoxy here, is a very special time of year.

Mark Sampson, March 2008

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