The Sister(8)

She’d seen a way into the future, a way to make things safe, to put things right: she’d seen the difference she could make. All she needed to do was work out how. The stone in the palm of her hand, blacker than black, held the moon in miniature, and reflected it in the curves of its own dark skies. She felt like an astronaut looking down from outer space onto a distant world. The night never felt fresher or more alive than it did for her then.

There’s something special about this stone ... At only thirteen years of age, she had all the time in the world to find out what it was.

She closed her hand over it, slipped it into her pocket, turned, and started the long walk home.





The following Thursday, Mrs Flynn announced, ‘We’re going to Mass this Sunday, come hell or high water,’ she said, and paused, expecting resistance. ‘So, it’s the confessional for you tonight.’

‘What for, Ma? I’ve done nothing wrong.’

‘I know that child. It’s just that you’ve not been to confession since I don’t know … a long time now. I’m wondering if it might help with things, you know…’ She took Vera’s hands in hers. ‘And I want God’s light to shine for you; you’ve spent so much time out of the light of day. I’m afraid the darkness might take you.’

Vera didn’t respond.

‘We’ll go tonight. It’s Father O'Malley. I always feel more cleansed when I confess to him, more so than the other one…’ She snapped her fingers several times in quick succession, ‘What’s his name, I can’t for the living bejesus think what it is … can you Vera?’

At last, Vera answered. ‘It’s Father Hughes.’





The church sat in the middle of a graveyard surrounded by dry-stone walling, its windows half-aglow with dim light.

Mrs Flynn pulled the door, and it creaked open. There were already almost a dozen people lined up along the front pew awaiting their turn. For some of them, it was a chance to socialise while they waited, and they whispered among themselves in hushed tones.

Vera sat one place from the end of the seat, leaving a space for her mother.

On the bench, the other women had perfected the art of speaking so no one else could make out what they were saying; the odd word was recognisable, but with no context, the rest was meaningless.

Vera’s mother would go in after her, and she was already running through the little things she’d done since she last confessed. Is it a sin to eavesdrop? It didn’t matter; she’d add it to the list anyway and the Father would tell her.

This last thought raised concerns for Vera. At last, her turn came. She entered the booth and closed the door behind her.

‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been a while since my last confession because I haven’t been very well. Since then I think I have been good, although sometimes I catch myself listening in on other people’s lives, and their thoughts. Worse than that though, the other night I dreamed the doctor died, and then he did.’

‘Doctor Robert? I saw him, not half an hour ago. I can safely assure you; he is not dead.’

‘He does die, Father.’

The priest sighed, ‘My child, we all have dreams, and sometimes they are strange. Purity of thought leads to purity of vision, but you cannot control what you dream about, so how can it be a sin? You spoke what was on your mind, and through me, God has listened to you. I can’t see that you’ve sinned at all. However, since you’re here, pray to God and our Lady that they continue to guide you.’

She made her way up to the front row before the altar to wait for her mother so they could pray together. When she returned, they both kneeled and crossed themselves. Vera whispered her prayers aloud; her mother kept silent, keeping the number of Hail Marys and Our Fathers a secret. Vera chose not to intrude on what she’d done, although judging from the length of time her penance took, it must have been something at least a little bit bad.





On the way home, with only the moon to keep the darkness at bay, she asked her mother, ‘What is contraception?’

‘Where did you hear that word?’ her mother demanded.

She’d picked it up in the confessional, a trace of someone’s guilty secret. Uneasy at the tone of her mother’s voice and afraid she’d land herself in trouble, Vera lied, ‘I can’t remember…’

In her mind, she was at her next confession already.

A white lie isn’t a sin. Is it, Father?

She had a feeling she wouldn’t go to Mass with her mother that Sunday.





Chapter 8



Bruce remembered the first time he’d visited the seaside with his parents when he was four years of age. They'd gone to escape from where he lived in the ‘Smoke’, a name he’d often heard London referred to in those days.

Outside the railway station, he’d cried out in his excitement at seeing the white gulls wheeling low across the waves, screeching high and shrill, squabbling over scraps.

Later on the beach, everyone retreated from the incoming tide to the top of the embankment. The lapping water washed the rocks with a white foamy lather, and swept up to the high watermarks left on previous days with a ‘shushhh’ coming up, and a ‘shishhh’ as the sea rushed back again. Bruce watched this gigantic, breathing creature full of fishes and monsters, thankful it could climb no higher up the sloping wall.