that 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 Mary's and Our Father's 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 would not 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 that it could climb no higher up the sloping wall.
The water … something about it terrified him, even then.
An old lady walking past with her dog stopped to talk, trying to tease him into conversation.
Bruce didn't answer.
She fished in her pockets and pulled out a large seashell.
"Here, I have something for you. Would you like it?" she said. "It's a special shell, a magic shell."
He took it in his hand, turning it over and around, feeling its smoothness. The way it fitted so neatly into his palm confirmed it for him. It was special. He was in awe of it already, and he didn't know why.
"How is it magic?" he asked the old lady.
She leaned down to whisper in his ear.
"It's captured the spirit of the sea, so that wherever you goes with that shell, a part of the sea goes with you," her outstretched arm cut around in a wide arc, indicating the horizon before him. "When you get home, and you miss the seaside, hold the shell to your ear like this," she cupped a hand over her ear, "and listen . . ."
Bruce moved the shell close to his ear.
"Not now!" she laughed. "You're here
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 Mary's and Our Father's 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 would not 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 that it could climb no higher up the sloping wall.
The water … something about it terrified him, even then.
An old lady walking past with her dog stopped to talk, trying to tease him into conversation.
Bruce didn't answer.
She fished in her pockets and pulled out a large seashell.
"Here, I have something for you. Would you like it?" she said. "It's a special shell, a magic shell."
He took it in his hand, turning it over and around, feeling its smoothness. The way it fitted so neatly into his palm confirmed it for him. It was special. He was in awe of it already, and he didn't know why.
"How is it magic?" he asked the old lady.
She leaned down to whisper in his ear.
"It's captured the spirit of the sea, so that wherever you goes with that shell, a part of the sea goes with you," her outstretched arm cut around in a wide arc, indicating the horizon before him. "When you get home, and you miss the seaside, hold the shell to your ear like this," she cupped a hand over her ear, "and listen . . ."
Bruce moved the shell close to his ear.
"Not now!" she laughed. "You're here
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