Our nights were the worst, our minds locked in silence. Only the interruption of other people's distant voices gave some temporary relief. There were so many of these days and nights, of such exhausting mental anguish, until they began to fade into weeks and months. Our mother was in shock, it affected her strangely. For more than two years she had what felt like a 'steel band' around the top of her head, tightening. But oh, how we missed our little one, with us only three and a half years, his sunshine gone.  Love's memories, how sharp they remain.

A few months went by, and unusually Dad began to show an interest in reading the Bible. Then, Mam and Dad started to attend St Martin's church, once a week. But this habit soon passed. Instead, Malcolm and I were sent to Sunday school. Mam and Dad said we must, as we were living like heathens, they said.

Perhaps we were sent to save them the trouble, I thought. They went to the pub instead. They had already learned as much as they could about church anyway, it was our turn to learn. We listened intently to one of the ladies reading to our little group, they showed us pictures, and then we would all read in turn. Then they talked about it afterwards. They were nice. They spoke in a special voice, soft and slow. But after class ended, they were different. The vicar said very little, he just prayed at the end. Then we went home. I felt a better person afterwards, but when I changed back into my old clothes I felt the same as before I went. That good feeling soon went. The teacher said we could visit the vicar at his house to learn the catechism, a line at a time. So me and Malc went with a few others. I could only remember bits of it. We arrived on time at the vicarage, and an old lady asked us in and ushered us into a large room that smelled like the inside of the church. We all sat down on piles of books that were stacked in a circle around his desk. There was only a narrow space left, from the door to his desk. He must be very brainy, I thought.

We didn't speak until he came in, and we used our hankies a lot. After a while, the vicar shuffled in, with some difficulty. His legs must be bad again, I thought. He seemed unable to walk properly. We took turns to answer his questions from little booklets, and we sat close to him so that he could hear us. His breath smelt like cherry cordial. Perhaps he drinks it because he's not well, because of his legs, I thought.

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