Dark clouds gathered over our little town the day I made a spectacle of myself in church. Perhaps a reflection of how I felt, annoyed at having to go in the first place.
My father and sister went to Christchurch, while I accompanied my mother to the Methodist Chapel, where she played the organ. My parents were chalk and cheese, which included religious tastes.
I stepped into the fringes of Sunday morning, my reluctant heels trailing mother’s impatient stride. Maybe it was me but the rows of terraced houses looked sad, all huddled together like swallows on a wire, their tidy yards of slate nailed into grim submission.
The tumbling pile of stone that was our chapel, stood like a courthouse, its grounds planted with mysterious yew trees; their poisonous red berries sparkling like jewels. An oak framed porch led into the simple gothic interior, which smelled of all things old. Old wood and stone, old books and old people, not to mention the minister standing at the pulpit.
Unbeknown to my mother, I’d brought along Timmy, my pet mouse, for much needed light relief. He nestled in my pocket while my mother grappled with the outdated harmonium. I sat amongst the elderly congregation, watching her hat bobbing up and down in time with the music, accompanied by the clatter of foot pedals and asthmatic wheeze of the bellows.
The minister announced, “shall we pray?”
Kneeling on the fat carpeted prayer mat, I reached into my pocket for Timmy. He climbed up my arm and was cheerfully sniffing the pungent air, when unexpectedly, he decided to make a break for it, leaping down into the isle and heading off towards the alter.
Horrified, I took chase on hands and knees and was just about to grab the little swine, when prayers came to an abrupt end and the minister spoke.
“It seems we have a new member of the congregation.”
I nearly died on the spot.
We returned home in silence, worried lines etched into my mother’s brow.
The day came in two halves and as if once wasn’t enough, later I’d be trudging back for Sunday school, Timmy now securely locked in his cage.
We sat in a circle, while Miss Patterson with her fiery red cheeks and bottle lensed glasses told us beautiful lies. Wonderful stories about Jonah and the Whale, David and Goliath, The Burning Bush and many more.
The problem was, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Miss Patterson presented the stories as fact, rather than emphasising the moral behind the story or that they might be part fact, part myth. There were so many questions I wanted to ask but afraid of the response, kept my doubts to myself, sitting on my frustration.
Such was the shaky foundation of my faith. On the one hand, religion was the cornerstone of our lives. On the other, I felt trapped like Timmy, as if the church had me in its pocket and I just wanted to escape and run free.