“But you sang beautifully.” I put down the empty oyster shell and took another. “It reminded me of the services we had at the mission. I was a choral sister—which I loved. It’s one of the things I know I’m going to miss.”
“I wish you could join our choir—but it’s only ever been men and boys. You’d think the war would have changed that, like it’s changed so many things.” He took an oyster and swallowed it down in one swift, smooth movement. “Thank you for teaching me bell ringing, by the way. I wouldn’t have had a hope of doing it without you.”
“Well, I’m glad to have been of help.” I gave him a wry look as I took another oyster. “It’s funny—I still love to hear bells, even though my whole life was regulated by them. I can’t get used to not being woken up by them, to not having them to tell me when to stop what I’m doing to go and pray.”
Jack nodded, reaching for a napkin to wipe his mouth. “I used to travel overseas a lot before the war—while I was learning about the family shipping business. I remember once we were in port at Istanbul, and I was woken by the Muslim call to prayer. It was alarming at first, but there was something quite enchanting about it, too. I heard it four more times that day—and saw people just stop in their tracks and get down on their knees. Strange, isn’t it? What they were doing was quite like what you’ve described.”
“Not so strange,” I replied. “We worship the same God.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” I paused, wondering if this was a further test. Perhaps the interrogation he’d given me when he found me hadn’t been enough, and he’d invited me to lunch to find out how much I really knew about religion. “Muslims claim descent from Ishmael, who was a son of Abraham,” I went on. “And their holy book, the Koran, has passages about Jesus. But they believe Jesus was a messenger of God, not the son of God. They don’t believe he was crucified, or that faith in him grants forgiveness of a person’s sins.”
“Hmm. I didn’t know that.” He folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. “My father stopped believing in God when my mother died giving birth to me. I suppose that rubbed off on me. I’d never stop going to church—it’s what my family has always done, part of who we are—but how can you believe in a God of love when there’s so much misery in the world? When a monster like Hitler is rampaging across Europe?”
I realized then that this wasn’t a test. What he’d revealed was too personal, too heartfelt for that. It was the kind of question I’d been asked many times by patients who were sick or dying. It wasn’t easy to answer. I said to Jack what I’d said to them. “You know the story of Jesus, asleep in a boat, when a storm blew up that terrified the disciples?”
He nodded.
“When they woke him, he calmed the waves and asked them why they’d been so afraid. He thought they’d realize they couldn’t come to any harm while he was with them.” I took a breath, hoping that what I was about to say wouldn’t sound preachy. “What I take from that story is that God doesn’t create the storms in our lives—but he’s there with us, in the boat.”
“I wish I could believe that,” he said. He got up and went into the kitchen. But I’d seen the change in his eyes. Like a pond when ice forms on its surface.
Chapter 9
Jack walked with me back to the boathouse. Brock, who had been cooped up for longer than usual, darted between us, tearing off into the undergrowth when he caught the scent of a rabbit. As we passed the church, I couldn’t help thinking about the moment when I’d lost my balance and Jack had caught me.
The stirring I felt as I remembered it alarmed me. In the past I would have tried to quell such unacceptable feelings in the way I’d been taught when I took my vows. The flailing device had been given to me along with the robes and the rosary beads. It was a ring with five chains on it. At the end of each chain was a pointed hook. The instruction was to whip the thing over your bare shoulders—not too hard, but enough to drive away temptation.
Neurotic women whipping themselves to take their minds off the natural life that God intended for them.
My father’s voice echoed down the years. He’d never said that—but it was exactly the sort of comment he would have made if he’d known about it. In the letters I wrote home about my life in the convent, I never mentioned the painful ritual I carried out every Wednesday and Friday night after lights-out, because I knew he would be violently opposed to such a thing.