Spoken: Part III

I was nine years old, and my Father called me down for the third time that day.

"Alice! Alice!"

I was propped up against my cupboard, looking at my bedposts.

"Alice! Come here, now!"

I slowly arose and opened my door. I walked out onto the landing an saw Father at the bottom of the stairs.

"What are you doing eh? You're going to be late for Sunday School you stupid girl! Come on, hurry up." He shouted.

I sauntered downstairs, holding tightly onto the banister. When I reached the bottom, Father pushed my back, and I hit the front door hard. My left arm hit the table next to it.

"The idle soul shall suffer hunger." He said. "Now come on, go get in the car."

I wearily opened the front door and went outside onto the drive. It was a mild day, completely ordinary. The hanging baskets above our door were blossoming bright reds and blues, whilst the shrubs defining our drive way slowly withered, from dark emerald to a trite brown.

I got in the back seat and buckled my belt. My Mother tried to tell my Father to go easy on me, to leave me be, she always did. He pushed her back inside the house and slammed the door.

He open the car door, got in, and slammed that, too.

"Don't you ever take that long again."

"Yes Sir."

The journey to the church was silent, as always. I stared out of the window at all the other children; playing with each other in the playground, going shopping with their parents, eating ice creams and chocolates and all other treats. Father wouldn't let me have any of those things. "The Glutton shall come to poverty." he'd say.

The Church was about a mile from my house. Father parked the car and dragged me out. I'd barely unbuckled my seat belt.

I watched father briskly walk towards the church, with me in tow. He was a skinny, balding man, with severely thinning auburn hair, who always wore black shirts tucked into smart black trousers. He had thin, round spectacles that dug into his lined face. He had a permanent scowl.

"Come on." He whispered, grabbing my forearm.

We went through the entrance of the church, ornate decorations of biblical figures covered the interior. The centerpiece was a marble Virgin Mary, holding Jesus close to her breast, weeping. Decrepit stained glass windows were molding, preventing any light from penetrating the church.

I was pulled to the left and entered a small room at the back of the church. Sister Brewer was preparing the lesson on the chalkboard. There were unoccupied desks filling the room, graffiti crudely scrawled on them. The room was dimly lit, and it smelt musty.

"Sister, thank you for coming at such short notice, but Alice needs guidance from the Lord's servants. Don't you?" Father said slightingly.

"Yes." I said.

"Yes what?"

"Yes Sir."

"Righto!" Sister Brewer chimed uncomfortably. "Shall we get started?"

"Yes, certainly. Be good Alice, I'll be back in an hour."

I sat quietly at the least defiled desk. Father left, and Sister Brewer began.

"OK, so, take a look at this picture. Do you know what it is?" She asked whilst handing a laminated print of a painting to me. It was a painting of dark colours and darker themes. It was made of five circles, the largest circle in the middle, which was comprised of seven sections. Each section depicted a different human folly. In the center was a semi nude Jesus Christ, with a decorative cross behind him. The background was a sooty grey, with Flemish labels on the top and bottom.

"Bosch." I said after studying the image. "Seven Deadly Sins and the Four Last Things. 1485."

"Er... Yes, yes well done, that's right." Sister said, taken aback. "So what do you know about the Deadly Sins?"

"Sloth, Pride, Envy, Gluttony... Lust, Wrath... Greed?"

"Very good Alice. Now-"

"Biblically they weren't so important, but lots of painters used it as a subject in their work which made people care a lot more. Like Bosch. A Greek monk listed 7 evil thoughts and I spose it stuck."

Sister Brewer stood in silence, a strange looking coming over her face. "Why do you know that Alice?"

"Father." I whispered, scratching the desk lightly.

"He taught you about all that?"

"Yes. Every day after school he makes me sit in the Kitchen while he talks about God."

"I see. Well, he's done well!"

"Mmm."

"What's that?" Sister asked, looking at my left forearm.

"Ah, yeah, nothing." I answered, pulling my cardigan over my hand.

Sister looked me in the eyes, lightly grabbed my hand and pulled the cardigan up. There was a light purple bruise sat on arm. Dark in the center, fading out to the edges. A few small veins stood out, decorating it.

"Hmm. Where did you get that, eh?" She asked me. I didn't answer.

"Alice? Eh? Did you fall over? Did someone do it?" She asked. Again, I didn't answer, I just looked away. I looked at the neglected floor. It needed a sweep. I thought maybe I could offer to sweep to change the subject. Then I thought that was a stupid, stupid idea.

"Yeah, fell. In the park I was... Playing." I lied.

"Alice, you know... You can trust me don't you? If something's going wrong at home, or anywhere else, you can tell me." She said. Her large brown eyes warmed mine. Sister Brewer was always a comforting presence. She was young, dedicated, sweet. She reminded me of Mary Magdalene, devoted to her cause, unwavering, yet stayed humble.

"No, really. I fell. It's fine." I threw her a cheap smile. I felt terrible for lying, but I couldn't tell the truth. I thought of all the times Father chastised me. Belts, shoes, cutlery, other bits of shrapnel. Somehow, they all found their way to me. Why? Getting things wrong. Forgetting the name of an apostle, things like that. The punishment was never, ever proportional to the crime.

"Well if you're sure, then ok" Sister Brewer smiled, squeezed my hand and continued the lesson. I answered all her queries, all basic biblical questions, Noah, Jonah, Matthew, Mark- simple stuff.

Once the hour had finished, Father came to pick me up. As I walked through the threshold of the room I looked back at Sister Brewer. She grinned at me. I shot her a glance, with which I told the whole story. Every minute detail, every scar, every bruise and bump, every cut and every crack, all expressed in that one, sharp look. Her face dropped as she watched me being dragged into the cold shadows of the Lord's House.