Free By the Waters of Liverpool by Helen Forrester Page A

one eye was not looking through the middle of the lens, and it gave a curiously lopsided appearance to his face.
    I reminded him of Miss Ferguson’s desire to seeme confirmed, and that she expected me to go to Confession before taking my First Communion.
    ‘I’ve been so worried, Daddy. What is it all about? I never dreamed of having to go to Confession. I thought old King Henry VIII and Queen Elizabeth did away with such things in the Church of England? I’m so frightened, Daddy – is it wrong to refuse to go?’
    He chuckled. ‘Good Lord, no. There’s nothing to be frightened about. The Church of England allows considerable latitude within its ranks – you must know that.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Both your Mother and I were brought up as High Anglicans – in fact, you probably know that your mother was actually brought up by Roman Catholic nuns, despite her being a Protestant.’
    ‘Hm,’ I agreed.
    ‘But then there was the war. And, you know, it was difficult after that to believe in anything. We rarely went to church after that, except to get you children christened.’
    ‘You go to the cenotaph every November 11th, no matter what,’ I reminded him with a little smile.
    ‘Yes, I do. But that’s just so that my old friends – my dead friends, wherever they are – know that I remember them, that I have never forgotten them.’ His voice was suddenly shaky. ‘There were onlythree survivors, you know, from my old regiment – the three of us who volunteered for the Russian campaign.’
    I could not bear the stricken look on his face, and I selfishly recalled him to my own predicament by asking, ‘Must I go to a High Anglican church, Daddy? Couldn’t I be confirmed somewhere else? Edith always took us to the village church – and they had very plain services, I remember – and neither you nor Mother said anything.’
    Again he sighed, and then he looked up at me with a little smile. ‘As far as I’m concerned, dear, you can go to any Protestant church you like, if it gives you comfort. I know you are trying to live a good life – and church will help to keep you out of mischief.’
    Mischief was the last thing I was ever likely to get into, and I laughed, a laugh tinged with great relief.
    ‘Really? Would it be all right? Could you talk to Mother about it?’
    ‘Of course. Your Mother won’t mind, and I expect Miss Ferguson will get over it; she will probably be offended at first, though, because you always seem to have been a protégée of hers.’
    ‘She’s been a fairy godmother – and I’m truly sorry if she becomes angry about it, but even forher I can’t face Confession.’ I picked up my pen and chewed the end of it, and then said passionately, ‘I’d burn first.’
    Father laughed. ‘You’re a real Protestant – but I’m glad for you that you seem to have a clear belief, God bless you.’
    Such a weight rolled off my shoulders. The smell of sulphur and brimstone, the smell of hell, which had haunted me uneasily for days, rolled away.
    I jumped up from my chair and leaned over to kiss his bald pate. ‘Thank you, Daddy.’
    He caught my hand and squeezed it, while he looked up at me earnestly. ‘Religion is a private thing – remember that. If you can find a path to God which suits you, take it. I wish I could, but I am not able to feel anything any more – as I said, it was the war.’
    I put my arm round his shoulders and sought in my mind for comforting words. ‘Perhaps you will change as time goes on, and the memory of the war becomes less.’
    He nodded. ‘Perhaps.’ But he never did.
    I was the one who changed. Starting from Father’s unexpectedly wise counsel, I began to look at others’ religions with a wider and more inquiring mind, as I moved about Liverpool and met people of all beliefs and all nationalities. Edith was fondof remarking that the gentry had too much book learning and not enough real learning, and it took a while for me to remedy this