It was a young woman dressed all in deep brown, her head down so as to make her face almost invisible. I glanced across at my parents, but their dour expressions remained unchanged even when the stranger chose to sit at our bench. Once she was closer, I could see that she was troubled. Her eyebrows were arched steeply into an almighty frown, her hands clutched together tightly on her lap. I was intrigued. A stout, balding man emerged noiselessly from the space behind the altar. I rose alongside my parents, bowing my head as the congregation eased into prayer. I moved my lips soundlessly, contorting my face to fit unlearnt words. My prayer was always that none would notice my cluelessness.The low drone of voices rose and fell, unanimous with every word, before finally ebbing away. With little ado, the congregation was seated once more. I risked another look at the far end of the bench. The troubled woman suddenly seemed a long way away, an unreachable enigma beyond the impassable lands of my parents. She was little more than a girl, really, her frown undefinable. My father could never frown like that, at least not without allowing a livid tongue to protrude unconsciously from between his lips - a habit I was painfully aware of inheriting. The vicar was speaking now: a high voice which seemed to grow fainter each week, almost incomprehensible below the laughter of the young Miss Drake and the clamour of passing trains. With a final glance at the strange girl, I assumed, as I always did at this point, an unmistakable pose of concentration. My feet were firmly grounded, my brow twisted fiercely in mental effort. To keep it preoccupied, my tongue dug steadily at a loose front tooth that clung tenaciously to the root beneath. The occasional bite of drawn blood warmed the back of my throat. It had been a constant mystery to me throughout these early church-going years of mine how from this point I could remember
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