so little of a service. My memories of the morning were more often than not filled with images of myself floating weightless from gleaming spacecraft, or lifting trophies as England captain - or even just beating silly little John Baker, with his stumpy legs, in the 73-yard dash across the playground. I would usually come around to find my head slumped against the bare wall, my eyes gazing longingly beyond the thinly glazed rear window and out at the busy world. That Sunday was no different.The mechanical shudder of a nearby train drew me from my initial reverie, but I was soon back to my thoughts. I was interrupted the second time by the movement of my parents standing up, and Mother reaching for her bag. It was the end of the service.They were preparing to leave. I scrambled to my feet, mortified as ever, frantically dispelling my dreams. I brushed down my black trousers and looked once more toward the end of our bench.The girl was gone. Through the crowd of people ahead I could see the puddles growing outside. I waited. For minutes, nothing seemed to happen.Then another shudder, but this one horrendous, like the world was being ripped apart from the inside, an earthquake of unparalleled might shaking each and every one of us, and the air closing and filling with a rising squeal now drawing unbearably tight around my head and there were shouts and there were jostles and unrecountable curses becoming further and further distant until, finally, the noise stopped, and all was silent. I looked around me, at my parents and at the crowd waiting for Lord only knew what.Everything seemed unchanged.The chapel and its worshippers were still intact and standing. As if heaving a sigh of relief, one by one the building expelled us through its door. We scuttled away to the sanctity of the station to wait for our respective trains, the children’s hoods raised against the hardening rain.
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