My father and I have not spoken one word since we left the boarding house. The silence is welcomed by my ears. I thought that there would be Bible readings and verses and extortions to forget the world I have now left behind but he just sits there, silent. Instead, as the train rumbles onwards into the night, he holds his Bible to his chest so that all can see the golden cross emblazoned on the front and know he and I are virtuous. The reminder is not just for others, I know. My father has not said one word, and yet the silence around us is filled with his voice, with the words of the apostles, the words of Peter and John. Like the soundtrack to a movie they rush around the carriage, and I wonder that the other passengers do not turn to look and stare. I wonder they cannot hear the words of their salvation. I think it, and I know what my father would say – God speaks again and again, though people do not recognize it. He speaks in dreams, in visions of the night when deep sleep falls on people as they lie in their bed. He whispers in their ear and terrifies them with His warning. He causes them to change their minds; He keeps them from pride. The words are crowding now, and I cannot help but break the silence and whisper them, almost silently, "Repent, then, and turn to God, so that your sins may be wiped out". I whisper almost silently and yet I know my father has heard, for he turns his head and looks at me, and smiles. The smile is kind then, and forgiving, but in its beam I feel the harder press of judgement. Still he does not speak and my heart thinks it fears this silence more than rages.
Earlier, worn out by the heightened emotions of the day, I slept. A fitful, restless sleep that brought me little comfort. I cannot say for how long I slept, but I know I dreamt. In my dreams I ran through fields, a bow and boy by my side. "Lad," I cried, "are not the arrows beyond you?" He looked at me strange then, and I returned his gaze, only to see my own brother's face, calling for my father. Even in my dreams, my father's verses of repentance and salvation are word perfect. I suppose that it is my own recollection of the verses that is perfect, and it does not surprise me. God speaks to me through dreams, and I wish I could not recognize what He says. The dream and silence weigh heavy about me now, the noise of the other passengers is somehow muted, filtered, as if through a veil. It cannot penetrate my father's silence, my silence, and I think of the way noise falls in a dance hall, or a jazz bar, of how there are pockets of privacy and quiet, even in the midst of the densest crowd. I should not have allowed my thoughts to wander so far outside the train, for with the recollection comes swarming all the temptations I am running from. The apostle Matthew I think would understand well: the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.
I look at the cross on my father's Bible and I do not think of the life I have left behind. I do not think of Leon and the band, of the way the music would move and swell and lift a room and pull everyone inside along with the feeling. I do not think of the way the atmosphere would change with the opening bars of the audience's favourite song. I do not think of the way it felt to be on the stage and singing. I do not think of the way it felt to be dancing at the Sandy Shores pavilion. I do not think of Gladys, setting out to catch a thief, or stealing us champagne. I will myself to overcome the temptations of the flesh, the desire for earthly comfort above my spiritual forever. I must move, or make a noise, as I catch my father's attention and again he turns his head to me, no longer smiling. His look now is one I know of old. The moment stretches on, and I wish for it to be broken, so that I may stop not thinking.
"What was her name, that played the Ruth to your Naomi?" he asks. His words are softly spoken, conversational, and listening ears could be forgiven for thinking we were discussing some long forgotten school friend rather than the woman who, just hours ago, had stood in front of me begging me not to go, desperately fighting for me to stay, despite the hurt I had earlier dispensed. I have not allowed myself to remember, until this moment. I have resolutely and absolutely and wrenchingly avoided all thought of her. I have hidden her words in my heart, buried them deep, unless I sin against her, unless I sin against myself. I remember the small things, how she smiled at me when I was afraid, how she bought me a hair pin, how she offered to comfort me after my nightmares, how she tucked my hair more firmly into my turban. For a moment, I am overcome but the weight of my father's gaze draws me back to the moment I realize that an answer is expected of me.
"Betty", I croak. I have not allowed myself to think her name until now. The use of her name somehow makes her real in my memory, in a way she wasn't before. I remember her jumping in front of the swinging bombs to protect damaged Vera, and how my heart leapt to my throat and I started forward involuntarily, and how I knew, in that instance, that my soul was knit to Betty's and I loved her as my own soul. I think of how I felt in that moment, and it leads me inexorably on to Leon's bar. She caught me unawares – I had not expected her to feel so much, and so plainly.
Shall my father treat me as Saul did Jonathon when he finds out what is in my heart? And yet he has given me words I should not have found on my own. I know that when I am rested, and my mother is well, I will write to Betty.
Entreat me not to leave you, or to turn back from following you; For wherever you go, I will go; And wherever you lodge, I will lodge; Your people shall be my people, and your God, my God. Where you die, I will die, and there will I be buried. The Lord do so to me, and more also, if anything but death parts you and me.
I will use the words of Ruth, words my father taught me, and Betty will find someone to decode the message for her. The priest, or a girl at the boarding house, will tell her that these are the words of Ruth when Naomi put her away from her. Betty will understand, and she will come, and I will be waiting. For my struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against my father's teaching and my own fragile heart.