Sample Chapters

A year for which many had great expectations. The first man in space. The building of the Berlin Wall. An application from the UK to join the EEC.

But for a Cornish girl, an only child living in London and an Irish prostitute, it began just like any other year.

Little did they know the changes that God had planned for their lives.

~ 1 ~

Three Lives, Three Prayers

God loves us, so He makes us the gift of suffering. Through suffering, we release our hold on the toys of this world... We're like blocks of stone, out of which the sculptor carves the forms of men. The blows of his chisel, which hurt us so much, are what make us perfect. The suffering in this world is not the failure of God's love for us; it is that love in action.
C.S. Lewis: Through the Shadowlands

‘Why not?... Because I say so.’ Mum's angry voice withered away as she disappeared down the stairs.

Janet walked back to her bedroom and gazed over the garden to the sea beyond. She hugged Willard, her giant, well-worn teddy and soulmate since she was five. ‘It’s not always been like this, has it, Will?’

The first fourteen years of her life were idyllic. Secure in the love of parents, who provided help and comfort whenever needed. Dad, Reverend Augustus Carter, was the vicar of a tiny Cornish village surrounded by superb beaches and mysterious countryside. Each night they would pray together, making her sure God was watching over them.

Her parents provided a solid grounding in the Christian faith. But it took a sermon from a visiting preacher before she understood the God she'd been taught to follow. Then, just two weeks before her ninth birthday, she placed her faith and trust in Jesus and asked him to take over her life.

Mum and Dad had been so happy, and Janet remembered her excitement about a new relationship with God. Confident that it would mean an end to doing things she shouldn't. How wrong she'd been, repeatedly clinging to his promise of forgiveness when she'd slipped and gratefully accepting the offer of a fresh start.

Like Mum, she lived to support Dad's ministry. They were a good team, widely accepted in the Parish, coping with all the things that came up. Births—both in marriage and outside, deaths, including one suicide, new marriages, and those breaking apart. Illness, excitement, and despair. But much of this ended with Mum's terminal cancer diagnosis. Janet was devastated, experiencing her first real test of faith. When God didn't do as she thought he should.

Her life changed a lot when Dad re-married five years ago. ‘A fourteen-year-old girl needs a mother,’ he'd told her. Dad was right. But not perhaps the woman he'd chosen.

Why had God taken Mum? It made no sense. ‘If she were alive, the Youth group would meet here,’ Janet said, turning to Willard.

And Mum would have welcomed Peter. Unlike her step mum, who wanted him to live with relatives in London. ‘But he's Dad's Godchild, and anyway, as a Christian family, we should want to care for the poor boy.’ Janet's pleas had brought silence from both parents. How Dad had changed. Underneath the same caring person he'd always been, but his recent marriage vows meant where his new wife led, he usually followed.

The new addition to their family thrilled Janet. ‘Haven't I always wanted a brother?’ she said, pulling Willard's ear to make sure he was listening. Was Peter a Christian? Or, coming from London, maybe a bit wild? How was he coping with losing his parents? Would he like her? Perhaps he'd had a lot of girlfriends in the big city. She wasn't trendy like they'd be.

‘Lord, please let us get on, so I can love and help him as a real sister would.’ Janet looked at Willard. He seemed to approve of that prayer. ‘Peter's a bit younger than me, I think. Like Martha and John. Perhaps... we'll fall in love.’

‘And what's so funny?’ She nudged Willard and tried to scowl but instead broke into a fit of giggles.

She remembered Martha's wedding. And their first child, a chubby-faced little boy, who Dad had baptised last month. How radiant Martha looked now. ‘That's what kids do for you,’ she'd whispered to Janet after the service.

Would Peter want children? ‘Oh, stop it! Carole won't ever get married...’

Carole. Tomorrow was their monthly girls-night, as she called it. They'd cook together at her flat, drink more than they should, and Janet would stay overnight. She really looked forward to these times together. When she could forget, she was the vicar's daughter for a few hours.

They'd met at a Guide camp shortly after Mum died. Five years older than Janet, Carole ran the local garage and organised camp transport. Finding Janet crying in the toilets one morning, she had moved her sleeping bag, so they shared the same tent. A close friendship quickly followed, and soon, there was nothing that Janet couldn't tell Carole. She obviously felt the same, freely sharing intimate details of her relationships, making Janet an expert on what men wanted to do in bed. And when Dad re-married, and things didn't work well with her new mum, Carole slipped into that role. Their love for each other was free to grow and go wherever they let it.

Janet picked up Willard and hugged him. ‘But it's wrong, isn't it?’ she whispered.

Carole was the complete woman in so many ways: money, fast cars, her own business, and endless boyfriends. But she'd be upset if what they had going together ended. And for Janet, it would be like losing Mum again.

Holding teddy close, she prayed for the Youth Group meeting. And for Peter. That she and her parents would provide the love and help he'd need. But what on earth was she going to say to God about Carole? More promises she'd break?

‘Lord, I just can't stop things with Carole … I'm sorry. I'm sorry.’ Tears filled her eyes. ‘If this means I'm not serving you as you want, please do something that won't hurt us too much. And help me get back with Dad, the way we used to be... Mum too. Oh Lord, I've tried so hard, but... if only I felt she loved me. Just a little.’ She buried her face in Willard's enormous ears and began to cry.

~

Peter slammed the bedroom door and turned the key. It was raining—a typical, dreary suburban London day. But strangely, it offered comfort. In his seventeen years, he'd seen hundreds of them. ‘You can't play outside.’ He could almost hear his mother's words, banging on the kitchen window and waving him indoors.

Mum? He might hear her voice but couldn't picture the face anymore. All he saw now was a bandage-wrapped body, lying amid a barrage of equipment that could have outdone a science fiction film. The mother who kept pushing him on, giving him purpose and direction. Hers.

Someone was tapping on the door. Then voices. At first, they sounded kind, pleading with him to come out. Offering food and a chance to talk. Then the taps became bangs, and the words demands.

‘Open the door, Peter. Don't be silly. We want to know where you've been.’

‘You'll have to break down the bloody thing and drag me out,’ he muttered. His last night in London was going to be spent as he wanted. Alone.

When the noise stopped, Peter found the Ginger Nuts he'd bought that morning and stuffed two into his mouth. He was starving. Something decent to eat would have been good, but not if he had to listen to criticism over how he'd behaved, from people he hardly knew and who were taking control of his life.

After the fourth biscuit, Peter winced, clutching his jaw. The well-meaning Janet Carter hadn't mentioned anything about dentists.

He'd seen her dad that morning. In his fifties, he looked like a typical priest. Someone living in a different world from those who hadn't bought into the God business. He'd probably produced a daughter with a similar manner.

Peter began to build a mental picture of a stuck-up girl. Full of self-satisfaction that she was following the will of God, whose Bible was never far away. Probably wearing glasses. Very likely, she had spots and didn't believe in deodorant. Peter smiled to himself, clothing her as unattractive as his imagination could achieve. Shit. He was going to live with this creature.

Pulling her letter from the waste bin, he imagined this girl in a musty bedroom, doing her good deed of the day. Writing to someone who she resented breaking into her world.

Dear Peter

I was so sad when I learned you have recently lost both your parents. I can only begin to imagine how you are feeling. You are in my prayers constantly, that God will show you his love, and give you the strength to get through this difficult time.

You don't know me, but you are coming soon to be part of our family. I'm Janet—Rev'd Augustus Carter's daughter. I've always wanted a brother about my own age (I'm 19), and I am so looking forward to welcoming you to the Vicarage.

We live in a beautiful part of Cornwall, close to Lands End. The village is small and friendly, and Dad's the vicar. There are plenty of sandy beaches, so I hope you enjoy swimming! I also hope you'll like the room I picked—but you can change it if you want.

Dad is coming up to London to bring you home, so you'll have time to talk on the journey. I know he's looking forward to that. Mum, step-mum really (Dad re-married shortly after my real Mum died), sends her love. And there's Robin—he's a joyful 4-year-old, the child of my step-mum and Dad. He can be a little terror sometimes, but I love him very much.

You'll be in all our thoughts and prayers on Wednesday, which I think is the day of your parent's funeral. I know it won't be an easy time, and I pray that the people with you will give the love and support you're going to need.

There's so much more I want to tell you, but I guess you don't want a long letter, and they'll be plenty of time for us to talk later. I hope you have a safe journey on Thursday. I am so looking forward to meeting you.

God bless you, Peter,

Love

Janet Carter (Miss)

    He read the letter twice. There was a warmth that he hadn't picked up before. But why had she spoiled it by bringing in God and mentioning love? How could she love him? They'd never met. Well, this girl wouldn't be using that word, once she got to know him, especially after today.

Peter laid back on the bed. He would never forget that sunny afternoon when the headmaster interrupted the maths lesson. The moment his life changed forever. Sitting in the Head's study, he learned, his parents had been in a car smash, and an uncle was on his way to take him to the hospital. For the first time, the Head looked kind. He hadn't said things were serious, but Peter knew they were.

Uncle Percival drove much faster than Dad, hardly speaking. His aunt seemed close to tears for most of the journey and kept reaching out to touch Peter, which had irritated him immensely.

He was in a small room at the hospital with his uncle and a youngish man in a white coat when he learned Dad had died. Mum was currently undergoing emergency surgery.

Peter had stared into space, feeling absolutely nothing. The faces looked puzzled, as though he wasn't behaving as he should. Would they have been happier if he'd cried? Was that what normal children did? It was all unreal.

Food and drink were put in front of him, but he neither ate nor drank. His uncle and aunt talked a lot, but most of what they said didn't register, and he wished they'd go away. He had no idea how long he’d been at the hospital or even whether it was night or day.

The hotel was busy. Peter shared a room with his uncle, who'd told him that Mum was seriously hurt, and things didn't look good. He knew then that she would die.

The following day they went back to the hospital. The body in the bed didn't look like his mother. A bandage covered part of her face. He held her lifeless hand. Horrible. And he pulled away as soon as he could, just making the toilet before throwing up.

He stayed awake all that night, and in the morning, his aunt took him to a doctor who'd prescribed three different pills. They made him sleep for most of the afternoon, and after having food in his room and more tablets, he didn't wake again until the middle of the following day. Mum's condition had improved, but Uncle suggested waiting until the following day before returning to the hospital. No problem. He wasn't in a rush to see that bandaged face again. And Uncle wouldn't want another puking performance.

Hosting a bridge party sent his aunt back to London, and that night Peter ate dinner in the restaurant with Uncle Percival. Just as they had finished, a lady introduced herself as his mother's sister—Matilda O'Rourke. Peter wasn't sure if they'd ever met, but she definitely never sent him anything at Christmas. Matilda stayed while his uncle went to telephone home.

She was younger than his mother and quite good looking but spoiled by something hard in her expression, almost threatening, even when she smiled. Slim and agile, it seemed unfair that she was so alive while her sister lay dying.

Matilda had visited Mum that afternoon, and that made Peter feel guilty. So he said he'd be going tomorrow. She should have been pleased but instead shook her head. After what had happened on his last visit, Matilda didn't want him to get upset again. Shit. She knew he'd thrown up. ‘Wait a bit till your Mum's more herself,’ she'd said.

Peter didn't want to know what she meant, but Matilda's expression and the way she stared made him feel he had to ask. She'd looked around before lowering her voice.

He had to forget those words. Had to. Mum didn't mean them because she was confused, and in pain. That was what Matilda said. And he kept on telling himself this, but it didn't work. No, Mum meant them alright. He knew it, and so did Matilda.

Was that why he'd agreed not to visit? Whatever, Matilda seemed happy; she'd given him a kiss. As she walked away, swaying on her stiletto heels, he shivered. There was something about the woman he didn't like.

He needn't have worried about telling his uncle. Matilda had already done that, and it was all agreed. She'd go each day, saying when it was OK for Peter to visit mum again. In the meantime, he would stay at the hotel, and Uncle Percival could get on with writing his book. That would have pleased him big time. He hated hospitals and had never got on with Mum.

The tablets made Peter continually sleepy, and he often didn't get up until mid-morning. Bored with the hotel, he found a pond and, each day, spent a couple of hours feeding ducks with the toast from his breakfast tray. Usually, it was just him, but on his third visit, he'd turned around to see someone standing a few yards away. He had never been comfortable with girls his own age, especially if they were pretty, and this one was certainly that.

She introduced herself as Mandy, Matilda's friend. Her soft Irish accent and captivating smile soon put Peter at ease, and together, they fed an increasing duck population, laughing at their antics. Just ten minutes with this girl had cheered him up more than he thought possible.

As they walked back to the hotel, Mandy pulled his arm. Her smile had gone. ‘Peter, your ma wants to see you. Go tomorrow. Don't be listening to Matilda.’ That would go against what had been agreed, but how could he say no to that beautiful face?

It was the early hours when Uncle shook him. Peter couldn't remember what was said, but he knew it was the end. The hospital was quiet, and they were soon at Mum's bedside. Matilda looked up, dabbing her eyes, although he couldn't see any tears. Her glance was quick and cold. Quite different from her friend. Peter kept staring at Mandy. Not his mother or anyone else, just Mandy. Her face showed understanding. Did she know what it was like to lose a mother?

The ward clock showed Mum's life ended twenty-two minutes after their arrival. Peter felt nothing. In his mind, she'd died when he first saw her bandaged face. Nobody spoke as they left the room. His uncle kept throwing awkward glances, and Matilda continued to dab her tearless eyes.

It was the gasp that made Peter turn round. Mandy stood rigid, a few yards behind him, hands covering her face. As she removed them, her eyes glistened with tears.

How much he'd wanted to hug her. But it wouldn't be right. He hardly knew the girl. Anyway, why would she want his arms around her? They stood in silence for several moments, just looking at each other.

‘I'm sorry, Peter. I'm so sorry,’ she said and then ran off down the corridor.

Matilda looked furious; his uncle surprised. As was Peter. Until he remembered Mandy's words about visiting Mum. He hadn't made it. Was that why the girl was upset? Well, it didn't matter now, because he wouldn't see her again. Still, it was sad that she'd been tearful, and no one had offered comfort. Perhaps he should have hugged her.

Peter was taken to his uncle's house in Hampstead that afternoon. In his mind, he saw again the people who visited, the Deputy head, a woman from the local church, a few relations...

The meetings were unreal—a never-ending stream of sympathy. No doubt they were saying what they thought they ought. But their words offered no comfort, and Peter responded with anything he could think of, so they'd go away.

He wasn't eating and could only sleep for an hour or so. A doctor called and prescribed more pills, but Peter stopped taking them after being violently sick one morning. He didn't tell anyone, just chucked the daily dose down the toilet.

His uncle talked to him about the funeral for both his Mum and Dad. Did Peter want any particular hymn? Or to read something during the service? What sort of flowers did Mum like? And all kinds of other stuff. God, how these questions irritated. He expressed no views on anything. This seemed to annoy his uncle, but Peter didn't care.

He was going to live with his Godparents in Cornwall. That wasn't good news. Why couldn't he remain in the house where he'd lived all his life? No, he was told, that wasn't possible. They were nice people, Cornwall was nice, his new school would be nice. Everything was nice, apparently. Actually, it sounded like shit, but as he appeared to have no say, what did it matter?

The local vicar, Revd Cockwood, would take the funeral. Despite saying he didn't want to see a priest, the wretched man barged into Peter's bedroom, giving a dose of what no doubt was his standard funeral spiel. About a loving God, who had everything under control, who loved Peter, who he should pray to and... well, the exact words he couldn't recall, but the gist was that things would be alright in the end.

He remembered asking Cockwood if that meant everything would be nice. That threw the silly sod, and having delivered his party piece, he edged towards the door. Thrusting a piece of paper into Peter's hand, he mumbled some words that could well have been a prayer, and then with a quick smile, he left.

The paper had an 'Amen' at the end, so presumably, these were the words that would make everything right. That would make it all nice. Like a magician's chant. Peter read words like trust, love, and faith. What a load of rubbish!

He'd told Cockwood that he'd talk to God—and so he did. He got up, walked to the window, and stood watching the queuing traffic.

‘God, whoever you are, and wherever you might be, you must be joking. You take away my parents, send me to another part of the country, pathetically dependent on people I don't know and probably won't like. And you really expect me to love you? Trust you? … On your bike!’

Probably nobody heard, but it made Peter feel better. And if anyone had been listening, they'd get the message about where he stood with God. Laying back on the bed, he pulled the eiderdown over him, curled up, and closed his eyes. More to escape from a world that he hated than for sleep.

However, he did sleep, waking confused. Where was the sea? And the creature? He could still smell the salt in the air. Feel the wet grass, the silence. His loneliness and fear. He saw again the woman's face that had captivated him. Her beauty. Her outstretched arms. She looked so pure, and he’d covered his face. Ashamed. Now, this lovely creature was holding his hands. He struggled, shouting that she should keep away. He wasn't worthy. A strange word, but that's what he'd said. He screamed until he had no voice left, but it was to no avail. Whoever or whatever it was, pulled him closer until they were one. And as he felt warmth fill his freezing body, he stopped struggling. He was crying now. Not tears of sadness but relief.

What was it that had drawn him into their very being? The God that he'd insulted? No, surely it was just a silly dream?

But something told him differently. Maybe that's what comes of saying stuff to a God you hate. But after his disrespectful talk, didn’t he deserve a nightmare? And while what he'd just dreamed might have started like that, it certainly wasn't how it ended.

His parents were buried, and the life he'd known since a child was over. He had to face what was coming. No A-levels and being forced to live with some vicar in Cornwall wasn't a good start.

~

Why was Dublin so bloody quiet? Friday, this end of town, an hour before the bars shut, it should be one more and then home. But not tonight. More like half a dozen. With Mairead away, offering her kinky tricks to Galway's festival visitors, Charlene had barely enough cash for tomorrow's rent.

Then she saw him. You could always spot them. The more they tried to look disinterested, the more obvious they were! Oh shit, it's a fucking priest. With pockets as tight as a rat's arse. And threatening the Gardai when they'd had their fun unless you gave their money back. Scum. She could remember enough Catechism to know that it didn't include shagging in the street.

They said little. What was wanted and what was on offer filled their faces. A quick stand-up job in the alleyway, and she'd be a bit closer to eating. But the bugger kept going, with Charlene following a few yards behind. Five minutes later, they were still walking. She was about to give up when he stopped at the side door of a church.

‘I'll no be doing it in there,’ Charlene said, staring at the priest with her arms crossed as he unlocked the door. Not because of any respect for God, just the dangers of moving off the streets with a client she didn't know. But before she realised it, he'd moved behind and pushed her in.

Charlene spun around, but he was too quick, and she heard a key being turned. For a moment, they stood in darkness. Then, a switch clicked, and light flooded a small room with a lawnmower, a sofa and shelves of papers. It stank of piss.

She got her first good look at the priest. About forty, shortish with a bristly beard and smelling of sweat and cheap cologne, he looked about as holy as she felt. His face tilted a little, lips slightly parted, with steely grey eyes. No longer the harmless character that Charlene had thought. The priest chucked some notes and a handful of coins on the table. He took off his coat and trousers. And a cross. She grabbed the cash, more than she'd earned all day. Even if he made it twice, it was still a good deal.

The man removed his pants. ‘Suck it.’

‘Not without a rubber.’

But as she reached for her bag, he grabbed her hair, pulling Charlene to the floor. This was the game-changer. Smiling reassuringly, she reached up to give him what he wanted. The priest's face bore a smirk of victory, slackening his grip.

However, Charlene's touch wasn't one of foreplay. One hand squeezed his cock while the other crushed his balls, and then she twisted both hands in opposite directions. He screamed like she'd knifed him, releasing his grip immediately. As he crouched in agony, Charlene sprang to her feet and kicked him in the face with all the force she could manage. The man shrieked and fell back, blood pouring from his nose.

With the priest's attention now focused on his suffering, it was the work of a moment to pull the keys from his trouser pocket and unlock the door. Seeing this, he seemed to forget the pain and, staggering to his feet, lunged at Charlene, but this only achieved her fist in his eye.

‘You little shit,’ she shouted as he lay writhing on the floor. Then, pocketing the Cross she walked into the street, locking the door and throwing the keys into a hedge. Once out of sight of the church, Charlene broke into a run until she reached the flat. It took several times the usual daily whisky allowance to steady her breathing.

What an idiot she'd been. There could have been a bunch of his mates in that darkness. How many times had more experienced girls warned her to be more careful? Amongst the youngest on the streets, she already had a bunch of regular clients. Despite her contempt for men, she'd quickly learned that giving what they wanted brought them back for more, and if they played by her rules, that's just what they got. Yes, she was good. But where the fuck were they tonight? Didn't they realise she had to eat?

She emptied her coat pocket. Eight one pounds, four ten bobs, and a quid or two of shrapnel—all without taking off her skirt. And a Cross.

‘That will give the sod some explaining,’ she laughed, ‘I hope it's expensive, and they'll stop it from his wages.’ She ran her hands over the smooth metal. Was it silver? Could she sell it?

It made her think about the Holy Father back home. As a nipper, he'd lift her into his arms. He was her God. How stupid. He probably had a regular whore. She’d been sad when Ma told the story of Easter, and how such a lovely thing as a cross was used to kill a man by knocking nails into him. When he'd done nothing wrong.

Where was Ma now? How could she run off? She knew what her new man was like. And when Charlene had cried out for help, where was that nail-torn corpse?

‘God, what a messed-up guy you must be. You fool everyone into believing you'll look after them. But you don't stick up for shit like me, as your book says. It be the posh you want—them with cash to build smart church things. And people like that fucking priest, whose bollocks I hope I smashed. You're no use to me.’

Taking another swig, she lay back and gazed at the Cross before hurling it across the room. She should have felt good. Busting the priest and now God. But she didn't. Why wasn't God like Ma said?

Those had been happy times. When she'd been innocent, loved. With God as her hero. Their little whitewashed cottage. Her real pa, digging potatoes, Ma, hanging washing and Kieran up a tree. The bedroom where she slept head to toe with Mollie. And the wooden cross on the wall, with the chip where it had got broken in a fight.

The Cross she was seeing now wasn't broken. Or wooden. She closed her eyes and buried her face in the pillow, but it still filled her mind. Gleaming ever brighter.

Charlene awoke, drenched with sweat. As her vision cleared, she saw the Cross again. But this time, just as she'd thrown it. Lying on the floor, reflecting the feeble light from a dust-covered bulb.

Why did she take the sodding thing? ‘It's gotta go,’ she muttered, struggling to her feet. ‘Ma and Pa are gone forever. I'm a whore. Crosses, God, and that stuff's got no part in my life.’

    It was getting light when she reached the river. One flick of her wrist would send the piece of metal to the bottom. But she couldn't.

‘Why?’ she screamed, ‘I don't believe what it's supposed to mean, and if I'm caught with it, it'll be prison.’

Shaking her head in disbelief, Charlene walked away with the Cross back in her pocket, her hand gripping it tightly, trying to crush it to nothing. But it remained firm, its edges cutting into her skin.

She was starving. Breakfast at O'Sullivan's. Bacon, sausages, two eggs... and a gallon of tea. Charlene was focussing her hangover-eyes on getting safely across the road when she spotted the sign. St Benedict's. A church—bloody perfect! Leaving the Cross there would show it hadn't been stolen, just borrowed. She placed it under the door, and a kick sent it inside.

The breakfast hit the spot. She could now pay the rent, and the Cross was gone. Things were getting better. But as her hands explored the empty pocket, not feeling its shape made her a little sad. She took another gulp of tea. That didn't make any sense. What would she want with a Cross and the God that went with it? She just needed sleep to put crosses and randy priests into the rubbish tip they deserved.

~ 2 ~

The Vicar's Daughter

As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another. 
Proverbs 27:12

‘Benj, wait.’ It was a girl's voice.

The bedroom door burst open, and a short-legged dog appeared, tail wagging. ‘Come on then,’ Peter called, and with a squeal it bounded into his outstretched hands.

So caught up in making a fuss of his newfound friend, he didn't notice someone else until he heard the voice again. ‘I'm glad you like dogs.’

His eyes moved upwards from a pair of well-polished brown shoes, short white socks, a pale green skirt, and a chunky cream sweater. About his age, her pretty, slightly freckled face, filled with a heart-melting smile, as she bent down to join Peter in making a fuss of the dog.

‘Benj assumes that, because he loves everyone, it always works the other way round,’ she said, tossing back long light-brown hair and holding out a hand. ‘I'm Janet. Welcome to the Vicarage. Sorry I wasn't here when you arrived.’

They looked at each other for a few moments. ‘Heck—you're my brother, well, sort of.’ Then, laughing, she stood up and pulled him into her arms. He felt his cheeks colouring. Affection from attractive girls was a new experience.

She glanced around. ‘I hope the room's OK. It's not very big but, apart from Dad's, they're all that way. And there are several spare if you need more space.’

Peter had been dreading living with a vicar in a part of the country where you only came for holidays. But as he looked at the view from his window and then the smiling fresh-smelling girl by his side, with the little dog whose tail hadn't stopped wagging, this was a lot better than he'd expected.

‘Come on, I so want to show you around,’ she said, excitedly pulling him towards the bedroom door. Then she stopped. ‘Peter, I'm so sorry about your Mum and Dad.’ The voice was soft now, the eyes sad, and the kindness in her face reminded him of Mandy. ‘I know words aren't good enough... not on their own... but all of us are standing with you, in the pain you are feeling. And, together, we want to help you through it... Look, I'm being selfish. You probably want time to recover from the journey. I've never been on a sleeper train, but I shouldn't think it's as comfortable as a proper bed.’

Peter smiled. ‘Neither had I, but it was OK. I must have slept because your dad had to wake me when we got to Penzance. Probably the gentle swaying—a bit like a hammock... I'm alright. Really. And I would like to see the place.’ But it wasn't so much knowing where he'd be living, more about being with someone who appeared to want his company. A good feeling because for the past month, just about everyone had wished him off their hands.

Janet was beaming again.

The Vicarage was a large rambling building, set in a slightly elevated position at one end of the small village. Augustus and his wife slept in the west end with their son, Robin. Eight other bedrooms occupied the rest of the second floor, with an enormous bathroom and a toilet. Janet's room was on the opposite side to Peter's, looking inland towards the village.

They walked through the downstairs rooms with Benj trotting behind. All had open fires, and two were enormous, with a mixture of soft seating and hardback chairs. Janet explained her dad used them for Bible studies. Her eyes lit up. ‘Sometimes we'd get thirty people, but this stopped when he remarried.’ Sadness filled her pretty face. ‘Dad's an excellent teacher, and a lot of people were disappointed. I don't think Mum liked half the village, as she put it, tramping through her house.’

The downstairs tour ended at the kitchen back door, leading to a garden, about an acre in size, bordered by a stone wall. Janet pointed to a vegetable patch. ‘I've not done much this year, but we have had good crops of potatoes, runner beans, and carrots.’ She smiled. ‘But a lot of hungry rabbits live around here, so we never get all we should!’

She looked around. ‘Mum loved this garden, and every time I weed around things she planted, I think of her.’ Janet gasped. ‘Oh Peter, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean...’

He smiled. ‘That's OK. Things like flowers... or a seat—that's a nicer way to remember somebody than a stone in a cemetery. Mum and Dad are buried in one of those. I don't think I'll ever want to go.’

Janet's face relaxed, and with the garden tour complete, she suggested going down to the Cove. That sounded good, and they set off along the road and then followed a path with the bay in full view.

‘Do you work for your father all the time?’ Peter asked when Janet paused from a seemingly never-ending line-up of fascinating people, scenic walks and safe places to swim.

‘No, I have a little job in St Buryan, working for Carole Turner. Her parents own the garage, but she runs it. I do the books, make the tea, and...’ Janet grinned, ‘I'm the First Aid Officer. Carole is a good boss. My hours are pretty flexible, but I usually do two or three mornings and perhaps one full day each week.’

‘And you're the church organist.’

‘Sort of. I learned the piano at school and started playing for services three years ago. But I wouldn't call myself an organist.’

‘That's not what your dad said. He thinks you're terrific!’

Janet laughed. ‘Getting the number of verses wrong is my usual failing.’

After a little, they left the path and sat down on a wooden bench overlooking the bay. Janet leant back, stretching out her arms and legs. Catching Peter's gaze, she smiled. ‘I don't think I could ever get tired of this view. God sure gives us a marvellous world.’

Regardless of what he thought about this guy, she was right. Looking down on a vast expanse of smooth sand, London, with all its painful memories, seemed a million miles away. Exactly where he wanted it.

‘Have you always lived in the big city?’ Janet asked.

Peter didn't want to remember his old home just then, but the kindness and interest in her eyes removed any evasive inclination. Like Janet, he'd lived in the same house all his life, going to a public school, which meant his parents had to pay. They'd sent him there fearing he'd fail the eleven-plus exam, and his mother said he wouldn't survive at the local state school.

He spent much of his early years with his parents or playing alone as he didn't have any brothers or sisters and few friends. Which was good because he always got his own way. He liked fun things more than schoolwork, which meant he dreaded end-of-term examination results and school reports. But at the age of ten, he twigged that working harder would stop Mum moaning quite so much. ‘That was when climbing trees and pretending they were aeroplanes ended! But I think I overreacted.’

Janet looked puzzled.

‘I came close to the top of the class in science subjects,’ he continued. ‘At last, I'd found something I was good at, and I began to believe the story my parents had fed me for many years—about being gifted but lazy. I dreamed of becoming famous and making up for those years when I didn't do as well as Mum wanted. Schoolwork was almost the only thing I thought of. I suppose it became a sort of god.’

Janet was smiling, but her eyes looked a little sad. He shouldn't have said so much. Kept her from seeing, what a messed-up kid he was a little longer. He laughed awkwardly. ‘Boring stuff, sorry.’

‘No, it wasn't. My parents were relaxed over how I did at school. I suppose I was about average. But I loved cookery, spending more time on this than most girls. Like you with science.’ Her face showed understanding, not the disapproval he'd feared.

Janet pointed to a building at one end of the seafront. ‘That's the lifeboat, and the Slipway café is the red-roofed building just to the left. Alice comes to the Youth Group, and her parents run it. We could go and get a drink.’ Peter's eyes followed her finger, and he nodded.

As they continued along the path, life looked a lot more bearable than just twenty-four hours ago. He'd escaped from relations, either telling him what to do or subtly ticking him off. And his new dad had been understanding, although Peter hadn't said much, believing the less his parents knew about him, the better. However, that changed when he met Janet. With its gentle kindness, her face encouraged him to reveal things he wouldn't usually. And when they chatted about pop songs, school pranks, and shared jokes, Peter almost forgot why he'd come to Cornwall. He was laughing. The last time he'd done that was feeding the ducks with Mandy.

While they wandered along the seafront, Janet got a friendly nod from several people. A couple waved from the beach, and when she led him into the cafe, a young girl wiping the tables gave her a hug and him a shy smile. The man standing behind a counter, crammed with cakes, came over, and Peter got a crushing handshake. This was John, the owner, who joined them in the back garden as they tucked into a cream tea, offering Peter a day fishing and a spin on his new motorbike.

When it was time to leave, Janet teased their host about coming to church more often. But John gave as good as he got, saying God would have to do without him in the busy summer months. And dismissing Janet's offer to pay, as a small token of appreciation, for putting up with his daughter twice a week and giving them some peace.

After saying goodbye, they headed for the lifeboat station and paused a little, looking down at the harbour wall. The cream tea and everyone's friendliness made Peter feel he was on holiday. Perhaps this might not be so bad a new home. And if he had to have a sister, he could certainly do a lot worse than this girl. No wonder she was well-liked. Beauty and kindness, in overflowing measures.

Peter loved the sea and stood captivated by the rolling breakers. Marvelling at their power as they crashed down, flooding the top of the harbour wall. The sun made the stones sparkle like jewels. He had to get closer and ran onto the wall doing a crazy dance, letting the spray break over him. Janet was laughing, which encouraged him to show off all the more.

About halfway along, she shouted not to go any further. But getting wet was fun, and he walked on. Then he heard her scream. ‘Peter! Come back.’

He wondered what she was fussing about when a wave broke just ahead, filling his eyes with salt water. As his vision cleared, he gasped in horror. His feet were right on the wall edge. One small step would have had him in the sea. As he turned around, another wave crashed over him. Blinded, he froze with fear.

Then, someone grabbed his arm, pulling him back. Janet. Soaking wet, they walked up the beach and sat in silence on a rock. All the colour had gone from her face.

‘I'm sorry,’ Peter said eventually. ‘I didn't realise... how powerful the spray was.’

Janet didn't reply immediately, but then she turned and stared at him. The happy face of just a few moments ago was now serious. ‘A little further along that wall would have had you in the sea, and I'd probably have lost my new brother.’

Peter hoped she'd smile, showing her words were meant as a joke. But he saw nothing of the kind.

Janet got up. ‘Come on, or we'll be late for tea. And have to explain that, as well as why we went swimming fully clothed.’ She looked calmer now, but there was still no smile.

‘I don't know what got into me. The spray felt so exciting, like... what is it when the vicar chucks water over a baby?’

‘Baptism?’

‘Yes, that was it. Baptism into Cornwall,’ Peter said, hoping to make her laugh.

‘If you'd told me you wanted that, I'd have tipped a bucket of water over you!’ Her tone was terse, but then she started to smile, perhaps seeing his sorrowful expression. ‘Next time you go anywhere near that wall, I'll clip Benj's lead on you.’

Peter went hot and cold, remembering his feet so close to the edge, with the sea swirling amongst the rocks below. And realising the risk that Janet had taken to come after him. His London relations wouldn't have done that. They'd have been happy if he'd drowned.

As they headed home, Peter missed their easy conversation before he'd played the fool and searched for anything to say, just to get them talking again. In the end, he asked Janet about his new school and learned it was on the other side of Penzance, with pupils from all over the peninsular. Janet enjoyed her time there and had made some good friends. They chatted about A-levels and University, and he asked why she hadn't gone.

‘My exam results were good enough, and several friends went. But since Dad remarried, I felt he needed a bit of support, and I couldn't give that if I was away from home for weeks on end.’

‘Organ playing?’

‘Not just that, I do the parish accounts, home visiting, and a few other things. But it wasn't really the jobs. I'm sure Dad could have found someone else—no, I wanted to be there in case... well, Mum sometimes bullies him, and she doesn't understand church things like my real mother did.’

Janet ran forward, kicking a stone and then turned to face Peter. ‘I suppose I'm not very ambitious. My little job provides all the money I want. And Dad gives me an allowance, but I don't spend much. I'm not a clothes person or desperate to go travelling.’

‘Mrs Carter's not your real mum, is she? Like with me... Can I ask... do you get on OK? Because she got a bit cross when I arrived, saying it was my fault we missed the afternoon train and had to get the sleeper.’

‘I'm sorry about Mum doing that. I suppose Dad coming back a day late upset her plans. I'm sure she didn't mean it.’ Janet shook her head sadly. ‘But Mum and I aren't as close as I'd like. I guess marrying a vicar with a teenage daughter has its challenges. I hoped Robin's arrival might improve things, but it hasn't.’

‘You've still got your dad.’

‘But he is involved in a lot of extra church things now and goes away quite often... I sometimes think that’s because he's not as happy at home as he was... We've drifted apart a bit, and whenever I make some special effort...’

Were those tears in her eyes?

Janet turned away. ‘He thinks I'm driving a wedge between him and Mum. I keep trying to get us back like the family we were. But so far, it hasn't happened. Maybe your coming will change things.’

‘I don't suppose anyone can ever be like a real mum.’

‘Oh Peter, I wish you could have met her.’ Janet was smiling again. ‘Mum was a lovely person. And Dad was quite different then. She made him blossom. They had a marvellous marriage... I was so happy.’ Janet sighed. ‘But time moves on, God is in control, and it's no good wishing anything back the way it was. We need to face things as they are and try to make them better with his help.’

She bit her lip. ‘Sorry. I shouldn't be bothering you with my problems, but it's good to have a brother to talk to.’

When Janet asked if he attended a church in London, Peter shook his head, feeling uncomfortable, admitting this to a vicar's daughter.

‘Well, see how you feel. Nobody will force you, but I hope you'll give a service a try—if only to check out Dad's opinion on the organ player! But going to church isn't really what's important. There are people in our congregation who think God is some remote being, who's happy if they just turn up each Sunday, keep doing the flowers and putting money in the collection. But he's not much interested in that. What God wants is us as his friends.’

God, a friend? Peter smiled to himself. ‘I don't think he and I get on.’

‘That's a shame. He'll be upset about that. Peter, believing God's by your side is important. Especially when things aren't going right... I'd love to help you to get to know him better.’

Peter nodded. Her face was earnest, her eyes kind, and there was no criticism in the voice, but perhaps he should have kept quiet about where he was with God.

Janet didn't have a front door key, so they had to use the Vicarage back entrance, which opened out into the kitchen. Tea was well underway, and Mrs Carter didn't hide her annoyance at their late arrival.

He now saw what Janet had meant about how things stood with her mum. Everyone they'd met that afternoon treated his new sister kindly, several with obvious affection, so why was this woman so different? Janet was her stepdaughter, for heaven's sake.

After the meal, he helped Janet wash up and lay the breakfast. When they had finished, she made tea, which they took into the garden.

‘Thanks for being with me this afternoon,’ Peter said. ‘You sure know a lot of people. When I learned that I was coming to live here, I thought how I'd have felt if someone barged into my family... I wouldn't have welcomed them as you've done.’

‘You're not barging in! It's good to have you with us. We all feel that. And it was fun having a brother to show around. But I bet if I'd come to London, you'd have taken me to see all the touristy things!’

She went on, ‘I know most of the village because I've lived here all my life. I suppose being the vicar's daughter helps, but I'm not the vicar, so I don't have Dad’s responsibilities. And that gives me extra freedom. People outside the church will talk, even those opposed to religion. Whenever I can, I tell them what I believe.’

Janet's face filled with excitement. ‘Over the years, several people I've spoken to about Jesus have been confirmed and now come to church. And a few more, while they aren't in our regular congregation, have allowed me to share my faith when they were going through hard times. That's been a real privilege.’

Peter smiled, although what she'd said made him uncomfortable. When had he ever done anything worthwhile like that? He'd come to live with a much better person than he was. Which made his foolery on the wall even more unforgivable.

‘I'm sorry I was so silly this afternoon... I've been happier today than for ages. It's hard to explain, but... seeing you smile so much and listen... so willingly... meeting your friends and laughing with them—well, it really did feel like a fresh start. Like that word you used, baptism. I wanted the waves to make me feel all that's happened in the last few months had been washed away.’ Peter felt his cheeks colouring. ‘Sounds a bit mad, I suppose.’

Janet smiled affectionately. ‘No, I think I understand. Though I didn't feel like that when I could see you going into the sea... Peter, we all hope that becoming part of our family really does mean a fresh start. Just as you said. And it will begin to heal what has happened.’

A nice thought, but whether it would work out that way, he wasn't sure. But Janet looked so in earnest that he had to smile in agreement.

‘I know what you mean about the sea,’ she continued. ‘There is something healing about its vastness, power, and constancy. After Mum died, there's a place on the coastal path where I used to go to be on my own. Sometimes I'd cry out in despair. Then I'd look at the sea... and remember those words in that great hymn about God. 'Wisdom, love, might, boundless as the ocean's tide'. And that made me feel a little better, realising he was still in control, even though what was happening in my life hurt so much and made no sense.’

‘You were younger than me when your mum got sick?’

‘Yes, I wasn't quite fifteen. Mum had been ill for about three months when she died, so it wasn't the same shock you had. Perhaps that made it easier. But watching her get sicker each day was really painful. I had Dad of course, but he was hurting too. My friends were kind, but feeling God by my side all the time got me through... Peter, please say if you ever want to talk about your parents. Or if you'd just like to go somewhere and sit quietly but not be on your own. Anytime. OK?’

Someone who'd just be there. Who'd listen and try to understand. Not criticise and push him around. ‘If only you'd been with me instead of my bloody relations,’ he wanted to scream. But he didn't. He just nodded and smiled.

His first Sunday at the Vicarage didn't get off to a good start. He overslept. Quickly washed and dressed, he put his head around Janet's bedroom door. Then he realised she'd be in church, probably having been up for hours. Benj lay stretched out on her sheepskin rug. Seeing Peter, he was up, tail wagging, and they went downstairs together.

‘Breakfast is quarter past seven on a Sunday. Didn't she tell you?’ Mrs Carter said, waving her arms as she pointed. ‘Bread, jam, cereal, milk.’ Her staccato voice echoed around the kitchen. ‘And don't sit there, that's where I'm going to do the vegetables. We've eight for lunch today.’

Benj seemed to understand where it was safe to be during this period of intense culinary activity, crawling under a small side table. Peter followed with cornflakes, a pot of honey, and half a loaf of bread. He'd no idea where the toaster was, and the tone of his morning greeting put him off asking. But he couldn't even get this right. ‘Don't wreck the loaf with a plate knife,’ she shouted at him from the sink.

Sorrowful eyes looked up in sympathy, and in return, Peter surreptitiously dropped buttered fragments of bread between Benj's paws. Breakfast continued in silent communion with his four-legged friend, while Mrs Carter never stopped talking affectionately to Robin, whose dumper truck was more in the cauliflower than out.

The old station clock showed ten minutes past ten, and Peter was congratulating himself on avoiding the second service of the day, when he spotted a cake on the Welsh dresser. He'd shared a taster slice with Janet last night. And jolly good it was. He was sure she'd made it for church refreshments.

Mrs Carter was in the scullery when he asked if it had got forgotten. ‘They've got biscuits. They don't need fruit cake,’ she hissed, shaking her head. ‘That girl's got no idea what things cost.’

Peter didn't wait to hear any more. Picking up the cake, he was through the door before she could stop him.

A friendly man at the church door exchanged the cake for a hymn book, and a smiling lady guided him towards a wooden pew. The occupants shuffled along to make room. And before he realised it, he was rising to his feet, together with forty or so others. Despite his plans to the contrary, he had joined the morning service at St Mary's.

For the next hour, Peter struggled to follow the service ritual. Twice he lost his place, and once, he knocked the prayer book off the narrow shelf in front of his seat. Each time willing hands were there to help. He tried to sing, but little sound came from his mouth, even though he recognised the tunes to a couple of hymns.

He was rubbing his knees at the end of the service when the two ladies, who had made room for him, introduced themselves. They were sisters, living in one of the old mine-workers cottages at the end of the village.

‘You can't miss us—the black and yellow door,’ the elder said, looking Peter up and down. ‘With Wisteria all around the front,’ her sister added. ‘Such a shame it's over so quickly.’

They knew Peter lived at the Vicarage and seemed pleased he had joined their congregation. ‘You'll quickly get the hang of the service, and you can always get Reverend Carter to explain anything you don't understand.’

Peter smiled.

‘Janet's probably better for that, dear,’ the younger one said. ‘I once asked the vicar a question. His explanation was more difficult to follow than the sermon!’ She laughed. ‘So I spoke to Sarah, my granddaughter, to see if she could help. Lo and behold, who should call? Janet. She runs the Youth Group that Sarah attends and had written down all she'd found out, using nice simple words. Bless her! The vicar is very fortunate to have such a lovely daughter. But then you've probably discovered that for yourself.’

‘And she makes delicious fruit cake,’ Peter added as they moved towards the refreshments.

He stood and watched as cup after cup of coffee was dispensed, and the cake disappeared into grateful mouths. Church wasn’t as bad as he'd feared. He felt strangely warmed by the friendship and the singing, although he understood very little of the service and almost nothing about the sermon. But the Lord's prayer flowed effortlessly from his lips. He was engrossed with his thoughts when he felt a gentle prod in his back. Janet—with a cup of coffee and a slice of cake.

‘Thank you for coming, Peter. And remembering the cake.’ Her soft smile made him suspect that his presence was the more important.

~ 3 ~

A Team is Born

Better is open rebuke than hidden love. Wounds from a friend can be trusted...
 Proverbs 27:5-6

That August was a scorcher, and usually, Janet would have spent any spare time on the beach. But this year was different. She had a brother whom she'd liked from the moment they met. About her height, slim build with twinkling blue eyes, he matched very well the prince she'd dreamed of from age five. But better than his physical attributes, he had a kind, sensitive manner. And he liked dogs. He was going to be a good brother.

Their first day together had been great, except when he'd nearly fallen off the sea wall. But things hadn't gone on the way she had hoped. The closeness that had grown so quickly began to disappear, with Peter soon spending much of his free time alone. And with no school and few responsibilities at home, this was most of each day.

She tried to think of ways to bring them back together, offering help to redecorate his bedroom. A day out in Truro, a picnic on the beach, or walking bits of the coastal path. However, none of this interested Peter. But while they were drifting apart, quite the reverse was happening with Benj, her little dog. The two had bonded well, and Peter often took him for a walk on his own.

How her brother was coping with his grief was never long from Janet's mind, even though he didn't mention his parents again after the day he'd arrived. She so wished he'd take up her offer to talk, knowing how important it is to share for healing to begin. When Mum died, she had Dad, Carole, and, most importantly, God. But Peter had none of this. Despite Janet introducing him to as many people as he'd let her, he hadn't made any real friends and had no time for God. Something he seemed almost proud of. And the way things were with his new parents, wouldn't encourage him to share painful stuff. Whilst Dad was always kind, his often-distant manner stopped any closeness from developing. And Mum—well, she either ignored Peter or was unfriendly, and sometimes when he'd really annoyed her, openly hostile. Why couldn't she love Peter as her own son? Like Janet knew her real mum would have done.

She felt ashamed. As a family, they weren't doing anywhere near enough to help someone facing the worst tragedy any teenager could come up against. While Dad understood her concerns, he thought Peter just needed time. He didn't offer any ideas on how they could do things differently. And Mum wouldn't even listen to Janet's pleas to get closer to Peter.

Perhaps it would be best for him to move back to his relations in London, and Janet repeatedly asked God about this. But the more she prayed, the stronger her feeling that he wanted Peter to stay at the Vicarage.

The primary responsibility for providing love and care obviously fell on her parents. Still, if they weren't getting it right, perhaps God meant for her to step into this role. However, this was more than a little daunting. She had helped families cope with grief, but always alongside someone else, often Dad. To provide the right sort of support for a seventeen-year-old on her own was scary. She hoped God understood that, and he'd give her the skills she'd need.

When the Autumn Term started, Janet thought Peter would tell her about things at school. Like the subjects he was studying, the sports he played and his new friends. And share any problems. But he said very little. Each day was OK, and she didn't learn much more. All she could do was watch, but sadly, she saw none of the positive signs she'd hoped. As the term progressed, Peter became less communicative, spending even more time on his own or with Benj. And he regularly came home from school, looking exhausted, sometimes well after lessons finished. With her, that usually meant detention. Was this happening to Peter? But why so often? Maybe she got one each term, but it looked like every week for him.

It wasn't long before Janet saw more signs that all was not well. She'd gone into Peter's room to collect laundry and noticed some marked schoolwork on his desk. The amount of red ink made her look closer. Just a quick glance showed it had not been well received. The marks were low, the comments scathing, and, on one page, she read an instruction to do it again. Janet winced. It wasn't so much that Peter was struggling with the work that upset her, but that he hadn't told the truth when she kept asking how things were going.

Just before half-term, Peter mentioned he'd been selected to play in a rugby match against a school in Camborne. Janet was pleased, and although she didn't say anything, she made a note to try and go along. But watching from the touchline, he wasn't there, and after the game finished, she spoke to one of the players. The boy looked puzzled, saying that her brother hadn't been picked for the first or second team.

Janet left the match sad. Not because of the time she'd wasted watching something that only interested her to show support for Peter. No, what hurt was that this was another example where he wasn't being honest. Worse than his inference that school was going OK, it was a deliberate untruth. Janet groaned. What on earth had she done to make him feel he had to hide schoolwork problems or impress her with sporting skills?

It couldn’t be right to let these things go. Not if you cared. Someone had to be brave enough to confront Peter with what she'd found out. Mum wouldn't be any use, probably using it to support her case that he should leave, so she spoke to Dad. He agreed to discuss things with his godson, but when he mentioned talking it over with Mum first, Janet knew it was dead in the water. She'd have to do something for Peter to get any immediate help.

Lorna Phillips was now deputy head girl, and their school friendship made it easy to telephone and ask about Peter. She had seen his name on the detention list once or twice but had no other information. However, she promised to ask around and let Janet know if there were any problems. She knew nothing about Peter losing both parents and shared Janet’s sadness.

It was several days before Lorna called back to say he hadn't settled down well. She'd spoken to a couple of teachers, and both said the standard of his work was poor. Often homework was late, and when reprimanded for these misdemeanours, his attitude was sometimes arrogant. He'd be in serious trouble if he missed another morning assembly. She promised to keep an eye on Peter and give some extra understanding to any trouble he got himself into.

That night Janet sat in her room, worried about what she'd found out and asking God how she could help. Hearing Peter's bedroom door close, she wandered along, knocked, and went in. He looked up in surprise.

‘I'm going to make some hot milk. Would you like a cup?’ He nodded, and ten minutes later, Janet was back with drinks and cake.

‘How was school?’ Janet asked as she put the tray by his desk and sat on the bed.

‘Much as usual.’ Peter took a bite of cake.

Janet swallowed, and, with more than just a little fear, she continued, ‘I spoke to Lorna Phillips today. I gather you're not perhaps a star pupil at the moment?’

‘What do you mean? Anyway, what business is it of yours? And why are you talking to the school about me?’ His eyes narrowed. Just what Janet had feared, but she couldn't stop now.

‘Peter, I'm not trying to interfere, only help. If things are not going well, then you should speak to someone. With what has happened in your life recently, it's hardly surprising if schoolwork is suffering, or you're getting into trouble in other ways.’

‘What trouble?’ Peter's anger seemed to be increasing.

‘Lorna said you've had detentions both for bad work and behaviour and that you keep on skipping assembly.’

‘What's that to do with you?’

Janet drew a breath. ‘This isn't going the way I wanted. You're an intelligent boy. The school you went to in London is probably of a higher standard than the one down here. I don't know for sure, but I suspect you were well behaved there, and your work was acceptable—probably good. So when I hear that things now are quite different, can't you see why I'm worried?’

Janet hoped for some response showing he understood her concern, but all she saw was hostility. ‘If you are doing your best, it doesn't matter to me if you are at the bottom of the class and aren't in any sports team. I just want you to enjoy each day, and feel your new life with us, is beginning to heal the awfulness of what you have been through. But I don't think this is happening. I’m worried that you're sort of sinking and that nobody is picking this up and trying to help. It shouldn't be like this for you. It really shouldn't.’

She looked at Peter, fearful of what she might see. But his look of anger had been replaced by despair. Elbows rested on the desk with his head in his hands.

Janet waited for him to speak. Eventually, he turned and stared at her. ‘OK, I guess you've made your point. You know I'm not doing well. This isn't working out. I don't know why. Perhaps I should have stayed in London, although I don't think they wanted me either.’

‘But Peter... why didn't you say something when I asked if things were OK? Or go to someone else for help?’

‘Help?’ Peter screeched. ‘Who can give me that? I've got to sort this out myself... I can't concentrate anymore. My mind wanders in class, and I get into trouble. And when I try and do homework, I can sit up here for an hour or more and not get anywhere. Your mum doesn't like me. Things at school make me angry, and I get into fights. I’m tired all the time. Sleep is difficult, and when I do, I dream. Of London. My old house. But when I try and imagine Mum and Dad, I can't remember what they looked like... My parents expected me to do well. Often, I didn't, but at least I knew what they wanted. But all that's gone. You've just said you don't care how I do at school. Well, neither does your Mum and Dad. Or anybody in London, uncles, aunts... they don't care. So why does it matter if I pass exams? Does anything much matter now?’

Janet suppressed a gasp of horror. Suddenly a lot of things formed a picture. Of someone in deep distress. She was starting to wish she'd never begun this conversation. Until she realised that if she hadn't provoked Peter's anger, she'd probably never have learned the troubles he was facing. She was tempted to try and find some excuse to escape to her bedroom, fall to her knees, and ask God for guidance. But having got Peter talking, perhaps she should stick with it a little longer. Pulling up a chair, she sat next to him.

‘Thanks for having the courage to tell me all this. None of us thought things were like you've just said... I know Mum and Dad can seem a bit distant sometimes, and I'm sorry. I don't want to be that way, but you need to talk to me so I can help. By sharing problems as they happen and not leaving me to dig them out of you weeks afterwards... Peter, God loves you very much and he knows what you are suffering. He wants...’

‘I don't do God,’ Peter interrupted, staring at Janet coldly.

‘Well, perhaps you need to,’ Janet retorted—regretting what she had said the moment the words left her mouth.

Peter looked angry again, and they sat in silence while she tried to think of what to say to put things right.

‘I'm sorry, Peter, I didn't mean that unkindly. With what you're going through right now, it's probably difficult to see God's love... Like the guy in the Bible, Job, who experienced tough times. He lost absolutely everything. His family, all his possessions, and he became sick. His previously comfortable life just fell to pieces, and he complained he couldn't find God anywhere... Maybe that's a bit like where you are now. But later, Job got to understand things differently. That God is always there, no matter what we feel or what happens to us, and he never stops loving us. As St. Paul writes later... Nothing whatsoever, not even the most unimaginable disaster, can separate us from God's love... So, Peter, God hasn't forgotten you. And even though it might not feel like it, he is still in control. He has a plan for your life, and he wants to help you right now if you let him.’

‘I really don't need this. I doubt if God even knows about me, never mind loving me. And with what's happened, can't you understand? I'm like the guy in your sermon but without the happy ending. I know you're trying to help, but I don't think God's got a place in all this. There's not very much anybody can do except me.’

Janet nodded. ‘I can see why you feel like you do. But there will be a happy ending, as you put it. If you can get to know and trust God. And I'd like to help with that.’

He shook his head. ‘I've got enough problems now without God, thanks.’

‘Peter, many of the problems you're facing are made worse because you haven't got God by your side,’ Janet said despairingly.

‘Well, you can think that if you want.’

She felt very uncomfortable, once again regretting her choice of words. What had started as a well-meant attempt to offer help now seemed to be turning into a verbal war, and bringing God up had made things worse. She hadn't done it right.

‘OK. Peter, I'm sorry if what I said has irritated or hurt you. Let's leave it there for now, but I really do want to help get your life back where it should be. So that you're happier than I think you are. I understand there's no way a few words can remove the sadness you feel over the loss of your parents. It's going to take time. I remember that with my Mum. I hope we can talk again soon, but it will only work if that's what you want.’

‘You won't tell your dad, will you? About what Lorna said,’ Peter asked anxiously.

‘No, not if that's what you want. But you should speak to him if you won't share things with me.’

‘I'll think about it.’ Peter turned back to the papers on his desk. It was clear he wanted her to leave.

Janet finished the drink back in her room, very depressed. The list of problems Peter had thrown at her was alarming; each came so spontaneously that it had to be true. And not only had she made no progress in showing she wanted to help, but she'd also upset him. It looked like he now saw her more as an enemy than the friend she so wanted to be.

She spent a long time on her knees that night. Her prayers were not well-formed—words just flowed from her. All she could do was ask God to help Peter somehow. Whether that involved her, her parents, or the school, she didn't know. And what form the help might take, she didn't know that either. She ended with a plea that Peter would feel God's love. ‘Lord, please do this even if all the other things aren't in your plan.’ She prayed this over and over again.

    The following day, breakfast started quietly. Augustus had left early for a Truro meeting, and Robin was still in bed after a restless night. Mrs Carter provided the usual cooked food and then went back upstairs.

Other than the words necessary to share the breakfast table contents, such as ‘Pass me this’ and ‘Thank you for that,’ Peter and Janet hardly spoke. It was painful. She hadn't slept well, and Peter looked shattered. But all this changed when the kitchen door burst open, and Mrs Carter appeared.

‘What's this mess?’ she shouted, waving a bundle of sheets.

Peter's face went bright red.

‘You've wet the bed, haven't you?’ she said tauntingly.

Janet stared at Peter as the awfulness of her mother's words sank in.

‘I'm... sorry, I...’ Peter stammered.

‘I should think so,’ Mrs Carter interrupted. ‘Why can't you use the toilet before you go to bed? I don't want to wash this mess. What on earth did your mother teach you?’

The mention of Peter's real mother in such a nasty context made Janet flinch. ‘Mum, please, it... well, it wasn't his fault. Sometimes, these things happen,’ she pleaded.

Peter's chair crashed to the floor as he jumped up. ‘Peter... it's alright.’ Janet reached out and tried to catch his arm, but he pushed her aside and rushed towards the kitchen door.

‘Wait, Peter. Mum doesn't mean it, really. I'll wash...’ Janet called after him, but she stopped as the door slammed shut.

‘I'm not having this. If that boy wants to stay here, then he’s got to stop...’

Janet interrupted angrily. ‘I think you've said quite enough. That was horrible, absolutely awful. I'm ashamed of you. All he's done is… well, he's had an accident. It's nothing serious, but you bring his sheets down while he's having breakfast and just before he goes to school. How could you? It's not six months since he lost his mum and dad. He's not sleeping well. We should expect something like this because of the grief he's feeling... Doesn't that mean anything to you? How can you be so hard?’

All the colour drained from Mrs Carter's face. Janet didn't wait for a reply before rushing upstairs, looking for Peter. To apologise. But he wasn't in his room, the bathroom, or her bedroom. Where on earth was he? She ran downstairs and through all the lounges, calling his name.

She couldn't believe he'd left the house. It was raining hard, and his coat still hung in the hall. Janet grabbed her waterproof and went into the garden. When it was clear that he was nowhere in the Vicarage grounds, she jumped on her bicycle and tore off down the road. A few people were standing at the bus stop, but not Peter. She waited until the bus arrived, but he didn't appear.

Back in the Vicarage, she found Mum upstairs. When Janet told her that Peter hadn't caught the school bus, Mrs Carter shrugged, saying that she expected he'd soon be back.

‘But it's pouring with rain,’ Janet said. Exasperated. ‘He'll be soaked. Don't you see what you've done? You've driven him out.’

‘I can't help that,’ Mrs Carter snapped back.

‘Well, perhaps you should. You're supposed to be his mother!’ Janet shouted, shaking her head in disgust.

She phoned Carole to ask for the day off. Janet didn't say much, but her choked voice was probably enough to be made to promise to call back if she needed a car or any other help. Janet just managed to end the call before breaking down in tears. What she had said to Peter last night had obviously upset him far more than she'd realised.

After calming down, she called the school, saying Peter wasn't well. Then she washed the sheets, found another mattress and remade his bed. But after this, Janet couldn't put her mind to anything other than worrying about where he was. As time passed, she became more and more concerned, repeatedly praying that he'd come home safely.

During the three o'clock wireless news, she heard the back door close. Dashing to her feet, she ran into the kitchen. ‘Peter!’ she cried, grabbing his shoulders. ‘Where on earth have you been? This is all my fault. I'm so sorry about last night. Are you alright?’

‘Just wet.’ He was shivering, his hands freezing, and his face flushed. Water seemed to ooze from every part of him, dripping onto the kitchen floor in an ever-widening pool.

‘Come on, get out of those soaking clothes.’ Janet pushed him up the stairs, pulling off his blazer. She ran the bath. ‘You stay there and soak for a bit while I get some food.’

Back in the kitchen, she grabbed eggs, bacon, and sausages, and in no time, she was in Peter's room with a cooked breakfast, a pot of tea, and a glass of brandy. As he ate in bed, Janet felt his forehead.

‘Will the patient live?’ he said with a faint smile.

But she wasn't in the mood for humour. ‘Peter, I don't know what to say. This morning… I mean what Mum did... that was awful.’

‘I suppose it disgusted her. Every time it's happened before, I've been able to rinse the sheets.’

Janet was horrified. ‘Then this isn't the first time? And you didn't tell anyone? Peter,’ she sighed, ‘you're part of our family. You shouldn't feel you have to keep things like this secret.’

He bit his finger. ‘Look, I'm sorry, Janet, about last night. I see now you were only trying to help, and, well, I regret most of what I said, especially about God. That must have been hurtful. I was very unkind, and as I sat in St Buryan church...’

‘St Buryan! That's four miles away,’ Janet interrupted.

‘While I was there, I looked up about that guy Job. Then, after I'd checked the story had the happy ending you said, I went back and read it through from the start.’

‘The whole book? It's forty chapters!’

‘I hadn't meant to. It started as something to do out of the rain while I waited for the bus. But I forgot about the time and missed it.’

‘You were going to school, soaked to the skin?’

Peter looked embarrassed. He shook his head. ‘I wanted to get a train to London but didn't have enough money...  I planned to buy a ticket as far as I could and then hide in the toilet for the rest of the journey.’

‘Oh, Peter… You weren't really going to run away, were you?’ Janet buried her face in her hands to hide the tears. He'd never do that just because he'd wet the bed. She now knew how much she'd hurt him last night.

‘You won't tell anyone? Please,’ he pleaded.

Janet wondered if she should give such a promise. ‘I don't know, Peter.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘No, I suppose, not if you don't want me to. But I'm worried about you—can't you see that? After what you told me last night... and now today. Mum and Dad should know you're not happy because you're their responsibility.’

‘Last night, you said something like God's got his eye on me. Well... that's sort of what I felt as I sat alone in that damp old building. It was like I was meant to miss the bus and come back. And then I realised why. Because I wanted to say sorry. And ask you to explain how what happened thousands of years ago to some important guy who believed in God, could possibly apply to me.’

‘You came back just to see your preaching, prying sister?’

Peter looked hurt. ‘I came back to see... someone who is beautiful and kind. Who cares for me like nobody has, since I lost Mum and Dad. And who knows the God I don't.’ He smiled. ‘I'm surprised I don't see your wings sometimes.’

Janet blushed. ‘I'm sorry. I don't know about the first bit, but God is my friend. And, yes, I do care about you, Peter. Very much.’

They sat in silence for a little, catching each other's glances.

‘What will your mum say when she gets back?’ Peter asked.

‘Probably nothing. We had a bust-up this morning. I was very rude, saying things no daughter should ever say to a mother. I'm sure she won't mention what happened because I think she now regrets her behaviour. Look... if this happens again, please tell me. I'll wash the sheets and sort the bed. There's no need for you to do anything. Or involve Mum.’

‘I don't want you doing that. It's my problem, not yours.’

‘But I want to help with these sorts of things. Like I do with what you're going through now.’ He seemed quite overcome by what she had said. Then, smiling, she leaned over and hugged him, whispering, ‘You're not alone in all this. I mightn't be at all like the person you described, but I do want very much to be your friend.’

She sat back and looked at him. ‘You're exhausted. Try and sleep a little. I'll bring up some food later, then maybe we could talk. About Job, if you like, and perhaps some of the things you mentioned last night. Would that be alright?’

He nodded wearily. ‘I really am a lot of trouble, aren't I? That's what your mother keeps on saying.’

Janet pulled the curtains, and turning to look at Peter, she smiled. ‘Nothing we can't handle together. Now forget about what has happened today, and remember you are loved by God, who just wants you to accept his love. And also, by all of us here. I'll be back up at about six o'clock.’

~

Peter lay awake. How pathetic. He couldn't even run away without losing his nerve. A girl, only a little older than he, had dug things out of him. Stuff he wanted to keep secret. She now knew his life was a mess.

And it was! So why had he pushed Janet away last night? Probably his stupid pride.

She cared about how he was doing at school. Had stuck up for him over messing the bed. And when he came home, soaking and unhappy, she'd taken care of him. Just like his Mum would have done. But did he want that? Hadn't he said he'd never let anyone get that close again?

And then there was God. Peter didn't know where he was with this guy, but Janet certainly did. He believed in God, but Janet had told him something new. About a God who loved him. This girl wasn't just offering her help. No, it was help that she believed had God behind it. Wow! Could he really believe this? Why should Peter figure in any of God's plans? But if true, he wasn't only pushing Janet aside, but God as well.

He needed to get real with himself. His attempt to run off hadn't failed through a lack of courage. But because he couldn't walk away from a girl who'd shown him more kindness than anyone since his parents died. And when she offered help, those soft brown eyes showed she meant it. Today he'd sat in a church, reading the Bible. Unbelievable! Yet he had done just this. Because Janet had made him think.

Was this what he needed? Someone to make him question things about himself and how he was living. And maybe, that included where he was with God. Perhaps this God was already doing things with him?

Peter laid back and closed his eyes. Should he humble himself and accept Janet's help, hoping she could make him more like the lovely person she was? Or would it be better for everyone to go back to his relations in London?

~

Anxiety filled Janet's mind as she tapped on Peter's door with a dinner tray. She wanted to talk but not make the same mistakes as the night before. Their conversation was trivial as he ate. And when he had finished, they sat silently for a few moments, looking at each other.

Peter spoke first. ‘I've been thinking about last night and what happened today. I am causing a lot of trouble. It's not working as everyone hoped. My fault, I know. So maybe it's best to tell your dad, I want to live with Uncle Percival in London... At least your mum will be happy.’

Janet groaned silently. She could see that how things were with Mum and Dad, didn't make them ideal parents. But then, neither were a non-believing uncle and aunt, probably pleased to have Peter off their hands. OK, perhaps there was a bit of selfishness in her wanting him to stay. Because she liked him. And he had encouraged her to stand up to Mum, giving hope that they could support each other as their friendship grew.

But that apart, what he was suggesting just wasn't right. She could help him recover from the loss of his parents, and she believed God was saying to her very clearly, ‘You need to stop this.’

‘Hey, go easy,’ Janet said, forcing a smile. ‘Let's talk things through. Why won't it work if you stay with us?’

‘Because your mum wants me to go.’

‘Forget her for now. Sometimes I think she feels the same about me. Dad is your godfather, and he promised your parents, before God, that he'd look after you if anything happened to them. He wants you to be happy here. And that's what I want too.’

‘But look at the trouble I'm causing. You've spent time finding out about my school problems. And rowed with your mum. Why Janet? You've got your own life. Why do you want someone like me messing it up?’

‘You're not messing it up! I like having you around. Very much. And God doesn't give us time on this earth just to do as we please. I think I have you as a friend, and friends help each other... Peter... please be absolutely honest with me, and forget what you think other people may feel. Do you really want to leave us?’

‘No,’ he replied without hesitation. ‘My old house is in London, my parents are buried there, and I didn't get on with Uncle Percival. I like Cornwall. No, I don't want to go back. But Janet... suppose something like this happens again, and I really fall out with your parents. Or you?’

‘I'm sure you won't with Dad. Mum, well, I can handle that. And if you and I get on the wrong side of each other, we can work things out. I'm sure. Occasionally, having a bit of a punch-up can be good; it shows we care for each other, and when we make up our friendship is stronger.’

Peter was silent, so Janet went on. ‘I thought we agreed to work at making things better for you… Why can't we have a go at this before any more talk about you going back to London? Let's give it a try. Please.’

He was staring out of the window, still saying nothing.

‘If you go, Peter, I'll miss you very much.’

Janet was just beginning to wonder whether a personal plea like this was wise when Peter spoke. ‘You'll miss me? Really? Why?’

At last, he'd said something. ‘Because I like you. I'm fond of you. Very… And I want to keep you as a friend. But, more than that... you're the brother I've always wanted. A brother that I love.’

Janet's voice began to break, her eyes moistening, but she kept looking at him, trying to smile. ‘I just don't want you to leave us, Peter.’ Tears filled her eyes, and she blinked to try and keep them there. ‘And it's not just for me. Honestly. I want so much for things to come right in your life… I’m sure God brought you into our Christian family...’

She stopped as tears ran down her face. Brushing them away with her sleeve, she continued. ‘And I believe... we can make it work... I really do.’ Janet pulled out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes. ‘Sorry, I didn't mean to do that.’

‘I don't want to go. Not really… but...’ Peter's voice was strained, with his eyes directed everywhere except at her.

Janet sat next to him, wishing she could cradle him in her arms. But the best she could manage was to reach out and pull him against her. ‘Then let's make it work,’ she whispered.

‘You said... this afternoon...,’ Peter struggled to get the words out. ‘You said... you didn't mind... the trouble I'm causing. That we...’

‘I said that we could sort all this out together.’ Janet held him tight. ‘And I'm sure we can. With God's help.’

Was it those last few words or her arms around him that finally broke his self-control? What started as stifled gasps gave way to sobs. In all the time she'd known Peter, she had never seen him cry. She remembered the buckets of tears she’d shed after Mum died. Perhaps, at last, he was letting go of the grief, which had been building up inside, but he'd concealed from everyone.

Her eyes moistened with sadness for Peter's pain, and relief that maybe now she had his trust to share it. ‘Thank you, Lord,’ she said silently, holding Peter until his tears stopped. They sat for a bit, looking at each other and smiling shyly. Like two little kids who'd made up after a fight.

‘How about a bit of Mum's chocolate cake? And some tea?’ Janet said, breaking the silence.

Peter nodded, wiping his eyes. ‘Please.’

When Janet returned, he was gazing out of the window. She poured the tea and then joined him. ‘We can do this,’ she said, gently taking his hand in hers.

‘Janet… does God talk to us in dreams? Even to people who don't know what they believe? Because... on the day of the funeral... I felt completely alone... I must have fallen asleep and dreamt. Normally, I can't remember anything when I wake, but it all came back this time. I'd just been rude to God, and I wondered if the dream was a punishment. But though it started scarily, it didn't end that way.’

Janet nodded. ‘Yes, the Bible has several examples where people have had visions or dreams that definitely came from God. What did you see?’

Peter described his fear, the creature and how he'd struggled to escape. His tears and how it ended. He sat back on the bed, looking shaken. ‘I've not mentioned this to anyone, and I'm only telling you because... it all came back just now when you put your arms around me. The last time anyone did that was in the dream. And I had the same feeling. That I wasn't on my own, even though my parents were gone... Just like you'd said this afternoon.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I'm just being silly.’

The impassioned look on his face made it clear that the dream had significantly impacted Peter. ‘No, it's not silly. I'm no expert on this, but I think it could have been a picture given to you by God, on the day of your parent's funeral, a time of perhaps the worst pain you've ever had. A picture of something good that would happen in the future.’

Janet paused. ‘The message of comfort the creature from the sea gave you—isn't that something like what we've just talked about? Both of us sharing problems and getting the healing we need.’ She smiled. ‘So perhaps we should remember your dream if we get stressed out. And give each other a cuddle.’

They sat in a relaxed silence, eating cake and drinking tea. With all the earlier tenseness gone, washed away by tears. Just like in the dream.

‘Peter, how about we do something like this each evening? I'll make hot drinks; we'll pinch some cake, sit up here looking out over the sea, and talk. About what's happened, both good and bad. And not just your day, but mine as well. Let's see if we can help each other. Perhaps we could pray at the end. I can find the words. You wouldn't have to say anything unless you wanted to. We could challenge God by telling him what's worrying us and asking for help. Would you be alright with that?’

Peter looked thoughtful. ‘I don't know how easy I'll find it, and there may be some things I just don't want to talk about. But I will try. I promise.’

‘That's fine. If we do it caringly, I'm sure we'll both get more comfortable about sharing things that we might not want to initially. But that's how a relationship grows. And just how it works with God.’

Janet got up and put her hand on Peter's forehead. ‘You're not as hot as you were earlier, but you might still have a temperature.’ She smiled mischievously. ‘And as it looks like I'm resident nurse here, I think you should miss school tomorrow. Is that going to be a problem?’

‘No, that would give me another day for homework.’

‘Good. I'm sure Dad will write a sick note for two days, so we could spend time talking about making things better for you. Would that be OK?’

Peter nodded.

Janet was picking up the tea things when she had an idea. ‘Last night, I think you said you weren’t sleeping well?’

‘It's worse since I started school.’

‘I was wondering... have you ever played Monopoly?’

Peter's eyes lit up. ‘Yes, I used to play it with Mum.’

‘Fancy a game? We've got it downstairs. How about we play a bit each night? It could be fun; make us laugh and relax together. What do you think?’

‘Do you mean tonight?’

‘Yes, let's see if it helps you sleep better, and if you're not going to school tomorrow, it doesn't matter if we stop up a bit late.’

It took her about half an hour to clear the dinner things and wash up. She told Mum that Peter's chill had improved, but he needed another day to recover fully. After a bit of a search, Janet found the Monopoly set, made some hot milk, and sneaked out with the rest of the chocolate cake. Peter helped her move a small table from another bedroom, so the board wouldn't clutter up his desk.

Janet voted Peter as the banker, money was distributed, and the pieces were soon moving around the board. Property was being bought, and fines paid, with Janet more in jail than out. Much to Peter's amusement.

Time went by quickly, and before they realised it, it was almost midnight. When he was back in bed, she tucked the sheets under the mattress. Just like she'd do for Robin.

Peter watched her and smiled. ‘My Mum used to do that. She'd make me say my prayers, and then I'd get a goodnight kiss.’

‘Would you like us to pray together now?’ Janet asked hesitantly.

‘As long as I get the kiss afterwards,’ he said with a cheeky smile.

Janet smiled back and sat on the bed. She reached out and held his hand, closing her eyes. They were silent for a little, and then she thanked God for keeping Peter safe and helping them work things out together. And asked for guidance with what they planned for tomorrow. She hoped Peter might add a few words, but it wasn't to be. He did, however, join in with the 'Amen.'

‘That was nice,’ Peter said. ‘As long as someone was listening.’

‘God's always listening,’ Janet said as she leaned over and kissed him gently on the cheek.

She called goodnight from the door.

‘Night Mum,’ Peter replied with a smile.