again.
‘Then … where did he touch you?’ he asked hoarsely.
‘Pretty well everywhere,’ said Harriet.
‘There?’ asked her confessor, suddenly stabbing a finger in the general direction of her vagina.
‘Oh — sort of.’
He stretched out a trembling finger towards her chest. His finger had an overlong horny tobacco-stained nail, Harriet noticed as it rested lightly on her breast.
‘There?’
‘Oh yes, yes,’ she nodded, happy to be able to oblige him with something positive.
The nail hooked the corner of her blouse, pulling it aside.
‘Underneath?’
Harriet felt mesmerised, unable to stop what was happening. She nodded, silent now.
‘How?’
‘He held — the bit on top,’ she muttered desperately.
The nail descended on her nipple. To her amazement, she felt it go rigid. That hadn’t happened with Jim. They both looked at this phenomenon in silence. Father Dittmer’s hand dropped away.
‘Did he — penetrate?’ he asked. His voice sounded as though it came from ten thousand miles away, so loud was the roaring in her ears. Both her nipples were standing up like beacons, and there was a beat like the sea under her panties.
She looked at him and through him, trying to answer. She didn’t recognise her own voice. ‘Penetrate? I suppose so. He … put his tongue inside my mouth.’
‘And what else did he put inside?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing at all?’
‘No.’
‘Not even his finger. Like … this?’ The wicked-looking fingernail was following down the line of her body.
‘No. No,’ she cried out, jumping to her feet, and cowering back. ‘Nothing at all.’
The hand dropped. She and Father Dittmer looked at each other as across a great distance.
‘I think we should kneel side by side in the church and pray,’ he said at last.
They went back into the church, and knelt some distance apart in the front pew.
‘We don’t have a strict order for confession in the Church of England,’ said Father Dittmer shakily.
‘Can you not forgive me, then?’ said Harriet.
‘I can pray for you,’ said Father Dittmer, avoiding the question. ‘And I think you should repeat the Fifty-first Psalm after me. I’m sure you’ll find it a great comfort.’ His normal voice was reasserting itself.
The late afternoon sun struck coloured light through the tiny stained-glass window as they knelt muttering one after the other, ‘Wash me thoroughly from my wickedness, cleanse me from my sin … I acknowledge my faults … my sin is ever before me.’
Harriet sneaked a glance at him from between tightly clasped hands. ‘Against thee, thee only have I sinned, and done this evil in thy sight,’ he murmured, and she saw a tear winkle its way down the side of his face.
‘Against thee, thee only, have I sinned,’ repeated Harriet, and slipped quietly from her place. He didn’t seem to notice her, his head didn’t turn, as she hurried out into the sunlight.
Outside it seemed bright and clean and calm. An apple tree showered a profusion of petals over her, as she picked up her bike leaning against it. A keen lemony fragrance came from the cups of the magnolias in the trees by the church and the headstones stood upright as ever with their green-grey beards of lichen. Did it ever happen? she wondered. Then with a great burst of energy, she jumped on her bicycle and began pedalling furiously towards home.
The following week she was confirmed. Her tennis- cum-confirmation dress was finished, rucked and tucked with a multitude of pleats that swung fashionably wide around her calves. Her mother produced the brassière she had made. Harriet wept bitter tears in the night at the thought of having to wear it It was an almost straight bandage-like affair that would hold her in, her mother said. Harriet determined to find work soon, if for no better reason than to earn the money to buy a suitable garment in which to clothe her troublesome breasts.
The confirmation service was attended by hordes of
‘Then … where did he touch you?’ he asked hoarsely.
‘Pretty well everywhere,’ said Harriet.
‘There?’ asked her confessor, suddenly stabbing a finger in the general direction of her vagina.
‘Oh — sort of.’
He stretched out a trembling finger towards her chest. His finger had an overlong horny tobacco-stained nail, Harriet noticed as it rested lightly on her breast.
‘There?’
‘Oh yes, yes,’ she nodded, happy to be able to oblige him with something positive.
The nail hooked the corner of her blouse, pulling it aside.
‘Underneath?’
Harriet felt mesmerised, unable to stop what was happening. She nodded, silent now.
‘How?’
‘He held — the bit on top,’ she muttered desperately.
The nail descended on her nipple. To her amazement, she felt it go rigid. That hadn’t happened with Jim. They both looked at this phenomenon in silence. Father Dittmer’s hand dropped away.
‘Did he — penetrate?’ he asked. His voice sounded as though it came from ten thousand miles away, so loud was the roaring in her ears. Both her nipples were standing up like beacons, and there was a beat like the sea under her panties.
She looked at him and through him, trying to answer. She didn’t recognise her own voice. ‘Penetrate? I suppose so. He … put his tongue inside my mouth.’
‘And what else did he put inside?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing at all?’
‘No.’
‘Not even his finger. Like … this?’ The wicked-looking fingernail was following down the line of her body.
‘No. No,’ she cried out, jumping to her feet, and cowering back. ‘Nothing at all.’
The hand dropped. She and Father Dittmer looked at each other as across a great distance.
‘I think we should kneel side by side in the church and pray,’ he said at last.
They went back into the church, and knelt some distance apart in the front pew.
‘We don’t have a strict order for confession in the Church of England,’ said Father Dittmer shakily.
‘Can you not forgive me, then?’ said Harriet.
‘I can pray for you,’ said Father Dittmer, avoiding the question. ‘And I think you should repeat the Fifty-first Psalm after me. I’m sure you’ll find it a great comfort.’ His normal voice was reasserting itself.
The late afternoon sun struck coloured light through the tiny stained-glass window as they knelt muttering one after the other, ‘Wash me thoroughly from my wickedness, cleanse me from my sin … I acknowledge my faults … my sin is ever before me.’
Harriet sneaked a glance at him from between tightly clasped hands. ‘Against thee, thee only have I sinned, and done this evil in thy sight,’ he murmured, and she saw a tear winkle its way down the side of his face.
‘Against thee, thee only, have I sinned,’ repeated Harriet, and slipped quietly from her place. He didn’t seem to notice her, his head didn’t turn, as she hurried out into the sunlight.
Outside it seemed bright and clean and calm. An apple tree showered a profusion of petals over her, as she picked up her bike leaning against it. A keen lemony fragrance came from the cups of the magnolias in the trees by the church and the headstones stood upright as ever with their green-grey beards of lichen. Did it ever happen? she wondered. Then with a great burst of energy, she jumped on her bicycle and began pedalling furiously towards home.
The following week she was confirmed. Her tennis- cum-confirmation dress was finished, rucked and tucked with a multitude of pleats that swung fashionably wide around her calves. Her mother produced the brassière she had made. Harriet wept bitter tears in the night at the thought of having to wear it It was an almost straight bandage-like affair that would hold her in, her mother said. Harriet determined to find work soon, if for no better reason than to earn the money to buy a suitable garment in which to clothe her troublesome breasts.
The confirmation service was attended by hordes of
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