FAY'S SEARCH FOR TRUTH.

A BOY AND GIRL IN 1950S LONDON

I am sitting
on the brick
and concrete
bomb shelter
with Fay;
she is looking
at the coal wharf,
I am sorting
cigarette cards
to swap at school.

Do you know
where Jesus was born?
She asks.

In a stable wasn't it;
laid him in a manger,
I think it says.

She nods.

But in St Matthew
it says the Magi
came to the house.

Who were Magi?

The three Wise Men,
although it doesn't
actually say
how many there were,
it just says they.

I put the cigarette cards
in my jacket pocket
and gaze at her.

What's it matter?
People will believe
what they want to believe.

But the nuns said
it's the truth,
Fay says.  

I like her
pale complexion,
her blue eyes
and her fair hair,
well groomed
by her mother.

When I asked Daddy
he said not
to question the nuns,
but to accept
what they said.

I look at her light
blue flowery dress,
the white ankle socks,
the black shoes.

What do you think?
she asks.

Perhaps he was born
in a stable,
but they moved him
into a house
before the Wise Guys
got there,
I say, not caring
a hoot,
but wanting
to ease her worry.

Do you think so?

Sure,
makes sense to me,
I say, seeing
a coal wagon
leave the coal wharf
drawn by a large horse.

But in pictures
in my Bible
it shows them
entering a stable
with shepherds.

I watch the coal wagon
go along
Rockingham Street
and out of sight
under the railway bridge.

What's the truth?
She asks,
looking at her hands
in her lap.

I don't know,
Sweetie, I reply,
and I couldn't
give a crap.