Fay and I went to Bedlam Park,
not to swim in the pool,
but to sit on the grass
with a bag of crisps each,
and sandwiches,
and a bottle of lemonade.
Where has your old man gone
for his retreat?
I said.
He's not my old man,
he's my dad,
Fay said,
she took a sandwich
from the bag,
and looked at me.
Some monastery
for a weekend.
Why has he gone?
I said.
She nibbled a sandwich.
Something to do
with spiritual refreshment,
she said.
He needs it?
I said.
He think he does,
she said.
I took a swig
of the lemonade.
We sat in silence
for a few minutes
while we ate and drank.
Have you ever
been to holy communion?
she asked.
Not that I know,
I said,
what is it?
Us Catholics believe
that during the Mass
the bread becomes
the body of Christ,
and the wine
become His blood,
she said.
Really?
I said,
real blood and flesh?
Yes of course,
she said,
it is called transubstantiation.
Sounds painful,
I said,
the nuns at school said
it is Christ's sacrifice
for us.
I ate another sandwich;
she sipped lemonade.
Mum and I may leave soon,
Fay said.
Leave where?
I said.
Leaving my dad and brothers,
but you mustn't tell anyone,
Benny,
she said.
Leaving why?
I said.
Mum can't take anymore
of Dad's ways,
and words,
and his treatment of me,
Fay said,
looking at me searchingly,
don't tell anyone,
please Benny.
I won't, I said.
I swigged lemonade,
and she took a sandwich,
and ate,
odd time,
this our afternoon date.