The Confession Booth

With an aggressive pneumatic hiss, the train entered the station. I heaved my suitcases off the train and caught my breath on the platform. I looked around and saw someone standing just by the entrance, a well dressed man wearing a tweed suit. As I approached he asked “Mr Johnson?”. I nodded breathlessly and he greeted me warmly, shaking my hand. We went straight to his car and he put my bags into the back. As we drove into the village, he chatted openly.

“Its mighty good to meet you Mr Johnson, we’ve been waiting for quite a while for a new vicar. I’m Richard Thompson, farrier by trade and occasional verger. Some of us in the village have been taking turns doing readings on Sundays so it’ll be great to have someone who knows what they’re doing. I believe that they’ve sorted a cottage for you just at the back of the church, a wonderful part of the village, I think you’ll be right at home there.”

He carried on talking aimlessly for the rest of the short journey from the station into the village. I was tired from the journey and I was glad for the distraction. The road crested a hill and as we came down the other side, I had a panoramic view of the entire village. The whole place was clustered mainly around the church with roads stretching along the cardinal directions. The houses were beautifully thatched and made from a roughly cut beige stone. To one side of town was a large pond and even from this distance I could see that it would be a beautiful place to walk. Woods surrounded the village but they didn’t feel oppressive, just comforting. We descended on a narrow road that snaked between the houses. The car came to a halt outside a small cottage, the front door of which faced onto the churchyard. Richard said his farewells and promised to check by later. I pulled my suitcases out and took the key from his hand.

The cottage smelt musty but was cosy enough. Downstairs there was a kitchen, living room, and a small dining room. While upstairs there was just one bedroom and a bathroom. I hauled my cases up to the bedroom but couldn’t be bothered to unpack straight away, there would be plenty of time. I went back into the living room and noticed an envelope on the coffee table addressed to ‘Rev Johnson’. Inside was a large, ornate key which I assumed to be for the church and a letter detailing my responsibilities. It was pretty standard; a sermon on Sunday, house calls for those who request them, occasionally weddings or funerals, and a few other miscellaneous duties. However, the only thing that was significant was the fact that I was required to perform confession after the sermon on Sunday. Many churches nowadays had decided to suspend that practice due to low numbers but I was pleasantly surprised to see it here.

The church was beautiful, a quintessential village staple. There were about ten rows of pews facing a large stained-glass window. It depicted the scene of Jesus feeding the five thousand, not a common scene in stained glass but it was very attractive. The pulpit was handsomely carved with a gilded bible resting on top. In the corner closest to the altar was the confession box, complete with purple velvet curtains. I stepped inside and it was far darker than expected. I could not see through the perforated screen to the other seat at all, I supposed that was the point after all. I had never performed a confession before but I knew the protocol from my training.

The following morning, nerves began to set in as I headed over to the church at eight for want of anything else to do. I headed to the small room at the back and donned my vestments. I placed my handwritten sheets next to the bible on the pulpit and read aloud a few lines to test the acoustics. As people began to arrive, I stood at the door and shook each and every hand as they came through. About forty people in total turned up and sadly I immediately forgot every name, I would have to work on that over the coming weeks. I began the sermon, introducing myself and talking about new beginnings and how much I was looking forward to meeting the community. After the service, I mingled with the congregation and got to know quite a few people. Then I had lunch with Richard in the back room as I had an hour to kill before confession. I was feeling good about everything and was in a positive mood when I stepped into the confession booth. I waited for a few minutes and I was just thinking about leaning out to see if anyone was waiting when the curtain parted and someone stepped into the other side. I paused for a moment to allow the person to speak. Usually here someone will tell me how long it has been since they last confessed, but they were silent.

“Tell me my child, what is it that you want to confess?”

The phrase felt clunky in my mouth but that was what I had been trained to say. There was a small sigh that came from the other side of the partition and a woman’s voice began to speak.

“Sorry for my hesitance Father, I will admit that I have never actually been to confession before. I did not wish to burden Reverend Smith with this at the end of his life so I stayed silent. However, the pain inside my heart has only grown with the years that this church has stayed empty and so when I heard of a new appointment I knew I had to come.”

This was a rather startling opening with such dramatic phrasing. I was expecting to hear a farmer atoning for using the Lord’s name in vain or perhaps an unfaithful husband, but this seemed far more intriguing. However, I quickly shook off my curiosity as it was not professional.

The woman continued “What I have to say may shock you Father and you may think ill of me but I need you to know that not a day has gone by when my soul has not been darkened by this event. I have struggled to sleep at night and my body is exhausted. I come to you and lay myself bare before God in the hope of some kind of relief. I know what you are probably thinking, I am being dramatic in my wording. I have been alone with this truth for far too long Father and I have had time enough to make this into a theatrical production in my mind.”

With this she began to sob. I felt so powerless, stuck on the other side of the partition. All I could do was utter platitudes in an attempt to calm her. After a while she was able to regain her composure and apologised profusely. I assured her that it was what I was there for to hear this kind of thing. I encouraged her to continue with her story if she felt up to it.

“I suppose it begins a number of years ago. I was eighteen and my family had just moved to this village. We struggled with money, but a distant Uncle on my Mother’s side had died and left us a house in the centre. They decided to start over with new jobs and we could all see our prospects improving. As an eighteen-year-old, I wasn’t overly enthusiastic about moving to such a small place but we settled into the village well and my parents found jobs easily. However, I had a harder time with the change. I had lots of friends at my old school, but this was a rural place and I always felt like an outsider. As a result, I spent time wandering around the village waiting for my parents to get home from work. That’s when I met Eric, the son of one of the farmers around here. I was walking through the village one afternoon and he said hello as we walked past each other. We got talking and chatted for a while, actually just outside this church. He seemed far nicer and more intelligent than I had assumed from his muddy boots and farming attire. I scolded myself for being so judgemental and when we parted ways, I hoped I would bump into him again. The very next evening I was walking again, this time perhaps with an ulterior motive. Sure enough, around the same spot I saw him again. This time, we chatted for even longer and arranged to meet the next day. Within the week, I had fallen in love. I began to spend more and more time with Eric, either he would come to my house when my parents weren’t home or we would walk around his Father’s farm. As I said, I didn’t have many friends, so I was so happy to have someone to talk to and be around. Eventually, I mustered up the courage to introduce him to my parents who took to him very quickly, he was charming that way.

Everything seemed to be going very well but we soon hit a roadblock. I was pregnant. I felt ashamed as I was only 18 and Eric was about five years older than me. We talked and he decided that the best thing was for us to get married. I baulked at the idea at first, I felt so young, but he told me how much he loved me and that he wanted our child to grow up in a loving family. He had worked for his Father for several years and had some money stashed away but that he would find a proper job that payed more. We married a month later and by the end of the year we had a child, a lovely daughter called Esme. We were living with my parents and Eric managed to get a job in the textile factory the next town over. We saved up enough for him to buy a beat-up second hand car to drive to work in. My parents still worked full time and gave us some money when they could. I was alone with the baby a lot of the time, Eric had insisted that I be a stay-at-home Mum. Esme and I would push the pram around the village and wave to people as we passed and I was generally fairly happy. However, when we moved out of my parent’s house things started to go downhill.

Eric and I started renting a house on the outskirts of the village, right next to the pond. He picked up a few more shifts at work to cover it and was getting home later than before. It was fine, I was home all day so I didn’t mind getting dinner sorted and putting Esme to bed. However, Eric started coming home later and later, smelling of beer. His shift was supposed to finish at seven but some nights he wouldn’t get home until gone ten. He would stumble in through the door and slump onto the sofa and demand that I bring him food and more beer. He would inevitably wake Esme up and I would have to reheat dinner while bouncing her on my hip. Then he would pass out in front of the TV with his dinner half-eaten beside him. He would never help with taking care of Esme, he told me it was woman’s work. Even if he was home on time at seven he would refuse to help me with the housework and would instead sit watching TV with a crate of beer by his side. But Father even that I could cope with, he was distant and obnoxious but I could manage. Then one night something changed. He came home even later than usual, probably gone midnight. I was in bed and he crashed through the door, smashing something on his way in. He hollered up the stairs for his dinner and I hurried down. I told him to be quiet or he would wake Esme up just like he had woken me up. I begin to question him about why he was home so late and what he had been doing. He just demanded that I make him something to eat or he would be angry. I refused and he turned to look at me, fire in his eyes. The next thing I knew, I was on the ground and my face was burning. I felt strangely ashamed and didn’t know why. Eric just laughed and lay down on the sofa and fell asleep. The next morning, I didn’t know what to do. I was stunned. So I just put some makeup over the welt and pretended nothing had happened. Eric was jovial as he set off for work and I began to question my version of events. Maybe I had imagined what had happened. Maybe I deserved what I had got. These questions swirled around in my head as I carried on with my day. But then that evening Eric came home in a foul mood. This time he hit me for no damn reason. Once again, I was down on the floor with my head ringing. The next morning, I once again covered the mark and pretended nothing happened. This became something that happened a few times a week. I began to not go outside, not see my parents because I didn’t want anyone asking me about the poorly covered marks on my cheeks. I was scared and alone Father, only taking comfort in Esme.

Then, one night, he came home in a real fury over something or other. He hit me but that wasn’t enough and he came for me again so I ran out into the darkness. I was stood by the pond outside when he stormed out. He kicked at the kitchen table as he did and the crash woke Esme up. She began bawling and the sound carried over into the night. I felt awful and needed to get back inside to her but he was stood between me and the house. His fists were clenched and his jaw was taught. He looked back at the house, registering the crying. He started back towards the door cursing and saying he was going to go and make Esme shut up. I had suffered under this man for so long, Father, but now he was threatening my child. Something in me shifted and I picked up a rock from the ground. I ran up behind him and before he could react I smashed it two-handed over his head. He fell forwards and I was prepared to hit him again if I had to but he did not get back up. I stared down at him, my breath coming in ragged gasps but he did not move. I bent down to look at his face and I realised he was not breathing. Father, I had killed him but I felt no remorse. I was protecting my child. I threw the rock into the water and I rocked my baby back to sleep, worrying that her crying would wake the neighbours. Then I went outside and as quietly as possible I dragged Eric’s body to the water and waded it out to the centre. I hurried back inside and lay in bed staring at the ceiling until morning came. Then I went to the police the following morning and reported my husband missing. They searched for a few days before finding him in the pond. They saw the alcohol he had in his system when he died and ruled it as a tragic accident.”

I was stunned. I sat there in silence, unable to think what I should say. The story this woman had told me was so terrible that I could not put any words together to express myself. Hearing my silence, she spoke again.

“So Father, am I deserving of penance? Not a day goes by that I do not think about what happened. I see his face every time I look out at that water. I am plagued by nightmares about it. Yet, I feel no guilt about it, that is the scariest part I suppose. My daughter is happy and healthy and I have friends all across the village. I walk her to school each morning before work and we eat dinner together and laugh. We are happy, I am happy with my daughter. I think I am coming to you to tell you my story, to have told it to one other person. Thankyou for listening Father.”

With that, she moved the curtain aside and stepped out of the booth. I heard the door of the church open and close but I stayed rooted to the spot. Afterwards, I chided myself for staying silent but I also knew that anything I say would be hollow after her story.

Months later, once I was firmly established in the eyes of the village, I was in the pub one evening with some of my parishioners. We were drinking and talking and soon we got onto the topic of village gossip. There were the obvious things about mistresses and stealing but one topic made me prick up my ears. One of the villagers mentioned the woman who lived in the house by the pond. He nodded sagely and said how she had killed her husband. At this the others nodded with him, as though they already knew the story. He then told me that most of the village know about it but that no-one has ever said anything because why would they? She was a woman defending herself and her baby.