The Victory of Faith
Maya Dempster
Daisy Sheridan walks into the bakery with her mother Gwyneth. I straighten my apron and wipe the flour off my face as they enter.
‘Good morning, Mrs Sheridan.’ I say cheerily, then nod my head, ‘Daisy’. I knew Daisy from school, we weren’t friends, but we had dressmaking together. She returned the gesture, ‘Margaret’. My ears heated with the sound of my name on her lips.
‘What can I get you ma’am?’ I took Mrs Sheridan’s order, then packaged her bread and scones while my mother and her exchanged pleasantries. Gwyneth’s husband is the towns pastor, and my mother wanted to know what time his sermon was starting this Sunday. We’re not a massively religious bunch, but my mother likes to stay present in community activities, Sunday church included. They were the only customers in the store so, I went to make conversation with Daisy.
‘So, how is-’
‘I like your apron,’ she said, her voice catching slightly, as if unsure of how much more to reveal.
‘Thank you. How are you going with our recent project?’
‘Fine.’
We lingered in uneasy silence, my thoughts frantically whirling in my head. I went to open my mouth, but before I could speak, Mrs Sheridan interrupted.
‘Okay Daisy, we have dinner to prepare. Say goodbye to your friend.’ I heard Daisy mumble ‘She’s not my friend’ under her breath as they walked out. My chest tightened and my lips quivered, I swallowed down hard as her words reverberated in my ears. I lift a hesitant hand to wave, careful not to show my sadness at her leaving.
‘We’ll see you on Sunday!’ my mum called out.
My mother and I visit Monte’s Bakery every Thursday to pick up bread to go with dinner, but they closed today. Monte has gone on a fishing trip. Or at least, that’s what the sign says at the front of his corner shop. I could remember a girl Margaret from class who mentioned her mother has a bakery on the High Street. So, my mother and I walked there.
The chime on the door clanged, reminding me of the shudder of church bells, and I saw her. I hadn’t realised Margaret worked there with her mother. She was wearing an apron that hugged her waist, and I noticed her wipe away a dust of flour from her auspicious nose. We exchanged glances as she took my mother’s order. I’d been meaning to tell her how much I adore her designs and how her hair looks so beautiful when it’s haphazardly put up while she’s pinning her dresses. But I hear my father mentioned.
‘That’s right, nine o’clock. He’s prepared a special sermon this week, he feels the town will be inspired.’
My father, the pastor here in Grenville, has been practicing his sermon after dinner every night. The sound of my mother’s cheer of approval is engraved in my mind. I don’t know how I’m going to sit there on Sunday when Margaret will be in her most lovely dress, and I am forced to hear my father preach against everything I am.
***
‘Brothers and Sisters in Christ. Today we gather in the house of the Lord to reflect upon the sanctity of our faith and the moral compass by which we guide our lives. In these times of trial and temptation, it is more important than ever to hold steadfast to the teachings of our Holy scripture.
‘The book of Leviticus tells us; “You shall not lie with a male as with a woman; it is an abomination.” These words are a reminder of the path we must walk to remain in God’s grace. We must trust in the Lord’s wisdom and not be swayed by the whispers of the devil in the guise of love and acceptance’
My mind blurred. The word abomination echoed in my ears, an uneasy feeling arose in my stomach, heat escaping from my cheeks. I draw my gaze to the stone Mother Mary sculpture to my right, the air felt as solid and unyielding as the marble itself. A cold reminder of the air stifling around me. I glance around to make sure no one notices my discomfort, but they are all paying attention to Pastor Sheridan. All except for Daisy. We made eye contact, and I grasped my cheeks. I was sure she didn’t notice, she sat in the front and I in the back, I hope she hadn’t. She turned back to the front as quickly as she had made eye contact. I slide low in my seat, trying to disappear, but I know that no matter how hard I try, the pastor’s words, and the feelings I cannot face will always find me.
I can feel her breath down my neck, though she’s far behind my pew. My skin raises, I can feel my father’s words crawling on me, disgusting like a spider. I want them gone, off me and gone.
The church bells ring and I shudder.
After my father greets and thanks what feels like the whole parish and then some, he grabs me by the shoulders and asks, ‘So! How was it? You think the parishioners enjoyed my sermon today?’ I can’t help but curl my lips in discomfort. Next, I don’t know what came over me.
‘Dad, did you ever think that maybe there is nothing wrong with love? Even if it between two women?’ Careful not to let my obvious stance linger, I let out a high pitched.‘Or two men!’ My father stared at me, utter confusion whipping across his face, as if he cannot believe I had the mind to ask such a question.
‘Darling,’ he paused, mouth agape, ‘where did you get such an idea?’ Crap. I hadn’t thought this far ahead.
‘It’s what you’ve always taught me. Jesus preached love and acceptance, love is supposed to be pure, no matter who it’s between.’
His eyes narrowed and his hand pressed further into my collarbone, ‘The scripture is clear.’ his voice stern. ‘We follow the word of God as it is written.’
‘But-’
‘No.’
I didn’t want to look at his scowl anymore, so I ran. I didn’t know where I was going, but I ran.
As we’re heading home, I make a detour for the old church. I wasn’t alive when it caught fire, but I know it was once beautiful, because it is beautiful now. I sit at the back of the church, on one of the last standing pews, a small letter in hand. I take this letter with me everywhere, even church. I know it’s wrong, but it brings me warmth. It’s worn down by me rubbing it in my pocket each time I need comfort, but mainly when I need Daisy. The edges are yellowed, and the creases are permanently etched into the paper. As if summoning her, I see Daisy sprinting through the pane-less window, I get up from the pew and hide behind my favourite elm.
I end up at the abandoned church, it’s so beautiful, an old gothic Weatherboard building with stunning greenery cascading from the aging steeples. Only now it sits blackened by ash after a fire destroyed it years ago. I suppose no one wanted to restore it, or maybe it was haunted or something (superstitious parishioners), but the council just built a new one.
In the corner of my eye, I see a small figure run from an old burnt tree at the house next door to the church. I ran from the steps of the church without thinking and darted across, in the hopes of spotting the figure again. But it was gone.
I circle around the half-burnt down house three times before I decide to give up. But I remembered the tree. The tree was once a glorious elm with leaves that were to die for during all seasons, but now it sits, sad, hollowed out and blackened by the fire.
I investigated the hollowed trunk and found a note. I looked around to make sure no one could see. The note was written in perfect cursive and was addressed directly to me.
I run before she can see me. I am sure she will figure it out as soon as she sees the letter, but my heart cannot take seeing her face if she is to be as disgusted by the contents of the letter as I am of myself.
My hands trembled as I reached into the hollowed trunk, what if this letter changes everything? I can’t help but hesitate. My heart contorts and my stomach stretches. I drop it into the old elm and disappear.
‘Dear Daisy,
My heart races as I write these words, knowing that they carry the weight of my deepest feelings.
I cherish any moment I see you. I cherish every small interaction that may be meaningless to you. Only these moments mean the world to me. You mean the world to me. I want you.
I am a coward to their words. I am terrified of what this letter might mean for both of us, so please forgive me, but I can no longer stay silent. Please, if you feel the same, be brave for the both of us.
From your whole-heartedly devoted love.’
***
I sat in bed for days with this letter on my lap and my head collapsed in my hands. How could she risk everything like this, risk exposing us both to the judgment of my father, the church, everyone? Girls are not meant to feel this way about each other, she knows better!
I wish I was the one to do it. That way I could just let my feelings out and be rid of them. But now she doesn’t want me to be a coward? I am a coward and I’m comfortable with that.
Margaret has no idea what she has done to me. Not just now, but all these years. Sitting behind me in the Lord’s house in those perfectly neat dresses that would sit right at her knee. No one else knows that when she sits down at her pew, her dress lifts ever so slightly, revealing her freckled legs—a sight that sends pulses of guilt through me. I wanted to kiss those freckles when I saw them every Sunday. How dare she? How dare she make me feel this, here of all places, under God’s scolding eyes?
It was agony seeing her on Sundays and in classes, but it was a familiar agony. Now, she feels the same way and suddenly agony is the least of my worries.
***
‘Margaret. Dearest Margaret.
How am I to begin this letter knowing it must end?
You have overwhelmed my thoughts for so long, in ways I cannot describe, but now, with your true words before me, my mind is more tangled than ever.
I’m afraid, Margaret. I am so afraid.
Every Sunday, sitting in that pew, I catch a glimpse of you, and I am reminded of the weight of the church, my father’s expectations, and the greater consequences of how I feel. Only, now I know you feel the same way. Every glimpse, every word exchanged, has meant the world to me, and it is freeing to know it meant as much to you. But we’re not free, Margaret.
For years, I’ve tried to push it down, hide it away, tell myself that it was wrong. But the truth is, your letter has shown me that love, no matter what form it takes, is beautiful. It’s real, and it’s pure.
I don’t know what the future holds for us. But I know that I want to love you openly and fully, deeply, the way you so deserve.
There is still fear, still uncertainty. But I love you, Margaret. And I am ready to try.
Yours, ever in fear, Daisy.’
Maya Dempster is a Melbourne based writer, specialising in fiction and poetry, currently completing a Bachelor of Arts in Creative Writing at RMIT. Her work is set to feature in a digital publication of the Bowen Street Press in late 2024.