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sought it by going into the church.
    Her curse, she saw, would be the centrepiece of the nave, that object upon which her eyes fell when the door closed behind her. It was an octagonal marble baptismal font, dwarfed beneath the arched timber ceiling. Each side of the font bore intricate carving, and two tall pewter candlesticks stood behind it, waiting to be lit for the ceremony that brought another child to Christianity.
    Deborah walked to the font and touched the smooth oak that covered it. Just for a moment, she let herself imagine the infant in her arms, the tender pressure of its head against her breast. She let herself hear its cry of indignation as the water poured over its sweet, defenceless brow. She let herself feel the tiny, fragile hand curve over her finger. She let herself believe that she had not—this fourth time in eighteen months—miscarried Simon’s child. She let herself pretend that she had not been in hospital, that the last conversation with her doctor had never occurred. But his words intruded. She could not escape.
    “An abortion doesn’t necessarily preclude the possibility of future successful pregnancies, Deborah. But in some cases it might. You said it was more than six years ago. There might have been complications. Scarring, that sort of thing. We won’t know that for a certainty until we do some thorough tests. So if you and your husband really want—”
    “No!”
    The doctor’s face had shown immediate comprehension. “Then Simon doesn’t know?”
    “I was only eighteen. I was in America. He doesn’t…he can’t… ”
    Even now she reeled from the thought of that. She felt in panic for the edge of a pew and, jerking open its small door, she stumbled inside and dropped onto the seat.
    You will, she told herself with a ruthless desire to inflict as much pain as possible, never have another child. You might have had one once. You might have felt that frail life take shape within your body. But you destroyed it, discarded it, threw it away. Now you pay. Now you are punished in the only coin you can understand. You will never have Simon’s child. Another woman might. Another woman could. But the mingling of your body and your love with Simon’s will not produce a child. That will never happen. You will not do this.
    She stared at the needlepoint kneelers that hung against the back of the pew, each one centred with a cross, each one directing her to turn to the Lord to assuage a despair that was without limit. Musty-smelling blue and red hymnals offered her songs of praise and thanksgiving. Dusty silk poppy wreaths hung against the far walls, and even at this distance Deborah could read the signs beneath them. Brownies, Girl Guides, Rangers of Stoke Poges . There was no comfort here.
    She left the pew, walked to the altar rail. This too had its message, lettered in yellow onto a faded blue pad that covered the stones: “Come unto me all ye that travail and are heavy laden and I will refresh you.”
    Refresh , she thought bitterly, but not change, not cure, and not forgive. There is no miracle here for me, no Lourdes to bathe in, no laying-on of hands, no absolution . She left the church.
    Outside, the sun was beginning to set. Deborah retrieved her equipment and retraced her steps down the path towards her car. At the interior lych gate, she turned for a last look at the church, as if it might give her the peace of mind she sought. The setting sun was shooting up final rays of dying light, like an aureole that backdropped the trees behind the church and the crenellated Norman tower that housed its bells.
    At another time and without a thought, she would have taken a photograph, capturing the slow change in the sky’s hue as the day’s death intensified the sunset. But at this moment she could only watch the light’s beauty fade and fail, and she knew she could no longer avoid the homecoming and Simon’s unsuspecting, unconditional love.
    Across her path just inches from her