Nicene #11 Faslane

Faslane: Breath

“We believe in the Holy Spirit,

the Lord, the giver of life.”

—-

The taxi is already waiting.

Marcus’s rucksack

leans against the front door.

His mum keeps

finding little things to straighten—

a collar,

a loose thread,

a sleeve already smooth.

The kettle boils.

Neither of them

has much to say.

Last year

He had gone to the cinema

to watch Spider-Man:

No Way Home.

Before the trailers,

a Royal Navy advert.

Travel.

Adventure.

Learn a trade.

His mates

Messed about on the bus

On the way back to the estate.

Marcus didn’t.

Something in him

had caught its breath.

His dad died

when Marcus was six.

The estate knew

how to raise boys.

Not always

how to raise men.

There were older lads

with quick smiles,

easy money,

and promises

that always cost more later.

His mum prayed.

Sometimes loudly.

Sometimes while

hanging washing

that never seemed

to dry.

When the acceptance letter arrived,

she cried again.

At Birmingham New Street

she slips her old Bible

between rolled-up T-shirts

and a tin of boot polish.

“Read a Psalm

when you remember.”

The whistle sounds.

Doors close.

The train eases away.

She keeps waving

until she is no more

than a blur

on Platform Eight.

Marcus doesn’t open the Bible.

Not that day.

The Navy arrives all at once.

Early mornings.

Boots that shine.

Beds without creases.

Strangers

become shipmates.

For the first time

in his life,

people expect

something of him.

Now he lives

inside steel.

The submarine slips

beneath the Atlantic.

Morning comes

because a clock

says it has.

The submarine

makes its own water,

its own air.

Every breath

has already belonged

to someone else.

Weeks pass

without rain,

without wind,

without the smell

of wet tarmac.

Sometimes he wakes

certain

he has heard gulls.

It is only

the ventilation.

Sometimes he dreams

of opening a window.

Then remembers

there are none.

His Bible lives

inside his locker.

The cover is cracked.

One Psalm.

Every day.

The chaplain is Anglican,

a former Royal Marine.

His sermons

are shorter

than the silence

that follows them.

Marcus trusts him.

The first Christmas

after Russia invaded Ukraine,

they are still beneath the Atlantic.

Paper hats.

Plastic crackers.

Turkey.

Roast potatoes

that taste nothing

like his mum’s.

Someone begins

O Little Town of Bethlehem.

Another voice joins.

Then another.

Soon the whole mess

is singing

about angels,

about peace,

about a child

whose first bed

was borrowed.

Outside,

dark water.

Inside,

enough fire

to empty cities.

No one aboard

wants that fire

ever to burn.

That is the strange calling

of this place—

to spend your life

preparing

for the day

you pray

never comes.

The patrol

goes on.

Watch.

Maintenance.

Tea.

Sleep.

Repeat.

Somewhere above,

storms cross the Atlantic.

Children are born.

His mum

puts the kettle on

before another night shift.

Marcus

reads another Psalm.

One evening,

a folded note

slips from his Bible.

His mum’s handwriting.

Where can I go from your Spirit?

Where can I flee from your presence?

He reads it again.

Then closes the book.

The lights dim.

The fans

keep breathing.

The hull

answers the sea

with its slow,

familiar groan.

Somewhere above,

wind

moves across the water,

filling sails,

bending trees,

lifting gulls.

Marcus lies awake.

The submarine

keeps its course.

The sea

keeps its silence.

Marcus

keeps watch.

We believe

in the Holy Spirit,

the Lord,

the giver of life.

-Rev’d Jon Swales