'Little girls who tell lies are struck by lightning', said Nurse Vincent, who had been eavesdropping when I had been telling Patrick that I used to be a Red Indian. This was a splendid opportunity to prove my truth, so when the next storm broke I escaped naked into the rain and stood with my arms upstretched to the vivid sky, free and exultant. She got soaked when she had to fetch me in, and the silly woman was terrified of thunderstorms. If I said 'Damn', as Father quite often did, she told me that 'children who used wicked swear-words frequently annoy God so much that He strikes them dead.'

Blast, Dash, and Damn were my repertoire, but Patrick, when pressed, supplied Bloody, with dire warning that it was not only 'a bad word' but blasphemy. Patrick's God seemed to be very unreasonable, for why should He mind our saying Bloody, which Patrick said meant, 'by Our Lady', when the Lady was His mother and very kind? He tried to explain when I asked him, but I still didn't understand and he said worriedly, 'It just is, Miss Joan, but I'd have to be a priest and you a Catholic before we'd know why.'

It would be very uncomfortable to believe in a God who was so fussy about swearing, but it might be risky to prove that He didn't exist. If Patrick's God did exist and struck me dead, how would He do it? Not by lightning, for that was reserved for liars, but to be on the safe side I had better choose a night of friendly stars and clear weather. Would He use a swift blow on the back of the neck with the side of His hand, like Patrick used to kill a sick rabbit? 'A clean, quick death, so it is,' he had said.

It rained for several days, and I was relieved because I was not really looking forward to having to make sure God didn't mind about swearing. It would have to be a night without clouds so that He could see me.

Then one came, so I couldn't put it off any longer. It is surprisingly easy to leave a sleeping house even when you don't bother to be especially quiet. I wore my dressing-gown and slippers until I got down to the beach. Then I took them off because I felt it would be impolite to ask questions of God while I was hidden in clothes.

The sea was uncovering the sands, gently drawing back smooth sheets of dark water. 'Bloody!' I whispered, 'Bloody!' There was no answer except the soft sough of the sea.

It was cold and my teeth were beginning to chatter, but I managed to say 'Bloody!' quite clearly and loudly. Still nothing happened. I looked up at the sky. The stars were so bright that God could certainly see me.

'Bloody! ' I shouted. 'Bloody, and Blast and Damn!'

Suddenly I felt beautifully happy. I knew that I need not believe what other people told me about God.

SOURCE: Far Memory: the Autobiography of Joan Grant, 1956 (Ariel Press reprint, 1985), pp. 16-17