Cows mooed. Birds bubbled in a nearby hedgerow. Butterflies fluttered by. A Gatekeeper, Jane said, pointing to a butterfly fluttering by. Benedict watched as the butterfly fluttered along ahead of them. Wasn't sure, he said. He caught her out of the corner of his eye. Dark hair, let loose, shoulder length; blue flowered dress short sleeved. I ought not to say whom you can see and whom you can't, she said, pausing by the hedgerow, looking up the narrow road leading to the small church, if you want to see that Lizbeth girl it's up to you, she added. Benedict looked at her. She comes looking for me; I don't go looking for her, he said. Her eyes looked at him: dark eyes, warm, searching, honest-to-God eyes. What does she want with you? Jane asked. A sound of a tractor in the distant field. Whatever it is she won't get it, he said, eyeing her lips, how they part slightly, her teeth, small but even. She seemed hooked on you, Jane said. She looked at Benedict's quiff of brown hair, his hazel eyes. Guess she is. He tries to push thoughts of Lizbeth ******* in her room a few months ago and how she wanted him to have *** with her and he didn't want to and didn't. Much to her annoyance. He pictures her body semi-undressed, her bed waiting for them. He couldn't. Jane frowned. I had a word with her in the girl's toilet at school, Jane said, she showed no shame in wanting to have *** with you; I couldn't believe any girl could just do that. Benedict sighed. Some can and do, he said, I didn't want to and so didn't. She seemed relieved to hear that and walked on and he walked on beside her.  Why didn't you? She asked, have *** with her? He thought before answering, didn't want to say the wrong thing. He heard the cows mooing louder as they walked up towards the church lane. I wouldn't, not just out of lust, he said. If you loved her would you? She asked. He didn't love Lizbeth, he liked her for reasons he couldn't quite fathom, but it wasn't love. Don't think so, he answered. She was quiet and they walked on up the narrow lane. A blackbird flew over their heads. The smell of flowers was strong. Cow dung from the farm was as strong. He studied Jane's hand near his: slim, fingers narrow, neat nails. Do you love her? Jane asked. No, he replied. He wanted to say he loved her, loved Jane, but it was a big statement to say and he didn't want just to blurt it out. They entered the churchyard. The small church was nearby. Lizbeth had been here with him twice or so. Once suggesting they have *** on one of the church pews. Narrow wooden pews. Would she have? He asked himself as he and Jane walked past old tombstones. He guessed she would, but he couldn't, not there, not anywhere. Jane paused by a grave. He was a tractor driver who died when his tractor fell on top of him, Jane said, pointing at the grave. It looked new: new stone, fresh dug earth, flowers. O my God, he said, how sad. Yes, it is, she said. His wife and children had to leave the tied cottage afterwards. Benedict caught her perfume as she leaned near him. He couldn't identify the flower smell. He couldn’t imagine her wanting him to have *** with her anywhere. Yet, oddly he felt he could with her, but he knew she wouldn't so it was safe to think it. But not like Lizbeth who was gagging for it-to use her expression-, but out of a love feeling, maybe. No, he couldn't imagine Jane doing such. What did you think when that Lizbeth girl brought you here? Jane asked. Thought she was just going to show me around the church; she said she was interested in the architecture, he said. She lies good, Jane said. He nodded. They walked on around the church, walked past other graves, older, moss covered stones. Were you tempted to have *** with her on one of the pews? Jane asked. Of course not, he replied, looking straight at her. Never dawned on me that she'd want such a thing. How could she even suppose you would? Jane said. Because she wanted to, she imagined I must want it, too, he said. But on a church pew? She said, her voice having tones of disbelief. He sighed. I know and when I said people might come in she said serves them right for coming in, he said, trying to recollect her words exactly, but couldn't. Jane opened the small wooden door of the church and they entered. It was cool. The walls were white painted. The windows were painted with religious figures. This is God's house, Jane said, she shouldn't have even thought of such a thing. Benedict looked at the altar end. A small crucifix stood on an altar table with a white cloth on it. He looked at the side pews. He tried to find the one he sat in with Lizbeth and she suggested having *** there. It made him go cold thinking of it. Jane walked to the altar end and sniffed. Incense from Sunday, she said. He smelt it too. He smelt her perfume more. She was close to him now. Her body was inches from his. His body tingled. He knew he loved her. He wanted to say so; wanted to say it loudly to her, but it was the wrong place. He looked at her body encased in the dress. Slim, narrow, her ******* were small, but tight. She was curved. He looked away. He knew he ought not to think of her in that way, least not here. Let's sit and pray, she said, and walked into one of the side pews and sat down. He sat next to her, pushing thoughts of Lizbeth from his mind. Keeping the image of her lifting her skirt and showing him a glimpse of her thigh from his mind. Jane had closed her eyes in prayer. She was a parson's daughter; prayer was natural to her as breathing. He closed his eyes. Smelt her perfume mingled with incense. How did one pray at a time like this? He thought, pushing Lizbeth's thigh from his inner eye.