I was brought up a Catholic. I remember praying each night with my grandfather, J. R. R. Tolkien, when I would go to stay with him and my grandmother in Bournemouth, and sensing the certainty of his faith. I still have two circular prayer cards, the size of coins, on which he inscribed the Pater Noster and the Ave Maria in minuscule writing, geometrically following the curve of a diminishing circle: a work of art.
My mother, Faith, was also devout. Towards the end of her life, six years down the slow descent into the dark land of dementia, she told me: “I have faith. That’s my name. I believe that God is looking after me.” I drew immense comfort from her certainty. I still do; but I could not share it. Somewhere in my teens, or perhaps earlier, I lost the spark and have never found it again.
