I had a job just getting on the bed in the first place. She’d lie down together with me and we’d cuddle up. At some point in the afternoon, Mum would arrive to pick me up. Mum never hung around to chat to Grandma, and I suspect they may not have got on too well, but to me she was special.
Chapter Six
The Ministry
Every month a package would arrive, delivered by a member of the Fellowship. This contained the books that told my parents how to live their lives. These were the Ministry, and we had accumulated hundreds of them. Victor’s carpentry skills were called into action by Dad, who got him to build several enormous sets of shelves and attach them to the walls on either side of the chimney breast in our dining room. They were completely filled with the volumes of the Ministry. Red books, green books, brown books, white books … I loved looking at the colours, but I wasn’t interested in what was in them. Mum and Dad would read every word, process the information and then tell me how a Fellowship girl was expected to behave.
Sometimes I went with Dad, and a few other Fellowship men, to the High Street to do some preaching. Everyone would stand with their back to the glass front of the local Woolworth’s store, while the men took it in turn to step forward to preach. No one ever came out of Woolworth’s to tell us to ‘piss off ’, so we must have had some sort of pitch licence.
When it was Dad’s turn, he would step forward into the bustling crowd with confidence and begin to read from the Bible earnestly. The thing I loved about Dad was that he seemed completely unbothered by the crowd. His confidence gave me confidence to be there; he made it seem like something to be proud of.
Most people just ignored us, but Dad carried on as if he had a captive audience. This happened once a month on a Saturday, when the high street was busy and there were no meetings to go, and it was the only time the Fellowship spoke publicly. I’m not sure if we were supposed to be converting sinners, but, if we were, it was a dismal failure. The only attention I remember getting was from the driver of a speeding white van, who slowed down just enough to shout out a volley of blasphemous abuse at us, before whizzing off in fits of laughter. Well, at least he showed some interest.
Reading all those ministry books and endless chapters from the Bible got tedious, even for Dad, so the reading of the daily broadsheet was a real treat for him in the evenings. Before starting he made sure he had everything he’d need to sustain him throughout the evening. First, he’d carefully snip the corner off a packet of peanuts and lean it against the leg of his favourite chair where he sat, so that they were within arm’s reach. This allowed him to slide his hand down and grab the packet without taking his eyes from the page. Nearby, he’d place a glass of sherry, which could also be located without looking.
Very carefully he aligned the pages of the paper, making sure he had the large cumbersome sheets under strict control. When everything was in order, he’d settle back in the armchair and balance the newspaper on his knees. Between regular munches of peanuts and sips of sherry, he gave sharp twitches of his head and nods of approval. If he got really involved in an article, he’d let out sharp lisping noises: the sound of him muttering under his breath. Victor and I found Dad’s habits hilariously funny. Without a TV, watching Dad was our evening’s entertainment.
Sometimes, he’d let out roars of laughter, calling out, ‘Edith, have you seen this?’ to which Mum would retort sharply, while her knitting needles clattered away, ‘Of course not, Peter, I’ve been far too busy.’
Eventually, Dad’s head would slump onto his chest and he’d begin snoring. This was our chance! Very carefully, one of us would begin to slide the paper from between his fingers. As soon as he felt the precious Telegraph slipping from his grasp, his head would snap up, and he’d shout, ‘I was reading that!’ and our chance was gone. And, of course, there wasn’t a hope in hell of taking away from Dad what was his only window on the world beyond the Fellowship.
Chapter Seven
School of Thought
When I was five I started my first year at the local primary school. At long last I was a big girl. I was particularly proud to be at the very same school my dad had attended when he was a lad. What’s more, I was following in the footsteps of Alice, Victor and Samantha. I couldn’t wait to let everyone in my class know that I had a big sister in the junior school. And I felt so important, putting on my best dress and shoes.
Samantha relished her big sister role, telling me which teachers to watch out for and what I could expect to encounter.
‘You’re lucky you won’t have Mrs Cook,’ she told me, enigmatically.
I wasn’t sure why this was meant to be lucky, but I nodded gravely. I accepted that Mrs Cook was capable of terrible things.
‘Your teacher,’ Samantha revealed, ‘is called Mrs Roland.’ Samantha had heard good things about Mrs Roland. Nothing terrible, anyway.
‘I’m going to call her Roland Rat,’ I announced. I had a sticker of Roland Rat attached to the headboard of my bed, so he meant a lot to me.
‘No, Lindsey, you don’t want to do that,’ she warned.
‘Yes, I do,’ I said defiantly, but I wisely never said it to Mrs Roland’s face.
Pretty soon, though, on the first morning, I was sitting in that Welfare office on the plastic chair, with all the Asian children. No one in the family prepared me for that.
The only preparation for school I was given by my parents was intended to make sure I followed the Fellowship rules while there. How I coped with that in the school environment was left up to me.
It was when I started school that I began to realize how my life really differed from those of the rest of my friends. I didn’t want to stand out, but having to follow the Fellow-ship’s rules made it difficult not to.
One of the first friends I made at primary school was Catherine. I can’t remember much about her now, but I must have thought she was nice, because I invited her back to my house. For some reason I decided that the Fellowship rule of not having worldly people in the house wouldn’t apply on that day. I was living in the moment and it seemed right. I was only five.
Mum was busy helping Alice make her wedding dress that day and had asked Catherine’s mum if she could walk me to the corner of Albion Avenue on the way home, to make sure I arrived safely. But when it came to saying goodbye I found myself asking, ‘Can Catherine come to my house and play?’
Catherine’s mum sounded unsure. ‘I don’t think we can, Lindsey, that’s not … I don’t think we’re allowed to do that.’ But there was no stopping me now.
‘It’s going to be fine,’ I said.
Together all three of us headed up Albion Avenue, right to my front door.
When Mum opened the door her face said it all. The two adults looked each other: Mum in her sensible skirt and blouse, and Catherine’s mum in her bright-pink leg warmers. I don’t know who was more embarrassed. I had done wrong.
‘I’m sorry,’ Mum managed to say to Catherine and her mum … I pushed past her and ran into the front room. Alice was kneeling on the floor, surrounded by acres of material. I looked at all that white satin and in a moment I had forgotten my bad deed. After Mum had dispatched Catherine, she entered the room, picked up the scissors and carried on cutting carefully around the edges of the wedding-dress pattern. She didn’t say a word.
I did not invite my school friends home again.
Halfway through my first day at primary school, I came across a problem. Most of the other children were having packed lunch or cooked dinner at school, whereas I was expected to go home. I really didn’t want to be the odd one out, so I looked for somewhere to hide.
Off to the side of our classroom was a long cloakroom with benches down the middle and our coat pegs on the walls. It seemed like the perfect place, so I ducked behind the door and hoped no one would find me. Samantha somehow knew I’d be there, and took me home straightaway.
I