Once, when I was collecting the black peas, about to go home, the old woman got hold of my hand. I thought she was going to bite me. She looked at my palm and laughed a bit. ‘You’ll never marry,’ she said, ‘not you, and you’ll never be still.’ She didn’t take any money for the peas, and she told me to run home fast. I ran and ran, trying to understand what she meant. I hadn’t thought about getting married anyway. There were two women I knew who didn’t have any husbands at all; they were old though, as old as my mother. They ran the paper shop and sometimes, on a Wednesday, they gave me a banana bar with my comic. I liked them a lot, and talked about them a lot to my mother. One day they asked me if I’d like to go to the seaside with them. I ran home, gabbled it out, and was busy emptying my money box to buy a new spade, when my mother said firmly and forever, no. I couldn’t understand why not, and she wouldn’t explain. She didn’t even let me go back to say I couldn’t. Then she cancelled my comic and told me to collect it from another shop, further away. I was sorry about that. I never got a banana bar from Grimsby’s. A couple of weeks later I heard her telling Mrs White about it. She said they dealt in unnatural passions. I thought she meant they put chemicals in their sweets.
My mother and I climbed until the town fell away and we reached the memorial stone at the very top. The wind was always strong so that my mother had to wear extra hat pins. Usually she wore a headscarf, but not on Sunday. We sat on the stone’s base and she thanked the Lord we had managed the ascent. Then she extemporised on the nature of the world, the folly of its peoples, and the wrath of God inevitable. After that she told me a story about a brave person who had despised the fruits of the flesh and worked for the Lord instead . . . .
There was the story of the ‘converted sweep’, a filthy degenerate, given to drunkenness and vice, who suddenly found the Lord whilst scraping the insides of a flue. He remained in the flue in a state of rapture for so long that his friends thought he was unconscious. After a great deal of difficulty they persuaded him to come out; his face, they declared, though hardly visible for the grime, shone like an angel’s. He started to lead the Sunday School and died some time later, bound for glory. There were many more; I particularly like the ‘Hallelujah Giant’, a freak of nature, eight feet tall shrunk to six foot three through the prayers of the faithful.
Now and again my mother liked to tell me her own conversion story; it was very romantic. I sometimes think that if Mills and Boon were at all revivalist in their policy my mother would be a star.
One night, by mistake, she had walked into Pastor Spratt’s Glory Crusade. It was in a tent on some spare land, and every evening Pastor Spratt spoke of the fate of the damned, and performed healing miracles. He was very impressive. My mother said he looked like Errol Flynn, but holy. A lot of women found the Lord that week. Part of Pastor Spratt’s charisma stemmed from his time spent as an advertising manager for Rathbone’s Wrought Iron. He knew about bait. ‘There is nothing wrong with bait,’ he said, when the Chronicle somewhat cynically asked him why he gave pot plants to the newly converted. ‘We are commanded to be Fishers of Men.’ When my mother heard the call, she was presented with a copy of the Psalms and asked to make her choice between a Christmas Cactus (non-flowering) and a lily of the valley. She had opted for the lily of the valley. When my father went the next night, she told him to be sure and go for the cactus, but by the time he got to the front they had all gone. ‘He’s not one to push himself,’ she often said, and after a little pause, ‘Bless him.’
Pastor Spratt came to stay with them for the rest of his time with the Glory Crusade, and it was then that my mother discovered her abiding interest in missionary work. The pastor himself spent most of his time out in the jungle and other hot places converting the Heathen. We have a picture of him surrounded by black men with spears. My mother keeps it by her bed. My mother is very like William Blake; she has visions and dreams and she cannot always distinguish a flea’s head from a king. Luckily she can’t paint.
She walked out one night and thought of her life and thought of what was possible. She thought of the things she couldn’t be. Her uncle had been an actor. ‘A very fine Hamlet,’ said the Chronicle.
But the rags and the ribbons turn to years and then the years are gone. Uncle Will had died a pauper, she was not so young these days and people were not kind. She liked to speak French and to play the piano, but what do these things mean?
Once upon a time there was a brilliant and beautiful princess, so sensitive that the death of a moth could distress her for weeks on end. Her family knew of no solution. Advisers wrung their hands, sages shook their heads, brave kings left unsatisfied. So it happened for many years, until one day, out walking in the forest, the princess came to the hut of an old hunchback who knew the secrets of magic. This ancient creature perceived in the princess a woman of great energy and resourcefulness.
‘My dear,’ she said, ‘you are in danger of being burned by your own flame.’
The hunchback told the princess that she was old, and wished to die, but could not because of her many responsibilities. She had in her charge a small village of homely people, to whom she was advisor and friend. Perhaps the princess would like to take over? Her duties would be:
(1) To milk the goats
(2) To educate the people
(3) To compose songs for their festival
To assist her she would have a three-legged stool and all the books belonging to the hunchback. Best of all, the old woman’s harmonium, an instrument of great antiquity and four octaves. The princess agreed to stay and forgot all about the palace and the moths. The old woman thanked her, and died at once.
My mother, out walking that night, dreamed a dream and sustained it in daylight. She would get a child, train it, build it, dedicate it to the Lord:
a missionary child,
a servant of God,
a blessing
And so it was that on a particular day, some time later, she followed a star until it came to settle above an orphanage, and in that place was a crib, and in that crib, a child. A child with too much hair.
She said, ‘This child is mine from the Lord’.
She took the child away and for seven days and seven nights the child cried out, for fear and not knowing. The mother sang to the child, and stabbed the demons. She understood how jealous the Spirit is of flesh.
Such warm tender flesh.
Her flesh now, sprung from her head.
Her vision.
Not the jolt beneath the hip bone, but water and the word.
She had a way out now, for years and years to come.
We stood on the hill and my mother said, ‘This world is full of sin.’
We stood on the hill and my mother said, ‘You can change the world.’
When we got home my father was watching television. It was the match between ‘Crusher Williams’ and one-eyed Jonney Stott. My mother was furious; we always covered up the television on Sundays. We had a DEEDS OF THE OLD TESTAMENT tablecloth, given to us by a man who did house clearances. It was very grand, and we kept it in a special drawer with nothing else but a piece of Tiffany glass and some parchment from Lebanon. I don’t know why we kept the parchment. We had thought it was a bit of the Old Testament but it was the lease to a sheep farm. My father hadn’t even bothered to fold up the cloth, and I could just see ‘Moses Receiving the Ten Commandments’ in a heap under the vertical hold. ‘There’s going to be trouble,’ I thought, and announced my intention of going down to the Salvation Army place for a tambourine lesson.
Poor Dad, he was never quite good enough.
That night at church, we had a visiting speaker, Pastor Finch from Stockport. He was an expert in demons, and delivered a terrifying sermon on how easy it is to become demon-possessed. We were all very uneasy afterwards. Mrs White said she thought her next-door neighbours were probably possessed, they had all the signs. Pastor Finch said that the possessed are given to uncontrollable rages, sudden bursts of wild laughter, an
d are always, always, very cunning. The Devil himself, he reminded us, can come as an angel of light.
After the service we were having a banquet; my mother had made twenty trifles and her usual mound of cheese and onion sandwiches.
‘You can always tell a good woman by her sandwiches,’ declared Pastor Finch.
My mother blushed.
Then he turned to me and said, ‘How old are you, little girl?’
‘Seven.’ I replied.
‘Ah, seven,’ he muttered. ‘How blessed, the seven days of creation, the seven-branched candlestick, the seven seals.’
(Seven seals? I had not yet reached Revelation in my directed reading, and I thought he meant some Old Testament amphibians I had overlooked. I spent weeks trying to find them, in case they came up as a quiz question.)
‘Yes,’ he went on, ‘how blessed,’ then his brow clouded. ‘But how cursed.’ At this word his fist hit the table and catapulted a cheese sandwich into the collection bag; I saw it happen, but I was so distracted I forgot to tell anyone. They found it in there the week after, at the Sisterhood meeting. The whole table had fallen silent, except for Mrs Rothwell who was stone deaf and very hungry.
‘The demon can return SEVENFOLD.’ His eyes roamed the table. (Scrape, went Mrs Rothwell’s spoon.)
‘SEVENFOLD.’
(‘Does anybody want this piece of cake?’ asked Mrs Rothwell.)
‘The best can become the worst,’ – he took me by the hand– ‘This innocent child, this bloom of the Covenant.’
‘Well, I’ll eat it then,’ announced Mrs Rothwell.
Pastor Finch glared at her, but he wasn’t a man to be put off.
‘This little lily could herself be a house of demons.’
‘Eh, steady on Roy,’ said Mrs Finch anxiously.
‘Don’t interrupt me Grace,’ he said firmly, ‘I mean this by way of example only. God has given me an opportunity and what God has given we must not presume to waste.
‘It has been known for the most holy men to be suddenly filled with evil. And how much more a woman, and how much more a child. Parents, watch your children for the signs. Husbands, watch your wives. Blessed be the name of the Lord.’
He let go of my hand, which was now crumpled and soggy.
He wiped his own on his trouser leg.
‘You shouldn’t tax yourself so, Roy.’ said Mrs Finch, ‘have some trifle, it’s got sherry in it.’
I felt a bit awkward too so I went into the Sunday School Room. There was some Fuzzy Felt to make Bible scenes with, and I was just beginning to enjoy a rewrite of Daniel in the lions’ den when Pastor Finch appeared. I put my hands into my pockets and looked at the lino.
‘Little girl,’ he began, then he caught sight of the Fuzzy Felt.
‘What’s that?’
‘Daniel,’ I answered.
‘But that’s not right,’ he said, aghast. ‘Don’t you know that Daniel escaped? In your picture the lions are swallowing him.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I replied, putting on my best, blessed face. ‘I wanted to do Jonah and the whale, but they don’t do whales in Fuzzy Felt. I’m pretending those lions are whales.’
‘You said it was Daniel.’ He was suspicious.
‘I got mixed up.’
He smiled. ‘Let’s put it right, shall we?’ And he carefully rearranged the lions in one corner, and Daniel in the other. ‘What about Nebuchadnezzar? Let’s do the Astonishment at Dawn scene next.’ He started to root through the Fuzzy Felt, looking for a king.
‘Hopeless,’ I thought, Susan Green was sick on the tableau of the three Wise Men at Christmas, and you only get three kings to box.
I left him to it. When I came back into the hall somebody asked me if I’d seen Pastor Finch.
‘He’s in the Sunday School Room playing with the Fuzzy Felt,’ I replied.
‘Don’t be fanciful Jeanette,’ said the voice. I looked up. It was Miss Jewsbury; she always talked like that, I think it was because she taught the oboe. It does something to your mouth.
‘Time to go home,’ said my mother. ‘I think you’ve had enough excitement for one day.’
It’s odd, the things other people think are exciting.
We set off, my mother, Alice and May (‘Auntie Alice, Auntie May, to you’). I lagged behind, thinking about Pastor Finch and how horrible he was. His teeth stuck out, and his voice was squeaky, even though he tried to make it deep and stern. Poor Mrs Finch. How did she live with him? Then I remembered the gypsy. ‘You’ll never marry.’ That might not be such a bad thing after all. We walked along the Factory Bottoms to get home. The poorest people of all lived there, tied to the mills. There were hundreds of children and scraggy dogs. Next Door used to live down there, right by the glue works, but their cousin or someone had left them a house, next to our house. ‘The work of the Devil, if ever I saw it,’ said my mother, who always believed these things are sent to try us.
I wasn’t allowed in the Factory Bottoms on my own, and that night as the rain began, I was sure I knew why. If the demons lived anywhere it was here. We went past the shop that sold flea collars and poisons. Arkwright’s For Vermin it was called; I had been inside it once, when we had a run of cockroaches. Mrs Arkwright was there cashing up; she caught sight of May as we went past and shouted at her to come in. My mother wasn’t very pleased, but muttering something about Jesus associating with tax collectors and sinners pushed me inside, in front of them all.
‘Where’ve you been May,’ asked Mrs Arkwright, wiping her hand on a dishcloth, ‘not seen hide of you in a month.’
‘I’ve been in Blackpool.’
‘Ho, come in at some money have you?’
‘It were at Bingo ‘ousic ‘ousie three times.’
‘No.’
Mrs Arkwright was both admiring and bad-tempered.
The conversation continued like this for some time, Mrs Arkwright complaining that business was poor, that she’d have to close the shop, that there was no money in vermin any more.
‘Let’s hope we have a hot summer, that’ll fetch them out.’
My mother was visibly distressed.
‘Remember that heatwave two years ago? Ooo, I did some trade then. Cockroaches, hard backs, rats, you name it, I poisoned it. No, it’s not same any more.’
We kept a respectful silence for a moment or two, then my mother coughed and said we should be getting along.
‘Here, then,’ said Mrs Arkwright, ‘tek these furt nipper.’
She meant me and, rummaging around somewhere behind the counter, pulled out a few different-shaped tins.
‘It can keep its marbles and stuff in ‘em,’ she explained.
‘Ta,’ I said and smiled.
‘Ey, it’s all right that one, you knows,’ she smiled at me and, wiping her hand firmly on my hand, let us out of the shop.
‘Look at these May,’ I held them up.
‘Auntie May,’ snapped my mother.
May examined them with me.
‘ “Silver fish,” ‘ she read.’ “Sprinkle liberally behind sinks, toilets and other damp places.” Oh, very nice. What’s this one: “Lice, bed bugs, etc. Guaranteed effective or money back.” ’
Eventually we got home, Goodnight May, Goodnight Alice, God Bless. My father had already gone to bed because he worked early shifts. My mother wouldn’t be going to bed for hours.
As long as I have known them, my mother has gone to bed at four, and my father has got up at five. That was nice in a way because it meant I could come down in the middle of the night and not be lonely. Quite often we’d have bacon and eggs and she’d read me a bit of the Bible.
It was in this way that I began my education: she taught me to read from the Book of Deuteronomy, and she told me all about the lives of the saints, how they were really wicked, and given to nameless desires. Not fit for worship; this was yet another heresy of the Catholic Church and I was not be misled by the smooth tongues of priests.
‘But I never see any priests.’
‘A girl’s motto is BE PREPARED.’
I learnt that it rains when clouds collide with a high building, like a steeple, or a cathedral; the impact punctures them, and everybody underneath gets wet. This was why, in the old days, when the only tall buildings were holy, people used to say cleanliness is next to godliness. The more godly your town, the more high buildings you’d have, and the more rain you’d get.
‘That’s why all these Heathen places are so dry,’ explained by mother, then she looked into space, and her pencil quivered. ‘Poor Pastor Spratt.’
I discovered that everything in the natural world was a symbol of the Great Struggle between good and evil. ‘Consider the mamba,’ said my mother. ‘Over short distances the mamba can outrun a horse.’ And she drew the race on a sheet of paper. She meant that in the short term, evil can triumph, but never for very long. We were very glad, and we sang our favourite hymn, Yield Not to Temptation.