an appeal, he urged any sinner to raise their hand, and ask forgiveness there and then. We bowed our heads in prayer, squinting up now and again, to see if it was working. Suddenly, I felt a hand on mine. It was Melanie.
‘I am going to do it,’ she hissed, and pushed her other arm into the air.
‘Yes, I see your hand,’ acknowledged Pastor Finch.
A ripple of joy ran through the church. There was no one else, so Melanie had plenty of attention at the end of the service. Not that she wanted it. ‘I feel terrible,’ she confided.
‘Don’t worry,’ breezed Alice, who was passing by, ‘It’s homeopathic.’
Poor Melanie, she didn’t understand any of them, she just knew she needed Jesus. Then she asked me to be hercounsellor, and I agreed to go round to her house every Monday, while her mum was at the club where she worked. We left together, me on a cloud, and her with a handbag full of tracts on the gifts of the Spirit, and advice for new converts. As we reached the town hall, Pastor Finch shot past us, his gospel radio full on, windows wide open, and on the top of the van, a flag flying triumphant.
‘That’s his Salvation Flag,’ I told Melanie. ‘Whenever someone gets saved he hoists it up.’
‘Let’s get on the bus,’ she replied, a bit desperate.
So each Monday after that I went round to Melanie’s and we read the Bible together, and usually spent half an hour in prayer. I was delighted. She was my friend, and I wasn’t used to that, apart from Elsie. Somehow, this was different. I talked about her all the time at home, and my mother never responded. Then one day she bundled me into the kitchen and said we had to talk seriously.
‘There’s a boy at church I think you’re keen on.’
‘What?’ I said, completely mystified.
She meant Graham, a newish convert, who’d moved over to our town from Stockport. I was teaching him to play the guitar, and trying to make him understand the importance of regular Bible study.
‘It’s time,’ she went on, very solemn, ‘that I told you about Pierre and how I nearly came to a bad end.’ Then she poured us both a cup of tea and opened a packet of Royal Scot. I was enthralled.
‘It’s not something I’m proud of, and I’ll only say it once.’
My mother had been headstrong, and had got a job teaching in Paris, which was a very daring thing to do at the time. She had lived off the Rue St Germain, eaten croissants and lived a clean life. She wasn’t with the Lord then, but she had high standards. Then, one sunny day, without warning, she had been walking towards the river when she met Pierre, or rather Pierre had jumped from his bicycle, offered her his onions, and named her the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
‘Naturally, I was flattered.’
They exchanged addresses, and began to court oneanother. It was then that my mother experienced a feeling she had never known before: a fizzing and a buzzing and a certain giddiness. Not only with Pierre, but anywhere, at any time.
‘Well, I thought it must be love.’
But this puzzled her because Pierre wasn’t very clever, and didn’t have much to say, except to exclaim how beautiful she was. Perhaps he was handsome? But no, looking in the magazines, she realised he wasn’t that either. But the feeling wouldn’t go away. Then, on a quiet night, after a quiet supper, Pierre had siezed her and begged her to stay with him that night. The fizzing began, and as he clutched her to him, she felt sure she would never love another, and yes she would stay and after that, they would marry.
‘Lord forgive me, but I did it.’
My mother stopped, overcome with emotion. I begged her to finish the story, proffering the Royal Scots.
‘The worst is still to come.’
I speculated on the worst, while she chewed her biscuit. Perhaps I wasn’t a child of God at all, but the daughter of a Frenchman.
A couple of days afterward, my mother had gone to see the doctor in a fit of guilty anxiety. She lay on
‘I am going to do it,’ she hissed, and pushed her other arm into the air.
‘Yes, I see your hand,’ acknowledged Pastor Finch.
A ripple of joy ran through the church. There was no one else, so Melanie had plenty of attention at the end of the service. Not that she wanted it. ‘I feel terrible,’ she confided.
‘Don’t worry,’ breezed Alice, who was passing by, ‘It’s homeopathic.’
Poor Melanie, she didn’t understand any of them, she just knew she needed Jesus. Then she asked me to be hercounsellor, and I agreed to go round to her house every Monday, while her mum was at the club where she worked. We left together, me on a cloud, and her with a handbag full of tracts on the gifts of the Spirit, and advice for new converts. As we reached the town hall, Pastor Finch shot past us, his gospel radio full on, windows wide open, and on the top of the van, a flag flying triumphant.
‘That’s his Salvation Flag,’ I told Melanie. ‘Whenever someone gets saved he hoists it up.’
‘Let’s get on the bus,’ she replied, a bit desperate.
So each Monday after that I went round to Melanie’s and we read the Bible together, and usually spent half an hour in prayer. I was delighted. She was my friend, and I wasn’t used to that, apart from Elsie. Somehow, this was different. I talked about her all the time at home, and my mother never responded. Then one day she bundled me into the kitchen and said we had to talk seriously.
‘There’s a boy at church I think you’re keen on.’
‘What?’ I said, completely mystified.
She meant Graham, a newish convert, who’d moved over to our town from Stockport. I was teaching him to play the guitar, and trying to make him understand the importance of regular Bible study.
‘It’s time,’ she went on, very solemn, ‘that I told you about Pierre and how I nearly came to a bad end.’ Then she poured us both a cup of tea and opened a packet of Royal Scot. I was enthralled.
‘It’s not something I’m proud of, and I’ll only say it once.’
My mother had been headstrong, and had got a job teaching in Paris, which was a very daring thing to do at the time. She had lived off the Rue St Germain, eaten croissants and lived a clean life. She wasn’t with the Lord then, but she had high standards. Then, one sunny day, without warning, she had been walking towards the river when she met Pierre, or rather Pierre had jumped from his bicycle, offered her his onions, and named her the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
‘Naturally, I was flattered.’
They exchanged addresses, and began to court oneanother. It was then that my mother experienced a feeling she had never known before: a fizzing and a buzzing and a certain giddiness. Not only with Pierre, but anywhere, at any time.
‘Well, I thought it must be love.’
But this puzzled her because Pierre wasn’t very clever, and didn’t have much to say, except to exclaim how beautiful she was. Perhaps he was handsome? But no, looking in the magazines, she realised he wasn’t that either. But the feeling wouldn’t go away. Then, on a quiet night, after a quiet supper, Pierre had siezed her and begged her to stay with him that night. The fizzing began, and as he clutched her to him, she felt sure she would never love another, and yes she would stay and after that, they would marry.
‘Lord forgive me, but I did it.’
My mother stopped, overcome with emotion. I begged her to finish the story, proffering the Royal Scots.
‘The worst is still to come.’
I speculated on the worst, while she chewed her biscuit. Perhaps I wasn’t a child of God at all, but the daughter of a Frenchman.
A couple of days afterward, my mother had gone to see the doctor in a fit of guilty anxiety. She lay on
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