Ring Road: There’s no place like home

That the world may know Thy Name,

Fill our ears, Lord, and our eyes, Lord,

That our hearts may know no shame.

Fill the valleys and the mountains,

Inspire us with Thy sweet breath,

Till all Israel’s sons proclaim Thee,

King of Glory, raised from death.

(Nathan Hatchmore Perkins

McAuley, 1844–1901)

These were not words that any self-respecting teenage boy could sing in a school assembly without blushing or laughter. Nathan Hatchmore Perkins McAuley – a minister, apparently, who had lived in the old manse on Moira Avenue, which had gone with the ring road and which was now the site of eighteen starter homes – was inadvertently responsible for more detentions than any other single individual in the whole history of Central School.

One former pupil at Central, Tom Boal – stage name, Big Tom Tyrone, even though he wasn’t actually from Tyrone – had obviously enjoyed and remembered the Reverend Mr McAuley’s deep apprehendings and had somehow ended up on the folk circuit in Greenwich Village in the 1960s, singing about longings of his own. Turning to Country, he had recorded several albums in Nashville in the 1970s and he toured occasionally and had returned one year to town, for his mother’s funeral, and had come in to school as a special favour to an old friend, our history teacher, the notorious motorbike-riding and leather-jacket-wearing Gerry Malone, a man who’d been known to do tapes of the Grateful Dead and the Band for favoured boys in the sixth form. Mr Malone introduced Big Tom Tyrone as a contemporary of Bob Dylan and Joan Baez, people we all thought were dead, or hippies, or myths, like the Greeks and the Romans, and certainly it was a surprise for us to meet someone so obviously old and yet so utterly unlike our parents: he might as well have been Odysseus, or Elvis Presley. None of us who were there will ever forget Big Tom Tyrone’s long, thinning hair and his cowboy boots and his acoustic version of Nathan Hatchmore Perkins McAuley’s ‘Fill thou our life, Lord’, which he turned into a sleazy twelve-bar blues with a bottleneck middle section whose effect of longing and moaning came about the closest that most of us had ever heard to the sound of a woman in the act of lovemaking. The school’s headmaster, a Brylcreemed man, a Mr Crawford, the predecessor of the current incumbent, Mr Swallow, was furious and ended assembly early. Girls hung around after the assembly for autographs – some of the better-looking girls too – and Big Tom Tyrone happily signed, in exchange for a kiss, and he must have been in his fifties at the time, I suppose, the age of our own fathers. We couldn’t believe it. Billy and Bob and me had decided by that lunch break that we would form a band. We lasted about six months before we split, suffering from the usual musical differences and the lack of a drummer, and it was then that Billy turned seriously to poetry.

Billy’s book was being published by a firm who had advertised in the Impartial Recorder, which Billy had foolishly taken to be a recommendation. The Impartial Recorder also carries advertisements for psychics, money trees, life coaches, ‘The Truth about Israel – the Key to World History’ booklets, and ‘Hard-To-Believe-But-It’s-True-We’re-Giving-It-Away-Today-And-Today-Only-Its-An-Unbelievable-And-Unrepeatable-Bargain-But-All-Stock-Must-Go!!!’ furniture stores, cut-price supermarkets and wood flooring specialists. Billy had submitted his work by post, enclosing a small fee, and he had received a letter in reply just a week later, much different from the replies he usually received from publishers: it described his work as ‘original’, ‘extraordinary’ and it went on to use the kind of adjectives which Billy had secretly known for many years might properly be applied to his work, but at which he had blushed on reading and rereading. As well as its obvious literary merits the book, he was told, in the opinion of the publishers, could be a major commercial success. The publishers believed that they could guarantee reviews in national newspapers, magazines and literary journals, and prominent displays in all the major bookshops. Because of the extra distribution and publicity costs that this would involve, they wondered if they could possibly ask Billy to contribute about £1000? Out of this sum Billy would receive two free copies and he had an option to buy another 500 at a greatly reduced rate. The publishers said the initial print run was going to be about 1000: an enormous number for a first book by an unknown author.

Billy had inherited some money from the sale of the butcher’s shop and its fittings after Hugh’s death, so he gladly paid up, sat back and waited, and he believed for a long time that he was actually going to see the book.* (#ulink_55972c34-947b-514e-b4f9-ba948514a6ef)

But after the humiliation of the bookless book launch, days turned to weeks and then to months, and there were still no books received, and Billy’s letters and telephone calls went unanswered, and in the end Billy decided he was going to have to go and see his publishers personally. He wore a suit and tie, as for a business meeting, asked for a day’s leave from the dump and took the train.

* (#ulink_f0fe172e-a1b0-52ab-865e-aa97d9af270e) We were renowned at one time, of course, for our annual Bicycle Polo tournament, held out on the fields that people called the Bleaches, which were used many years ago for bleaching linen, but which have long since been buried under the Frank Gilbey roundabout on the ring road. The tournament had been founded by Field Marshal Sir John Hillock in 1933. Like Tolstoy, the Field Marshal took to cycling in old age and became an enthusiastic advocate of the sport. His bicycle polo team, the Rovers, sponsored by Raleigh, had achieved some small national fame, and the tournament had brought crowds to the town every May Day until 1947, when tragedy struck: a young man, Elvin Thomas, just twenty-one years old, who had survived Tobruk, died from a punctured lung sustained from an injury caused by a loose spoke during the tournament finals. The Field Marshal disbanded the team and bicycle polo has never been played again in town.

The highlight of Frank Gilbey’s inaugural and one-and-only week-long jazz festival, meanwhile, a few years ago, was a performance on the Saturday night by Chris Barber and his band, the keepers of the flame of British trad jazz. No one at all had turned up to hear them play and they went home without even opening their instrument cases. Frank had had to bail out the festival from his own pocket.

† (#ulink_f0fe172e-a1b0-52ab-865e-aa97d9af270e) Tiberio Scarpetti and his family lasted here for nearly ten years, which is not a bad innings, actually, for incomers, but unfortunately they were ten years too late for the worldwide craze for espresso bars, which had orginally sent the older Scarpetti brothers out into the world to make their fortunes – Domenico to Australia, Bartolo to Los Angeles – and twenty years too early for the coffee shop revival, which meant that in the end Tiberio, the youngest of three brothers, who had a lot to prove but who had drawn the historical and geographical short straw, returned to his home town of Termoli in Italy with nothing except his Gaggia machine and a lot of unsold stock of fizzy mineral water and canned ravioli. Tiberio had worked like a dog for years, turning what was once Thomas Bell’s dank, dark little hardware shop, ‘Whistle and Bells: All Your Hardware Requirements’, on Market Street into our own local little Italy, all black-and-white tiled floors, indoor plants and mirrored walls, with a state-of-the-art red Formica counter. He held out for a long time against offering chips with everything and all-day frys, but in the end he gave in and lost heart. He’d kept a bowl on the counter for tips and when a decade had passed without a single person ever placing so much as a penny in the bowl he knew it was time to pack up and leave: this was not a place Tiberio intended to grow old. His daughter Francesca remains, of course, married to Tommy Kahan, but Tiberio has never been back to visit, has never even been tempted; he has sworn never to return. The sign above the door of the café still says Scarpetti’s, but apart from the Parmesan and the Nescafé espressos there remains no other indication that this was ever the town’s Italian quarter: Pukka Pies™ have long since replaced the ravioli. Mr Hemon’s only improvement on Tiberio’s original decor has been to put up tourist board posters on the walls showing scenic sights in Bosnia, but all meals come with chips.

* (#ulink_a1ea2396-9d34-535b-a909-a34c3d5571c2) Actually, there was one that he let slip, when he was on a camping holiday with the children in the south of France, many years ago, and he’d got into conversation one evening with an expat at a bar near the campsite, and somewhere into the second shared bottle of the local red he confessed that he was a solicitor and started complaining to the stranger that the worst thing about his job was always being asked to pad people’s insurance claims and become party to petty frauds, and he happened to mention to the expat the name of a client, Trevor Downs, from up there on the Longfields Estate, whom Martin believed to be faking his own whiplash injuries. Some time later the expat happened to mention this story on the telephone to his brother, who happened to be a minicab driver in Glasgow, who then happened to mention it in turn to someone in the back of his cab who turned out to be Trevor Downs’s wife, Tara, in Glasgow on a shopping spree funded by her husband’s considerable personal injury income. It may be a small world, but it’s also a messy one, thank goodness: in the retelling of the story the name Trevor had been translated into Terry and the Downs had disappeared, which is the only thing that kept Martin Phillips from being sued and out of hospital. These days compensation claim racketeering is so widespread and so common, even in our town, where everyone seems to have slipped and fallen, that Martin no longer even bothers to mention it, even when abroad.

* (#ulink_c62b344a-b53f-538d-9f54-ef729e191ce8) It exists still only in typescript, the book. The only two poems of Billy’s ever to have seen the light of day were published in the first edition of the magazine The Enthusiast (PO Box 239, Bangor, BT20 5YB, www.theenthusiast.co.uk). The first of these poems, ‘To the Reader’, seems to be some kind of uncompromising envoi:

Listen: you don’t like it, then leave.

My aim has only ever been to be popular

with the less sophisticated type of audience,

especially in the suburbs and provinces.

The second poem, ‘I’m Nobody, Who Are You?’, runs to over a hundred lines and considerations of space obviously preclude us from reprinting it here, but readers who have attended Robert McCrudden’s popular Creative Writing class (Poetry) I or II at the Institute, or similar, might be able to detect throughout this longer work the influences of Arthur Rimbaud, George Herbert, C. P. Cavafy, Geoffrey Chaucer, Hart Crane, Bertolt Brecht, John Berryman, Emily Dickinson, the Gawain Poet, William Blake, A. E. Housman, Francis Ponge, Marianne Moore, Thomas Hardy, Robert Frost, or Pam Ayres.

5 Fellowship (#ulink_882830b8-d6ac-5a0a-b3b2-d8eced66f523)

A Good Friday Carvery and Gospel Night (Featuring the Preaching of the Word by Francie McGinn, Country Gospel Music by Bobbie Dylan and All-You-Can-Eat Barbecued Meats)

The sun finally came out on Friday, breaking through after what seemed like months of gloom, what seemed like years of low grey cloud and drizzle, what seemed, in fact, to some of us here like the new Dark Ages, the return of the famous ‘black springs’ of the 1950s when there wasn’t a green vegetable till August and the only thing you could buy in the market throughout the summer was potatoes. When the cloud lifted, Francie McGinn turned his face to the big blurred halo in the sky and thanked the Lord.

‘Altostratus,’ he said.

Francie has always been interested in the weather and he had gone into the ministry, the two things being somehow connected in his mind, something to do with storms and rainbows and the supernumerary. Francie would not have been your obvious choice as a minister, what with his lack of any obvious social skills, his terror of public speaking and his terrible psoriasis, which always tended to flare up when Francie had to address a congregation, but God does seem to have a sense of humour and so, when He called Francie, in His infinite wisdom He did not call him to a nice quiet life working in an office, as a filing clerk perhaps, or an assistant administrative officer in the local council – recently relocated, of course, from its fine old five-storey stucco building overlooking the People’s Park, with a girdled and globe-breasted Queen Victoria standing guard outside on a plinth, to a new purpose-built place on the ring road. No, God works in mysterious ways and He seems curiously uninterested in the workings and decisions of local councils, so when He called Francie – a sweet, shy, nervous man – He called him not to a life of pleasant quietness but to a life which involved a lot of standing up in front of large and not always sympathetic crowds speaking to them enthusiastically about Jesus. It was a calling which required certain skills of exposition and expostulation, and a certain amount of necessary hand-waving, which Francie, who had always been a little stiff in his manner, had never quite mastered. His sermons were examples of free association, in which he grappled with, and was often floored by, complex passages of Scripture and the use of the microphone. Just watching him up there at the front of his congregation was enough to break your heart. It was enough to bring you to tears, or to your knees.

As if both to identify and to defy his own native lack of ability, Francie had had an alphabet painted around what in other churches would have been called a nave, but which in Francie’s church, the People’s Fellowship – a place on South Street, which used to be the old Johnson Hosiery Factory, round the back of the Quality Hotel – was just a blank back wall lit by halogen spots and uplighters. The alphabet read, in thick black letters three and four feet tall:

ALL unsaved people are sinners. You must BELIEVE and CONFESS your sins to God. Christ DIED to save sinners. The Lord knows EVERY secret thing. We are saved through FAITH in Christ. GOOD Works alone will not save. Punishment and HELL await sinners. IMAGINE the darkness that will fall from on high when all men will be JUDGED by the Lord. You shall KNOW and LOVE the Lord, who in His MERCY is willing to save sinners. NOTHING can separate us from the love of God, and the Lord Jesus Christ is the ONLY way of salvation. The Lord will PARDON backsliders, but you must REPENT of your wrongdoing in order to be SAVED. There is joy in TESTIFYING to the Lord. WHOSOEVER WILL may be saved.

The sign painter, Colin Crawford, who was a friend of a friend of a member of the congregation, and who had learnt his trade years ago in the Tech’s once renowned sign-writing classes, seems to have run into problems with some of the more difficult consonants – what good things does God do that begin with the letters Q and Z? – but the effect was impressive nonetheless.* (#ulink_4f61728a-6c5f-5486-b5fd-444e494163b1) When Francie stood up to preach, sweating into the microphone, at the front of that hall, you had the impression of a performing flea caught up in the pages of a vast Bible.

From an early age, certainly from when I first knew him, Francie had described himself as a Bible-believing Christian. The Bible, to Francie, was a bit like God is to most other Christians: something to be relied upon and worshipped, but which nonetheless remains utterly inscrutable and not necessarily something you’d ever be able to understand.* (#ulink_c770e843-a9b3-5074-8605-26e9ab1c42df)

Francie was naturally a quiet and modest man, but he was ambitious for Jesus, and was always coming up with exciting new schemes for promoting God’s Word in and around town. He would sometimes take a full-page advertisement in the local paper announcing forthcoming events and in the summer he held evening meetings in the car park in the centre of town, out in front of the Quality Hotel, near the new faux bandstand, with its brick podium and tarpaulin-effect sheet-steel covering, where every night he erected a large sign announcing an ‘Open Air Gospel Meeting’, just in case anyone was in doubt as to exactly what a group of twenty or thirty adults wearing Bermuda shorts and big grins and sunhats were doing, shaking their tambourines and playing guitars and handing out tracts to amused skateboarders and passers-by. Everyone knew it had to be something to do with Jesus – where we live, there’s no other excuse or explanation for such behaviour. This is not Miami Beach, or Brighton. In the winter Francie tried Fish-and-Chip Biblical Quiz Nights and Line Dancing, Ladies’ Pool Nights and Indoor Carpet Bowls for the over-sixties, and there were, of course, all the usual weekly Parenting Classes and Toddlers’ Groups and Bible Studies, but the highlight of every year was undoubtedly his Good Friday Carvery and Gospel Night, an evening which included the Preaching of the Word, Country Gospel Music by Bobbie Dylan and all-you-could-eat barbecued meats, provided by Tom Hines, who is a brother of a member of the congregation, all for a very reasonable £5 per head.

A couple of years back Francie’s wife, Cherith, was on a detox diet, which meant she couldn’t eat dairy products, bread, pasta, oranges and half a dozen other foodstuffs, including red meat, and in order to display solidarity with his wife Francie was doing the diet too, so they were both going to have to miss out on the Good Friday Carvery, something they usually looked forward to: the closest they usually got to meat was supermarket mince, which is at best an approximation. It was for her liver, Cherith said, the detox diet, but to be honest she could probably have done to lose some weight, as could their teenage daughter, Bethany, who had not been tempted by the diet, and who had also secretly started smoking cigarettes and going out with boys who were non-Christians, and who wore black eyeliner to church, and who, during her father’s sermons, sometimes sat sending text messages of a sexual nature to her friends.

That Easter, the year of the diet, Francie and Cherith were also having a new kitchen put into their house on the estate – nothing too expensive, nothing too flash, but, as all the elders of the church agreed, it did need updating – and whether it was the stress of the kitchen, or the lack of protein and carbohydrates and the smell of the barbecued meats, or perhaps the manifold charms of Bobbie Dylan herself that did for Francie I do not know.

Bobbie Dylan was christened Roberta and was not a fan of Bob Dylan until she heard the Saved album, and then it was but a short leap into the whole world – the admittedly small but pleasantly cosy world – of Christian rock, a world which the leather-trousered Roberta now bestrode like the proverbial colossus.

Roberta had been converted at the age of twenty. There is probably no good or bad age to become a born-again Christian, but twenty is perhaps one of the worst. It meant that Roberta had enjoyed a few years of tasting the fruits of this world and now, as she emerged into her mid-thirties, she could still taste the many, the complex flavours on her tongue: the terrible sweetness of all those things that as a born-again Christian she knew it was right to deny herself. She tried not to think about it too much and it was not something she liked to admit, but sometimes she had a hankering after the world and its ways. Sometimes, for instance, at night, in her one-bedroom flat on Kilmore Avenue – with its lovely en suite, tiled and decorated by her own fair hand, with a nice fish motif and a power shower – she would drink several glasses of Chardonnay while watching American television programmes in which strong women with beautiful hair and clavicles and good upper-body strength boasted to each other of their sexual conquests, and their ability to please and to dominate men. Just watching them Roberta would feel ashamed and excited. Watching ER had the same effect, and also Sebastian Faulks’s novel Birdsong.

Not that the world of Christian rock didn’t have its excitements. Roberta had toured extensively throughout Ireland, Scotland, England and Wales, and had been to many Christian rock festivals throughout Europe – in Germany, for example, and in Holland. She had released no fewer than five CDs of her own original material and although she hadn’t yet had a breakthrough in America, where the competition was pretty fierce in its own Christian way, she was already big in Korea, where Christians seemed to appreciate her work, which was influenced by the many traditions of Christian and sacred music: gospel, soul, country and mid-period Bob Dylan.

Like Bob Dylan, and like many another rock musician, Roberta had been tempted at times by rock‘n’roll’s inevitable accompaniments and attractions. There were times when she feared that sitting in recording studios late at night with unshaven men drinking beer would prove her undoing.

But when it came to Francie’s Good Friday Carvery and Gospel Night Roberta’s mind was set firmly on her music and her ministry. She had showered and washed her hair, and laid out her best clothes: a pair of black leather trousers, a white long-sleeved blouse and a pair of black boots with a slight heel. She had straightened her hair with straightening irons, put on a little lipstick – a sheer glossy rose – and applied some kohl and some mascara round her dark-brown eyes. The look was a combination of rock chick and bride of Christ which she hoped was pleasing both in the eyes of God and of man.

As for Francie, he was wearing his usual minister’s outfit: a brown car coat with pockets large enough to accommodate a Good News bible, a range of tracts and a Scripture Union diary; a pair of grey sta-prest casual trousers, the pockets jangling, full of keys and small change for emergencies (Francie does not possess or carry credit or charge cards, and encourages his congregation to cut up their own); a blue bobbled V-neck pullover thinning around the elbows; a check shirt with blue and red biros tucked in the breast pocket; and a good plain pair of Clark’s shoes from Irvine’s (‘Clark’s, Norvic and Bective Brands for Ladies, Kiltie Shoes for Children, Savile Row for Gentlemen’), the laces securely double knotted. He looked, in fact, like most of us do here, both the men and the women: the unmistakable look of people who are not in full charge of their own wardrobes, people who get dressed once a year by Father Christmas and who do not feel any further need to add to or to accessorise their festive knitwear, or to worry about some small thing like a wrong-sized shirt collar or polyester pants. Francie had gone straight from being dressed by his mother to being dressed by his wife, both of whom were more interested in questions of value for money than any considerations of style or current fashions, but fortunately clothes had never been important to Francie. Apart from a couple of troublesome years in his teens when he had rebelled against hand-me-down duffel coats and had insisted on a red harrington and dealer boots, he did not dress to impress. It was not necessary. Francie was not setting out to attract the attentions of the opposite sex. He had never kissed another woman apart from his wife and, indeed, he could probably count every kiss he had bestowed upon her, in every place and everywhere, although, actually, recently the kisses had become rather scarce.

Not that Francie’s and Cherith’s was a loveless marriage. On the contrary. Their lives were fulfilled in many ways. They enjoyed the fellowship of the congregation and they both regarded it as a privilege to be able to minister together: this was their role and their mission in life, and they desired little else, although sometimes, if he were honest, Francie would have to admit to entertaining improper thoughts. Sometimes, for example, he wondered if he’d have been better off as a Catholic priest. He liked the idea of a sacramental role, something that involved a little less Doing – fewer committees and less street evangelism – and a bit more good old-fashioned Being. Sometimes he thought he wouldn’t at all have minded a Roman collar, or wearing a soutane. And sometimes he imagined female members of his congregation modelling swimwear.

On that Good Friday, though, such thoughts were far from Francie’s mind. On that fateful night Francie was worrying about the kitchen.

He and Cherith had argued before coming out – after they’d eaten their microwaveable quiche and a salad consisting of a small hard tomato, two sticks of celery, a pyramid of sweet-corn and half an iceberg lettuce, the barbecued meats at the Carvery being strictly prohibited to them. They had argued again – for it was not the first time – about what an appropriate work surface for the new kitchen might be. A laminate was cheapest, of course, which is what Jesus would have wanted, but Cherith had been trying to persuade Francie that a good hard solid wood or even a granite surface would wear better, and so in the long run it would please Jesus and the elders of the fellowship just as much. Francie quoted Scripture – ‘Blessed are you poor, for yours is the kingdom of God’, Luke 6:20 – and Cherith rejoindered with some verses of her own – ‘In the house of the righteous there is much treasure’, Proverbs 15:6 – which was something they only ever did when they were really annoyed with one another. In the end they had left the house having to agree to disagree.

Cherith, of course, did all the cooking and food preparation, and most of the washing up, as was appropriate for a minister’s wife, so she spent a lot of time in the kitchen. But Francie was the expert. He had started out life with his father as a kitchen fitter – McGinn’s, which still has its small showroom up there on Union Street, near the old Kincaid furniture factory. McGinn’s specialise, and always have specialised, in kosher kitchens, but unfortunately for Mr McGinn there aren’t that many Jews in our town – only two, in fact, as far as Mr McGinn is aware, although there may be others who don’t keep kosher, and one can only pray for their souls and for God’s forgiveness. There are not even that many Jews further afield – the only synagogue in the county, a fine example of Victorian optimism, was knocked down twenty years ago, to be replaced by a garage, a Chinese takeaway and a joke shop, Joyland, offering ‘Jokes, Magic, Tricks’, which is now itself derelict, good clean fun these days being about as unfashionable as religious orthodoxy. This meant that Mr McGinn had to travel far and wide for business, which was not convenient, but it was worth it. He’d gone into kosher kitchens because kosher kitchens meant two sinks. ‘And two sinks,’ he would say, with the kind of mad and unassailable logic that Francie himself had inherited, ‘are always better than one.’

Francie had met Cherith shortly after he’d given up the kitchen fitting, when God had called him away from installing kosher sinks with his father to the full-time saving of souls. It was not an easy calling. Francie had been brought up a good Catholic and he was the youngest of ten children, his parents having married when they were nineteen and his mother having been pregnant every year throughout her twenties. By the time she was thirty she looked fifty and Francie’s dad had finally put his foot down, told her it was time to shut up shop, pull down the shutters and put a stop to all the shenanigans: the house was never quiet, he said, and all the children were having to compete for attention. Some of Francie’s brothers competed for attention by drinking and staying out late at night with unsuitable girls, and his sisters were mostly given to tantrums, smoking, and bleaching their hair. Francie competed for attention by becoming very devout. He was a conspicuously good boy and when he grew up, he said, he wanted to be a priest. This made his mother happy.

He gave up his priestly ambitions, however, when he was just sixteen and he attended a rally organised by the Assemblies of God. At the rally there was singing and dancing, and a full band with a drummer and percussionist and a six-piece horn section, most of whom were black and many of whom swayed as they played their wonderful, loud, joyful music. This was not the kind of colour or spectacle that Francie had ever seen at the Church of the Cross and the Passion, where it was regarded as pretty racy of Father Baird to persist in smoking his pipe on a Sunday and to claim to prefer the Mass in Latin, and where there had been much argument one year about the choir singing a modern setting of the Psalms. Attending the rally therefore had approximately the same effect on Francie as seeing stars in the daytime sky, or the feel of a woman stroking your thigh, a favourite fantasy of Francie’s ever since his piano lessons with a certain Miss Buchanan, lessons which required Miss Buchanan to squeeze up unnaturally close to her pupils on a small piano stool.* (#ulink_cf4c05c5-99ed-5a05-832e-1e8ce94209b5) It was a kind of ecstasy. From the Assemblies of God Francie soon moved on to the house church movement and by the time he was twenty-two he had left kitchen fitting to attend a bible college – a large old crumbling house in Hampshire with Portakabins in the grounds – where he had undertaken numerous feats of healing, many of them involving people with one leg mysteriously slightly shorter than the other, marathon sessions of speaking in tongues and the laying on of hands, and the studying of the Bible without the inconvenience of learning Greek and Hebrew. It was great fun. It was better than kitchen fitting. Francie preferred the Church to his family. He was no longer one out of ten. He was one in a million: he had been chosen by God. And by the time he returned home to set up a church of his own he was ready to choose a wife.† (#ulink_faac235d-9c5e-5496-86b8-d111949a2b58)

He met Cherith while evangelising on the street. She was with a group of friends going to a nightclub – Scruples, in the basement of the Quality Hotel’s back-bar extension, a club which is long gone but which many of us still remember fondly. Francie had spoken to the girls about Jesus, and Cherith said she was a Christian already.

‘But have you asked Jesus into your heart?’ asked Francie.