We were totally invested in Jesus. We loved him in every way – even if we’d got the wrong end of the stick and had no concept of monogamy. Me and Willow thought Jesus was very good looking, with his lovely long hair and trimmed beard, those smiley blue eyes and lovely smile, and agreed he’d make a great husband. He had all the best qualities. When you’re eight you see life in a much simpler form, especially as we were going to share the son of God and would take turns being his wife. Oh, happy days.
We treated St Mary’s like it belonged to us, and spent hours in the church, taking one pew each where we would sit with a picnic, reading Enid Blyton and Jaqueline Wilson. Our grand plan involved going to boarding school together, then later we’d become brides of Christ and take holy orders – this confusing phase was due to watchingThe Sound of Musicon a loop. We knew all the songs and would pretend we were nuns, gliding around the nave clasping Bibles to our chests singing ‘Ave Maria’.
It was so wonderful living in our fantasy world, cocooned in the knowledge that Jesus was our friend and people like Edmund never lied or did bad things and then, poof, just like that it all changed and once again, like with Mum and Dad, it all went wrong.
CHAPTEREIGHT
Imagineit like a perfect shitstorm of the mind. I’d managed to separate my home-life from the one I’d latched on to with Willow’s family, and Babs, who always invited me to family dos or for a glass of pop and a biscuit. All was good in the world and then at seventeen, it dawned on me that the path I’d trod, getting good grades in my GCSEs, and predicted Bs in my A levels meant that eventually, I was going to have to move on, move out and go to uni.
Worse, Willow had applied to Cambridge and no way was I going there. It was out of my price and brain range and anyway, my choice of career wasn’t on their curriculum.
Freedom came at a cost, but I was prepared to go into debt and get a student loan, knowing I’d have to work to feed and clothe myself, seeing as I’d get no help from my parents. But the thought that me and Willow would be parted, that my safety net would be gone, was the most terrifying thing, ever.
I had two options. Be brave and strike out alone or forget university, stay put and get a job. I chose uni and it was hard, because while Willow had backup, I was a one-woman-team. And then, when I was teetering on the edge of the rug, grasping on to the notion that Little Buddington, the vicarage and my faith would always be something solid that I could cling on to, Edmund yanked it from under me.
It was a dismal, rainy Saturday evening one week before I went to uni. Robin had gone to visit a parishioner in hospital and Willow and me were watchingCharmedin the lounge. During the ads, she nipped upstairs to the loo just as the vicarage phone began to ring.
It was the bishop, that’s how he introduced himself and you’d have thought I was speaking to the almighty himself the way my heart raced. He needed to speak to Edmund as a matter of urgency so I, always wanting to help, said I’d nip down to the church and see if he was there. Willow was on her way back downstairs and when I relayed the conversation she rolled her eyes and said she’d get us some snacks while I delivered the message. Off I went.
I’ve never been scared of the church grounds in the dark. The pathway was illuminated by the streetlamp on the corner, enough so I could see my way. I knew the main doors would be locked so I went around the back. It’s a bit eerie in the graveyard but the dead can’t hurt me, and it was too early for the cider-drinking teens to play chicken amongst the headstones.
I reached the small door that led into a hallway of the vestry where I expected Edmund to be, but it was locked. Thinking that he wasn’t there I turned to go, just as on the other side I heard voices approaching. I recognised them both immediately.
‘When can I see you again… I hate waiting so long. And from that performance I can tell you miss me too, my little tiger. Let’s do it one more time. Come on. I’ll be lonely at home, all by myself.’ I cringed at my mum’s pathetic wheedling as I listened, sick to my stomach but unable to tear myself away.
‘Debbie, you know I’d love for you to stay but I have to get on… and you’ve been very naughty coming here. Next time we’ll meet on the lane like before.’ Edmund sounded weird, softer, huskier, like some crap actor and had I not been so horrified, I’d have laughed.
‘Come on, Eddie, you can’t resist this.’ Silence then a giggle. ‘See, you naughty boy, I knew you needed more.’ A few moments of Mum giggling and then it sounded like they both thudded against the door. I dreaded to think what was happening on the other side, but it seemed Eddie had managed to control the tiger in his tank and my mum, so when I heard the key rattle in the lock I turned and ran.
I’ll never forget how I felt that night. Tormented by the sins that Eddie had committed – that’s how I always thought of him after that. Common, normal bloke Eddie who was once a beacon of… virtue, I suppose.
In my mind he’d fallen from grace and the pulpit, smashing his pious, smug face on the floor of the nave and when he got back up, he was unrecognisable. Disfigured body and soul, a hypocrite, an adulterer. I didn’t care about my mum because she was a lost cause and I’d morally washed my hands of her long before, but him… How could he?
And worse, he made me commit a sin, too. Because I lied to my best friend when I said I couldn’t find her dad. And to dear kind Robin when she asked me if I wasn’t well when I couldn’t eat the Chinese food she’d brought home. No matter how much I knew it was wrong, all of it, I couldn’t tell them what I’d heard because it would ruin their lives.
I so wanted to get out of that house but where would I go? Home to dirty Deborah Watson, local bike, and vicar shagger. Instead, I stayed. Averting my eyes when Eddie came home, and as he nipped upstairs for a quick shower. Urgh, it made my skin crawl the thought of what they’d been doing and poor oblivious Robin having to stuff his undies in the washer.
I was so confused, shocked. Disappointed, too. It took me days to process it and as much as I’d been nervous about going to uni, I suddenly couldn’t wait to go. In temper, I’d vowed never to step foot in church again because one of God’s own was a baddie. I took my rage out on him and his one and only son even though it wasn’t their fault Eddie was a sicko. But I was torn and confused and that’s not a good place for me to be.
Looking back, I think being let down like that must have all been too much, so I bottled it up inside.
Moving away, into halls, enrolling, meeting new people, plus a bout of homesickness that I knew was for my village and a few people in it, certainly not my mum, didn’t help. Nor did the worries about how much textbooks cost, food, bus fares, joining in. I went through the motions in a trance at first, then threw myself into the course which I began to enjoy. I settled in, made friends, got on with it and then a few months later, boom.
As I walked to my first lecture of the day, it hit me. I was happy. I smiled and laughed. Life was good and no sooner had I thought it, this slimy horrible hand slid around my heart and reminded me not to get too comfortable because at any moment, it could all go wrong. I crumbled right there on the pavement, swallowed whole by a panic attack, unable to breathe, walk or talk until I was rescued by one of my friends.
It happened frequently after that and I knew I had to take control of my life, find some order, and not allow a descent into chaos. That would waste everything I’d achieved; throw away all those crumpets and potato cakes; and disrespect the kindness and love that helped me to get to that point.
I also realised I’d let Edmund rock my faith because, just like one of my favourite childhood stories, one bad apple had spoiled the lot.
I was so angry, with him and myself. So, I went back to church, my place of comfort, allowed myself to believe, in my mate Jesus and the lady reverend at the university chapel, that they would be my rod and staff, and see me through.
It may have been a coincidence, or part of my quest for mental stability but being a very skint student who was terrified of living her post grad life in massive debt, led to another form of control. Food. Or should I say the lack of it.
I truthfully can’t remember when it started, perhaps somewhere deep in my subconscious were strains of nasty Bella making fun of my weight when my two-teas habit began to take its toll; or maybe I caught a glimpse of myself and did not like what I saw.
So, I binned the bus and walked everywhere, and existed on a four pack of apples a day, or a couple of bananas, a tin of soup – the cheaper the better – and whatever was on the reduced shelf at Spar. Losing weight, saving money, being in control. It was my thing, my challenge. Best of all, my hero had fasted for forty days and forty nights so he couldn’t chastise me. My mate Jesus was no hypocrite. The thing was, I took it to the extreme.
And that’s how it’s always been. It’s like I have the power to be kind to myself or be ruthless when I feel I don’t deserve it. I apply the pressure or take my foot off the brake in my own haphazard, quite frankly self-destructive way. But I’ve never succumbed in a way that put me in danger, not like so many poor souls do. I have peaks and troughs.
