Tramping along muddy unmade roads with a thick coat on and gloves that prickle my skin. Towed along by older sisters down to the local Church of England. Walking through a gate that is higher than me, just a simple latch securing it and then a graveyard marked with mildewed headstones, decaying with ancient history and time, grey and mossy in places. The church building stamped on the sacred ground made of thick weight lifter blocks of hewn stone that I run my fingers over, worn smooth but still able to catch the pools in my pores.
An airy room, windows way way up high, tall as the Eiffel tower to a 7 year old kid. Heaters provide a choke of heat. Anoraks and parkas hang in a cupboard releasing a steamy closeness to the air. Books are handed out , cartoon illustrations of the Lord Jesus in glowing colours. Being awarded gold stars to place beside key phrases learned by rote. Licking stamps and posting them in a booklet for getting a whole chapter correct, that funny taste of the gum. Holding pencils and pens and filling in empty figures making them come to life. The Lord’s prayer. Lofty walls covered in posters and pictures and images of the cross. My sisters going off to C.S.S.M. camp – a Christian youth camp thing, coming back full of spirit and ideal and hope. Walking to the church alone, feeling threatened and insignificant and wanting to go home.
