by Julia Bell
It takes me a moment to absorb this information.
She looks like a boy, the square shape of her jaw and the way she wears her jeans slung low and stands with her legs apart. When they mention her name she glances up from her phone and scowls. She catches me looking and stares at me hard, as if she’s saying So what? She looks a little bit more like a girl then, but still it’s confusing.
‘What you’re doing, it’s amazing,’ Ron says. He has a round, cheerful face which is bright red as if it’s been scrubbed.
‘Amazing,’ Bridget echoes. ‘So inspiring.’
‘I don’t suppose Mr Bevins is here? We’ve been dying to meet him,’ Ron asks.
Father shakes his head. ‘He doesn’t come on Mission Week any more. There’s too much to do back home.’
‘But we speak to him every evening.’ Hannah says.
‘He is such an amazing example to the faithful,’ Bridget says.
On Mission Weeks we speak to him every day via a satellite phone. He wants to know every detail; who we’ve been with, who we’ve spoken to. He tells us his vision for our mission. He wants us to find some new recruits and he says we must keep vigilant for the influence of Satan who is all around us, remember the blood of Christ and live for the Victory.
Father says Mr Bevins is one of the best scholars of the Book he has ever known. He can quote large sections of it, chapter and verse. I often see him wandering the island, the Bible open in his hands like a map. Before he came to Wales he lived in America, travelling the country, preaching to anyone who would listen. When he arrived in London he lived on the streets, homeless, like Jesus, staying with those who would open their doors to him, and when he came to Wales he brought with him Micah and Mary Protheroe, two disciples whom he had saved. He’s always telling us stories of before, of his life back in America, of his conversion to Jesus. How God hit him with the truth of life ‘like a thunderbolt’ between the eyes. When Father met him for the first time he said the spirit shone through him so brightly that it was impossible to ignore.
‘We would be lost without him,’ Father says neutrally.
Alex raises her eyebrows but says nothing, typing something on her phone. These black tablets are a sign of the end of days: the new world order of the Antichrist, who can see you and spy on you if you use one.
A few years ago a man came to visit, pretending to be from another Church. But Mr Bevins caught him taking photographs with his phone. Mr Bevins threw it in the sea and said we were going to pray over him, which we did, and then the man got sent back on the next boat. Father said afterwards that he was an undercover journalist who wrote an article full of lies about our community. And then for a while everyone was afraid that they would send someone from the mainland to evict us, although no one knew why they would. It’s not as if we’re breaking any laws. The island belongs to us.
‘You set the standard for everyone else,’ Ron says. ‘It’s a privilege to meet you.’ He shakes Father’s hand enthusiastically.
Bridget nods. ‘A real privilege.’
Father smiles guardedly. Since the journalist we’ve learned to be careful of enthusiasm. When new people come and join us, they have to go through the days of the Solitary first to prove they are worthy. Every new member of our community has to go there for forty days and forty nights. Mother said many were put off by this, to which Father said if it was easy to join us in New Canaan then it wouldn’t be a true test of faith. Like it says in the Bible, it’s easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven. Mr Bevins says that it’s quite normal for people on the mainland to be frightened of us because we live a more spiritual life than them.
Father invites them back to the church. ‘You were obviously led,’ he says. ‘We were just packing up.’
‘The weather!’ Ron says. ‘It’s a sign of the Tribulations. I know it.’
‘That’s the truth, brother.’ Father nods. ‘One thing though.’ He points at Alex. ‘We don’t allow phones in the church.’
Alex makes a noise then shakes her head.
There’s silence for a moment. Bridget’s face changes. She looks disappointed, then angry. ‘Alex we’ve talked about this,’ she says quietly. ‘Unless you want to go back.’
Alex reacts, a ripple through her body like a shock. I think she is about to shout and lose her temper but she doesn’t. She shrugs. She switches the phone off and hands it to Bridget then pushes her hands into her pockets and looks at me like she hates me.
As we drive the short distance back to the church, I can’t help but stare at the square line of her shoulders and the way she crosses her leg ankle to knee and fiddles with the leather braids that she has tied around her wrist. There’s something about her. She gives off this fierce energy. I can almost hear it hum.
THREE
ALEX
I was eleven when I realized that God didn’t exist, or that if He did, that he didn’t care about me.
The Church home, the last one before I got adopted, which was actually OK. The best of all the places I’d been. The people were nice, and although we had to go to a Church school and Church meetings, no one was nasty or creepy. It was one of our ‘family days’, where prospective parents came round and met the children, and although we weren’t supposed to know that that was what was going on, everyone did. I offered God every part of my little being that day. Stupid promises, like I’ll be a missionary when I grow up, I promise to look after Dionne and Sharon, I promise to work really, really hard at school. Please. I knelt by my bed with my hands pressed together so hard I could feel the bones through my palms.
She had to be kind because she was so pretty. She was a model-turned-actress and she shone down on us from the cheap flatscreen in the lounge. Barry found a picture of her on the Internet all dressed up for some awards show in a glamorous evening gown and I started praying then that she would notice me and want to be my mother. My Forever Family, happy ever after. It would be like living inside a golden carriage, I would want for nothing and everything would be perfect. I’d never wanted anything so much.
She’d even been on daytime TV talking about how she was going down the adoption route, and there were sympathetic stories about her in the papers. We weren’t supposed to know about it, but around the house among the older children there was gossip for weeks, about how she had been shown all our profiles and had long meetings with the social workers, that she had chosen us because she had a longstanding relationship with the charity that ran our home. For a few weeks we all felt important, noticed, like we were at the centre of what was going on, not in some rotten corner of Colchester where nothing ever happened.
Adopt them before they’re seven. That’s what everyone says. After seven they’re spoilt, they’ll never really be yours. Or there’s something ‘challenging’ about them: disabilities, learning problems, heart conditions, behavioural issues, which makes them difficult to place.
I was eleven. I was growing, looking awkward. Please, God, please, let it be me.
I never stood a chance.
I practised my winning smile in the mirror. Showing off all my white teeth, like the happy children they put on the cover of the magazine they sent out to prospective families – Children Who Wait.
The Community Rooms had been done up with balloons and there were cakes and cups of squash. Steve had organized activities and games as if it was a party, but we all knew why we were really there.
She came with three other couples, walked in with her head down, her face half hidden by her glossy hair. You could tell from her clothes, her make-up, the very serious expression on her face, that she knew she was the most important person in the room. She was wearing a beautiful cream coat and she smelled classy, like the perfume counter in Boots.
We all froze and stared at her and I put on my winning smile and held it until my face started to ache.
Dionne nudged me. I hated her, with her braces and stupid half ’fro hair that me
ant she got to go to a special hairdresser once a week. I heard Steve perving over her once, going on to Sue the Social Worker, about how she was going to be a stunner when she was older, her skin the colour of creamed coffee, like Beyoncé. But I couldn’t see it personally. She was up herself and she thought she was better than me because she got good marks at school. But I remembered my promise to God to be nice to her and kept smiling.
‘What’s wrong with your face?’ she asked.
‘What d’you mean?’
‘You’re gurning,’ she giggled.
I made my hand into a fist and hit her, right on the bone of her shoulder where you can give someone a dead arm.
Immediately she scrunched up her face and started overreacting as if I’d tried to kill her.
‘Owwww! Alex!’ She said it really loud so that Steve came over.
‘What’s up with you two?’
‘Alex hit me,’ she whined, which made me hate her even more.
Steve made me go and stand over the other side of the room with Sharon, who had cerebral palsy and dribbled while she ate and had to wear really sad glasses. I watched as my new mother circulated around the room. She took her time, bending down to talk to Finn and help him with his Lego. Her nails were shiny salmon-pink and her skin seemed to glow with the kind of class that meant you’d never be sad or poor or sick ever again. Sharon snuffled loudly next to me. I looked at her and hated her too. I didn’t want her to be chosen instead of me.
‘You need the toilet, Sharon?’
‘No,’ she hooted at me.
‘OK then.’
And I wheeled her to the disabled toilet, which was out the swing doors by the lobby. We were supposed to wait for her to do her business and then wheel her back in, except I didn’t. I left her there and shut the door on her, knowing she couldn’t get out on her own.
When I came back my new mother had moved on and I hopped from foot to foot, nervously waiting my turn. I didn’t know what I was going to say, except I hoped that if I looked smart or clever enough she’d notice me right away. But before that could happen Sue the Social Worker came over.
‘Alex, I want to introduce you to someone.’
And standing right in front of me, blocking my view, were this lumpy looking couple; Bridget, with her weird haircut and socks and sandals, and Ron, in a purple jumper with holes in it. I scowled at them.
‘Hello, Alex,’ Bridget said, reaching out a hand to shake mine, but I ignored it. This wasn’t supposed to happen. ‘I’m Bridget. And this is Ron. We’ve heard lots of good things about you.’
‘Ron’s a lay pastor,’ Sue the Social Worker said, like that made everything OK.
‘But . . .’ I started to cry.
‘Oh dear,’ said Sue the Social Worker. ‘These occasions can be a bit overwhelming. Perhaps if we go outside?’
A month later I was living in a house near Billericay with Ron and Bridget, going to church every Sunday. If they were the answers to my prayers, then God was having a big laugh at my expense.
I figured out early on that they only really saw what they wanted to see. They never had kids, and at forty-six it was making Bridget depressed, so they prayed about it and went to an adoption agency and ended up with me. But by the time they got me they were so used to their ways that it was like I was a visitor rather than part of their family. As if I was lodging with them, not living with them.
Even after all that time, whenever Ron caught me coming out of the bathroom he’d say sorry and run to his bedroom and hide until he was sure he wouldn’t see me. And Bridget would always knock before she came into my room. In fact, having me there didn’t seem to lift her out of her depression at all. She spent long afternoons in bed with the curtains closed. Although every now and then she would seem to snap out of it enough to take me to McDonalds and say vague things about how she knew I’d had a hard start in life, but that now I was walking with Jesus everything would be much better for me. I learned quickly that as long as I was quiet and went to church on Sundays I could pretty much do what I liked.
They were the last to know that I’d stopped going to school halfway through Year 11. And when I got my lip ring Bridget didn’t notice for a whole three days, until finally she said, ‘Did you have an accident? You’ve got something funny in your lip.’
But she never made me take it out.
By the time we got to Wales I was tired and a bit carsick from all the twisty roads. The minute we got to the mountains it started to rain, a thick drizzle that seemed to settle on everything like one of Bridget’s damp blankets. I felt cold just looking at the scenery, even though it was warm and dry in Ron’s overheated Volvo.
When we got to the town Ron got cross because he messed up the one-way system and the car park had no spaces and we had to park on a road miles away from the seafront. We got soaked trying to find the mission. It was a total joke. It was supposed to be the height of summer, and it was more like the middle of January.
The minute I saw them, my heart sank. Huddled together under the bandstand like ducks. I wanted us to drive back to Essex right then and face whatever punishment Dick the Pig wanted to lay on me. I didn’t care. I got this bad feeling in my stomach like a stone had settled there, hard and indigestible. I wished I’d never agreed to this stupid plan.
A man and two women – well, a woman and a girl. The girl looked thin and cold, but her face shone in spite of the weather; pale almost translucent skin, so I could see the blue traces of veins in her face. When she looked at me she blushed, her whole face showing her feelings, and I blinked, because she’d caught me staring.
Ron and Bridget acted like they were meeting the Pope or something, all over excited and bleating. ‘Oh, you’re such an inspiration!’ ‘We love your ministry!’ It made me want to puke. And Bridget made this big deal of taking my phone. Normally she didn’t care.
We drive back to their church, which was in an old cinema away from the promenade. Outside were banners with Bible verses, a few sagging balloons. Inside, in the lobby were books and leaflets and a donation box and a table with an electric urn and plates and cups. There was a crash of drums and tambourines coming from the auditorium. On the doors was a poster that said Tonight – Songs of Praise and Worship.
There were information boards about New Canaan. The Great Revelation, it said, and underneath this black and white photo of their preacher, who was supposed to be blessed with the spirit of God. He had wild hair and piercing eyes looking up to heaven, like an old painting of Jesus. Pastor Bevins, Miracle Worker, it said underneath, and, Live for the Victory!
Next to that was a map of the island with stuff about wind energy and self-sufficiency. There was a photo of the community, about forty people standing together in front of a church, their faces squinting into the sun. I could see the girl, Rebekah, younger then, in front of a woman with a red headscarf who held her by the shoulders.
Bridget and Ron told me to wait while they went off with Rebekah’s father to talk to this Pastor Bevins on the satellite phone. Seemed like it was down to him if they were going to take me, although Bridget had made out like it was already happening. I thought about going to the toilet to scratch my arms but I counted to ten like they taught me in CBT. I went and sat on a chair by the doors. Rebekah sat next to me. She was wearing a dirty blue headscarf, which was knotted under her chin too tight, and it made her face stick out like the moon.
I smiled at her but she looked away. Neither of us spoke. I played with the zipper on my top. I went on an outward-bound course once when I lived in the home. I imagined this place would be a bit like that, except for two months rather than a week. We did survival skills, learned how to make fire by rubbing sticks together, how to make a compass from a needle. I liked outdoors stuff. I could deal with digging and harvesting and whatever, as long as there wasn’t too much church.
‘You OK?’
For a moment I wasn’t sure if I’d imagined it, the voice was so small and quiet. I looked at her, but
she turned her eyes to the floor. I knew she wanted me to say something, but I didn’t. Being quiet when you’re expected to speak is a good tactic. It makes people scared of what you might be thinking; either that or after a while they reckon you’re stupid and leave you alone. Also there was this kind of weird feeling between us that seemed to have come from nowhere. Although I didn’t want to admit it, she made me feel shy too.
‘You know we’re Christian?’ she said eventually. ‘On New Canaan.’
I nodded.
‘We’re in the world but not of it,’ she said, arranging herself on the seat all neat and prim.
I reached out a hand and pinched her on the arm.
She flinched. ‘Ow! What did you do that for?’ She leaned away from me and rubbed her arm.
I shrugged. ‘Just checking,’ I muttered.
I never got that idea anyway. I mean, if we’re supposed to be in the world but not of it, then where are we? I could never think of an answer that made sense.
‘Do you walk closely with God?’ She looked at me earnestly and gave me one of her leaflets. ‘All around us the air is thick with spiritual battle.’
I snorted, but her expression was so sincere that I kind of felt sorry for her. I took the leaflet. The text explained all about how Mr Bevins came over from America and set up New Canaan. It was the same stuff that was on the boards except there were more photos, of a beach and farm buildings and a windmill. It made a big deal of their self-sufficiency and their special mission from God. It said that Mr Bevins heard God’s voice directing him to go to Wales.
‘What are you laughing for?’
I pointed at the leaflet. ‘This.’
‘Don’t you ever hear the voice of God?’
‘No.’
‘Mr Bevins has a special gift,’ she said, nodding at no one.
‘Oh.’ Suddenly two months seemed like a really, really long time.
