One day we were having Get Out in the courtyard—which was when we were allowed out to play or exercise—when the doorbell rang. The Indian uncle assigned to answer went to the gate. A wealthy Indian family was outside. They had mistaken our school for an orphanage and had come to enquire about adopting one of us.
My heart thumped wildly. I wanted to go with them! They were a family wanting a child—I was a child without a family. I nearly jumped out and shouted, "Take me!" Dad did not even feature in the picture.
The uncle quickly put them straight. My heart sunk when they left. The rest of the day I imagined what it would be like growing up with them and I built it up so much in my mind that it became almost real to me.
Since the Jumbo, I had become a very quiet, introverted but resourceful child. I knew what made the teachers tick, and I had disciplined myself into a perfection of silence. For the first time in my life, I managed to get by without a spanking. I understood that to survive, I must become a chameleon, changing to suit every environment I found myself in. If it was silence and complacency they wanted, I gave it to them with hands folded neatly in my lap; if they wanted me to sing, I sang with gusto; I danced to all their tunes. My best disguise was transparency. I did not make many friends, how-ever, due to my newfound popularity with the teachers.
One teacher Auntie Peace, felt sorry for me. She was a kind teacher with curly red hair and bright blue eyes. Even when she was mad, Auntie Peace always stayed calm and never shouted at us like other adults. I had a phobia about my hair from being frequently teased about how thin and wispy it was. From the time I was a toddler I had been plagued with bad cradle cap, which turned into eczema. It covered my entire scalp and prevented my hair from growing. Bored at night, I would lie there picking at the dry skin, and my hair would come out with it. To my horror, the next morning I'd find giant bald patches where I had been picking. One of the girls in my class had long thick hair falling past her bottom, and feeling ugly, I would watch in envy as the teacher brushed it out. I never let anyone touch my hair, and always tied it back by myself into a lumpy ponytail when no one was looking.
Auntie Peace persuaded me to let her take it down one day and gently combed it out, telling me how beautiful my hair was. "There's different kinds of hair, Julie," she told me. "Just because your hair is not long and thick does not mean it is not beautiful. You are a very beautiful and special girl and you're going to grow up to do special things."
I never forgot this kindness, and always thought of her with the kind of affection I might have felt towards my own mother. In return, I would carry her baby around when she awoke screaming at night and the adults were downstairs in meetings.
"You don't have to cry," I whispered as. I rocked her. "At least your mummy's coming back. My mum's never coming back for me, and I'm not crying, so you shouldn't cry either." And I'd play my music box and sing to her till she fell asleep again. It was years later that I discovered that Auntie Peace named her next baby after me.
This was the first time I became reasonably comfortable in my environment, which enabled me to form delicate strings of attachment. Just as I began to develop some semblance of routine and belonging, Dad was recalled to the Heavenly City School in Japan. He flew with Celeste and me to Thailand and dropped us at the Training Center school in Bangkok, promising to return for us in a few months.
Dad was never good at keeping promises.
Part 3
Chapter 11
I remember the scene as if it were only yesterday. I was five years old. The day was sunny and bright. We rose early to attend a fellowship meeting at Hyde Park, London. Everyone greeted each other by kissing and hugging and called each other "brother" and "sister." There were over eighty of us sit-ting on the grass singing and clapping along to "You gotta be a baby to go to heaven."
I sang with all my heart as loudly as I could. This was a happy day and I savoured the joyful atmosphere. The other children and I handed out leaflets to the growing crowd of onlookers, asking them to say a prayer with us to receive Jesus into their hearts. After "winning a soul" for Heaven, I ran back to join in the dancing. A large circle had formed with everyone holding hands and I held on tightly as we went round and round. We sang:
Come along and join our gypsy caravan
We are headed for another country, for another land...
I looked over at my beautiful mother playing the guitar, her long hair flowing down to her waist. As the Children of God we were meant to be one big happy family. She would tell me stories of the early days when they had a double-decker bus known as the prophet bus, which was painted bright yellow with the words "Revolution for Jesus" emblazoned across the sides. The bus would be filled with disciples singing and clapping as they drove to Trafalgar Square, where they would disembark and go off in pairs to witness to the youth, with a guitar, a King James Bible and some leaflets.
Happy moments like this were rare. It seems as if my entire early childhood was filled with a sense of quiet desperation with a stepfather I loathed and a mother who seemed so fey and fragile she needed protecting from the world. She was the princess chained to the rock, my step dad was the wicked dragon and I was the one whose task it was to protect her at all cost. This was why I tried to spare her from knowing about all the abuse heaped upon me—sexual, physical, and verbal.
My real dad was my knight in shining armour. Some day, I was sure, he would rescue us. We would be reunited with him and my big sister Celeste, and all the pain would stop.
"Tell me how you met my dad," I would pester Mum when we were on our own and Joshua couldn't hear. I meant my real dad, not Joshua, the despised stepfather who abused me almost on a daily basis.
The story was always the same. Mum and Dad turned up at a Children of God commune in Kent, on the same day. They barely knew each other but she felt that the Lord was telling them to get married. Dad approached her at a large Fellowship Meeting in Central London.
"Has the Lord been showing you anything?" he asked her.
"Yes," she answered meekly. "That we should get married?"
Dad fell on his knees theatrically and clasped her around the waist. "Thank God!" he sighed in relief.
I loved that story; it always seemed so romantic which made it all the sadder that we were no longer a happy family.
I was born on June 29, 1976 in Bombay, India, where my parents were working as missionaries. Even from the earliest age, I was very aware of sex—it was impossible not to be. At around the time of my birth, our prophet Mo was publishing a series of Letters detailing a new ministry called "Flirty Fishing." In these letters Mo remembered the many years he'd spent as a lonely salesman away from his family, and felt sympathy for the needy men who had never known the real love of God. "Who better than the Family girls to give it to them?" he wrote. He boasted that he was God's fisherman, sex was the hook to catch the "fish" and the women were his "bait." Sex was the highest expression of love and if Jesus was willing to die on the Cross for us, we should be willing to sacrifice our bodies to win souls and new recruits for Him. But the letters "God's Whores" and "Hookers for Jesus" also explained how Flirty Fishing should pay the bills. Mo documented how he went with his second "wife," Maria, pimping her to pick up men in the hotel bars and nightclubs of London and Tenerife. She even had a child Davidito—by one of the men she had Flirty Fished.
This shocking new ministry prompted many to leave the Family.
* * *
One day, when I was just a few months old, Mum was told that she had to go Flirty Fishing to win new souls. When she understood what it entailed, she told Dad, "This is wrong."
He laughed and tried to persuade her to accept it. "If Mo says it's right who are we to argue?"
Confused and uncertain, Mum decided to pray and ask the Lord if this could possibly be the truth. After sleeping on it, she found her feelings had changed. In theory she felt she would be willing to give her love and even her body to win lost souls if this would please the Lord. Then
she became pregnant again with my brother David. All her pregnancies were difficult, with violent vomiting and an aversion to smell and touch, and so she was repulsed by physical intimacy with her husband while in this condition. My father told her that he wanted to find someone else to fulfil his sexual needs out-side of the marriage. He made his request to the local leader, who lent him his own wife.
An article written by a visiting shepherd was published in an internal magazine, castigating the sisters for not meeting the sexual needs of the brothers in the communes.
"I was very surprised," Mum told me when I asked about it. "I hadn't realized that we were supposed to do this."
After this rebuke, sexual "sharing" was immediately implemented. In April 1978, my brother David was born. I was sixteen months old. Mum struggled to cope with three young children, while my father spent most of his time working on his radio show, Music with Meaning. Mum felt neglected and jealous at having to share her husband. The regional shepherdess noticed something was wrong, and Mum, touched by her concern, tried to express her feelings.
The conversation was reported to the superiors who sent her to Madras for a break and to pray about whether she should stay with my dad.
David was still a babe in arms, so Mum took him with her. While at the commune in Madras, an Australian brother, Joshua, became infatuated with her. He was asked to vacate his room for her, but he didn't leave. Feeling rested after six weeks, Mum returned to Dad to discover that in her absence he had begun an affair with an Indian sister, Ruth, who was pregnant with his child. Joshua pursued Mum back to Madras and called a meeting to suggest that he should be mated to my mother and my dad to Ruth.
Privately, Dad asked Mum, "Do you want to stay with me?" "Yes," she replied.
The matter was ended and my parents moved away to another commune. But Joshua persisted, coming over daily to help her with the kids. After a few weeks of this, of always seeing Joshua around, Dad sat my mother down and requested a separation.
"I was completely against it," Mum told me, sadly. "But Joshua was so pushy—and your dad was so stubborn. He wouldn't change his mind."
"Couldn't you have begged him?" I asked.
Mum shook her head. "He was my husband. I felt I had no choice but to obey him and be with Joshua. Your dad insisted on keeping Celeste."
"But why didn't he want me?" I asked, feeling rejected—though going with him would have meant not being with Mum, so I would have ended up torn between my love for them.
She would try and reassure me that it wasn't because he didn't love me but that I was too young.
I would say, "But doesn't Celeste need a mother?"
I knew how much Mum missed Celeste too, so I never got anywhere with my line of questioning. I always got the same answer. "Well, I guess he thought it was fair as I got to keep two of you." This offered me little comfort.
Soon afterwards, due to negative press reports exposing Flirty Fishing, the Indian police said that all members of the Children of God had to leave the country. Joshua decided we would go to England. Before we left, we visited Dad and Celeste one last time to say goodbye. Mum was devastated and in shock at this turn of events. It was difficult for her to accept that God was requiring her to forsake her eldest daughter.
I cried as we drove through the bustle and chaos to Bombay Airport, remembering the last words Celeste said to me, "Look after baby David."
Back in a wintry England, Mum scanned the crowds at the airport and spotted her parents, Bill and Margaret, waiting for us. Tired from the long journey, and cold, we piled into the car and were driven to their comfortable house in the Mid-lands. We were showered with love and affection. They took us for fun outings and walks with their dogs. We spent our first real Christmas with them. There was a massive tree with presents under it, chocolates, treats, and decorations-it was wonderful because Mo didn't approve of gifts and special treats at Christmas.
I loved my new grandfather! I would crawl on to his lap and he would read me stories. I especially liked one picture
book that showed how the insides of ships and planes worked. As he was a civil engineer, he could explain every detail of every machine. I loved hearing about engines, sails, and thick metal hulls.
Joshua was in his late twenties, with a shock of dark blond hair and a droopy moustache. He later told me that he had been a heroin addict in India when he met the Children of God. He flushed his drugs and cigarettes down the toilet and joined the same night. While he could be witty and charming to others, David and I suffered from his lack of patience, con-trolling behaviour, and violent outbursts. I was an affection-ate child, but with him my instinct told me to be wary. I didn't like him and wouldn't hug him or sit on his lap. I missed my daddy at first, and resisted calling Joshua "daddy" like he insisted, which always upset him.
When he was in a good mood, he told us funny stories. I was brought up a country boy, in the mountains. It was so isolated out there I sold Blue Mountain air to city people in jam jars." We laughed, but it was always a balancing act--- how much to laugh. Too much or too little laughter got a smack. I knew that if I didn't please him, I'd be in for a spanking, or some other form of punishment. He only had to give me a look or move his hands close to his belt and I would ciao"' up and do whatever he wanted, like a Pavlovian dog.
Our grandparents couldn't understand why Joshua would beat us as in their eyes we were little angels, but they' felt it was not their place to interfere-I'm sure, though, that they discussed it at night behind the closed door of their bed-room. Granny disapproved of his harshness and would often act as a buffer between him and us. One time as I went past her,
I mumbled, "I hate that man." She didn't say anything, but I sensed quiet support from her and she was extra nice to me.
I loved being at my grandparents' and when Joshua told them that we were going to be missionaries in Poland, they were horrified. "Why don't you open up a health-food shop instead?" Granddad asked.
I thought it was a lovely idea—we'd have a home and stay in one place. But Mum just shook her head. It didn't enter her mind to tell her father that it was a sin for Family members to work in the System for money; and he probably wouldn't have understood.
My grandparents' scrutiny was too much for Joshua. I could see and hear the pressure he put on Mum. "I hate it here. They don't like me. Come on, we're getting out," he would insist, until she was worn down. All too soon, our wonderful visit came to an end. In January, we went to Black-pool to stay with a couple that had just joined the Family. In all, we lived in over forty different places over the next ten years. That meant, of course, that I had nowhere to call my home.
Secretly, behind Joshua's back, Mum wrote to Dad asking if she could return to him. I asked over and over, "Has there been a letter? Has Daddy replied?," and always she would shake her head. Time passed slowly, and still there was no letter. It was tense waiting—it felt like forever.
When Mum told Joshua that she wanted to return to my real daddy, he changed. He constantly criticized her, always looking for faults, and it escalated until he hit her. I was so small I couldn't do anything, but listen to her sobbing. After-wards, when Joshua wasn't looking, I snuggled up close and whispered in her ear. "It will be all right, Mummy—we'll hear from Daddy soon." She nodded her head, but there was a hopeless look in her eyes. Gradually she started to switch off more and more, until she was like a ghost who lived with us but who wasn't really there.
From Blackpool we moved to London, and the council put us in a bed and breakfast in Paddington near the railway station while we waited to be housed. It was so cold and bleak. David and I developed whooping cough and Mum took us to the doctor, but she wouldn't let us have any medicine, as Mo
F believed that we should be healed through faith alone. The harsh whoop in whooping cough is reflexive and can't really be prevented—but because we weren't "ill" we weren't allowed to show any symptoms.
Just before our grandparents came on a visit, Joshua glared at us
and admonished, wagging his finger in our faces, "Don't you even think about coughing in front of them, or you're in for a spanking."
I almost choked and turned blue trying to hold in the whoops—and as soon as I could when they left I choked and gasped for air as I coughed and coughed.
We had very little money and Mum had to go out Flirty Fishing in the evenings to make some—and to win souls, Joshua told us. I knew where she was going, and brushed her hair and made her pretty. I would often be left alone with my little brother David while Joshua went to visit other Family members, or went to the pub on the sly. Every day he insisted that I memorized a quota of verses and complete my work-books before I could go to bed, and obediently I'd settle down to my work.
One evening, after Mum had left to Flirty Fish, Joshua headed for the door. "Put David to bed, and make sure the dishes are washed," he ordered. "And make sure you pray before going to sleep," he added before leaving.
Not Without My Sister Page 14
