FOR SUCH AS THESE

FOR SUCH AS THESE

by

Talitha Hills

Preface

If you are seeking sensational revelation or literary expertise this simple testimony will not impress.

Prayerfully may it reach the hearts and minds of those stranded in the wastelands.

The Father waits - a still small voice calls across the desert of your mistakes, wrong turns, weaknesses,

your humanity.

Chapter One

Behind the Veil

Looking  back over my life's journey I can now see how very grateful I must always be for the

grounding and discipline I received as a child.   At the time it appeared relentless, unforgiving and

strict, but the instruction received both at home and school resulted in a strong moral code.   I was born into a comfortable middle class family in the leafy suburbs of a northern city at the beginning

of the second world war.   My father conscripted into the Air Force was eventually posted to Egypt and I would not see him again until I was five. 

My grandfather a generous loving parent gathered his daughters and their children and we moved 

from our respective homes to the coast and during the war years lived in a large detached house on the sea front.   I can still recall the heavy velvet drapes, dark furniture and a barren expanse of promenade that seemed to stretch forever.   Occasionally we would return home for a brief interlude and I can remember being pushed under the table in the kitchen as it was considered too late to make a dash for the air raid shelter in the garden.

Random events always come to mind as I think back to my early years.  I was fascinated by the

home guard in their metal helmets and the search lights sweeping the sky above the avenue totally unaware of the danger that might suddenly fall from the sky.   I did not appreciate my Mickey Mouse

gas mask.   Children of my generation were seen and not heard and excluded from adult conversation.

Seemingly encased in a protective bubble I knew nothing of the surrounding devastation or the appalling crimes committed against the Jewish people.   I was a total innocent and would remain in that utopia

for many years.

My mother was the centre of my world to the detriment of any future relationship I might have had with

my father.   At the end of the war the family gathered to welcome the boys home.   Shy and overly 

sensitive I remember nervously hiding behind my mother's skirt as a noisy stranger dressed in blue uniform appeared in the hall doorway and lunged for my mother.   For the first time in my young

life I experienced overwhelming jealousy and a distinct dislike of this noisy intruder.    My baby sister arrived later that year, she was beautiful and my father who genuinely loved all babies was totally

smitten along with the rest of the family.   My attitude towards my father was obviously causing concern as I clearly recall my grandmother telling my mother "you have to give her time"   I can never remember

being cuddled or told I was loved, but perhaps that was generational.   I was not "Daddy's little girl"

I would physically shake when he rebuked either myself or my elder brother.   It was a difficult

time made bearable by my grandparents.   I loved every minute spent with them, both at their home and on holidays spent at the very best hotels.

Post war Christmas was a special time when the family gathered at the Grand Hotel for the traditional Christmas dinner.   The pungent aroma of cigars drifted into the lobby.   Above the dining hall the

orchestra played accompanied by the gentle clink of glass.   In the opulent surrounding the choir boys

in their red gowns and white smocks sang Christmas Carols.   The celebrations continued and my beautiful mother would disappear into the night wearing a ball gown covered in tiny stars, just one event in a busy social calendar. 

The relationship with my father was deteriorating.   For the first five years of my life there had just been

my elder brother James, Mum and me, now with a younger sister and two brothers I was merely one of

the litter.   I became increasingly withdrawn and nervous, aware that all that was required was that I

was respectful and obedient otherwise I would incur his wrath.   I would close my eyes and look away

hoping to vanish from his glare, this was considered insolence.   My grandparents remained my rock

a constant unchanging shelter and they will always have a very special place in my heart.

My education began at a private preparatory school managed and staffed by Faithful Companions of Jesus nuns.   Eventually in preparation for my first Holy Communion I attended the confessional with absolutely no idea how many of my transgressions were considered serious enough to be confessed and so I confessed to the whole list of sins in the prayer book and duly received my penance.   The Communion Service was held in the school chapel.   At such a young age I could hardly have realised the significance of the occasion other than the excitement of dressing like a miniature bride in a queue of spotless innocents glowing in parental approval.   I accepted without question the ritual and traditions of my birth church and faithfully attended mass every Sunday, the only exemption allowed, illness or injury.

Somewhere behind a host of angels, saints, the priest and his helpers, somewhere behind the veil

was God.   Perhaps the altar boys had a better view of this mysterious God as they bobbed up and down. Whispering fidgets were silenced as mass began in a strange language and along with a sermon that seemed to last forever I sat patiently waiting for my release.   At long last the guilt ridden sheep encouraged and blessed were instructed to go forth and do better.   As heavy wooden doors opened into the wider world the flock scrambled into the isle and headed for pasture.

Sundays were always special.   A family day spent within the confines of our garden in the summer months and in front of blazing fires throughout the winter.   Traditional Sunday roast, sandwich and cake teas.   Both parents were talented musicians and we would gather around the piano to sing.   My love of music was birthed and remains a passion.

The last addition to the family arrived in my tenth year on the very day I had inconveniently succumbed to bronchial pneumonia.    Seriously ill and hallucinating from the affects of the drug M & B my terrified screams raised the household.    A woman appeared at my bedside.   When I screamed "the devil is chasing me" she pointed to the cross on the wall above my bed.  "Don't worry" she comforted "he can't touch you, look the cross is over your bed"

No doubt my frequent absence from school due to sickness had a devastating effect on my progress.   A severe attack of measles had earlier resulted in my being profoundly deaf in one ear.   Realising I was now hearing impaired my parents hasty acquisition of a private tutor was a last desperate effort to avoid failure in the eleven plus exam, however this merely resulted in my being a borderline case and I was asked to chose between further education at my grandfather's expense at the convent's senior school or 

move away to yet another convent school specialising in commercial subjects managed and staffed by the Sisters of Charity.    Allowed the choice and seriously influenced by a novel in my mother's Book Club at the tender age of eleven I decided that I would like to learn secretarial skills, eventually become a top flight secretary, marry my handsome boss and live happily ever after.    My elder brother had sailed through the same exam two years earlier, passed with top marks and was well into his second year at Grammar School.

At this juncture my father probably considered I would not amount to much.   His repeated attempts to explain the concept "if a man walks around a field measuring...." I was away through the field and flowers to another place my refuge in the noise and confusion of a busy home.   There was a modicum of promise in art and music.   My father, an incredibly gifted artist, suggested my art work was best viewed from the back of a moving bus.    Like a canary I would sing happily in my cage, the bathroom

having the very best acoustics, but I never craved the "spotlight"   In a new era of pop culture he considered I could be making a small fortune, but that was of little interest to me, like the birds of the air I sang not for the approval of others.    My father abandoned his project declaring I was "thick" a common expression meaning stupid.    

Struggling into puberty I was slowly realising there were two sets of rules in the family.   One standard

for my elder brother and myself and a much softer approach for the younger siblings.   As the eldest

girl I rapidly became the "go for" boys being mysteriously allowed to be just boys.   Perhaps my parents best hope was that I would marry well within both their religious and social circle.   My three brothers were enough to discourage any thoughts in that direction.    My mother commented "they will have to dig one up for her"

Remaining sensitive to criticism, offence and jealousy were my deadly companions and as I began to make friendships outside the family I became very aware that my lot was unfair and restrictive.   Innocent questions regarding faith issues were met with firm rebuttal and reprimand.   I was already questioning the status quo asking my mother "if only Catholics go to heaven, where does everyone else go?" suggesting my close friend Jean, her sister and parents were lovely people surely they must go somewhere.    I was promptly told "the trouble with you is you think too much" but I was spared the suggestion they were all going to hell.   There was only silence.   Rebellion was stirring.  

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