An Unconventional Love
Adeline Harris grew up in surroundings steeped in religion, from the beloved ayah in India who told her stories of Jesus wrestling tigers, to the strict father in England who placed a stone under her knee when she said the Rosary. It was no wonder that she always wanted to be a nun and a saint.Brought up to respect the church's authority, the parish priest was an important early influence in her life. And when she met the new charismatic priest, Father Kelly, her interest and amazement instantly deepened. She enjoyed spending time with him and rapidly began to spend every spare moment at the church, learning much from the principled man.Following her father's death, Adeline's mother struggled to cope and Adeline was sent to live with Father Kelly. As Adeline grew up, she found herself falling in love with her guardian and hoped he might return her feelings. Then, when she was 18, she met a young man, Andrew, at a local dance. Soon she was pregnant and turned to the one person she could always rely on for help. He offered to look after Adeline and her baby, but he couldn't understand her affections for Andrew. And, as time passed, deep down she always knew it was a friendship that was destined to end in heartache.
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My Story Love
An Unconventional Love
A lost little girl, a troubled life, the friend who stood by her
Adeline Harris
For Paul, Mary and David, also Julian
Whilst kissing away your tears, I left others of my own
Table of Contents
Chapter Two The Family Miracle
Chapter Four Earl’s Court Hotel, London
Chapter Five Clumber Cottage, Felixstowe
Chapter Seven The Unsettled Child
Chapter Nine Lessons at the Presbytery
Chapter Eleven Jealousy in the Parish
Chapter Twelve The Daughters of St Paul
Chapter Thirteen St Bernard’s, Slough
Chapter Fourteen The Shock of Loss
Chapter Fifteen The Godmother Stand-in
Chapter Sixteen Eleven Gatefield Street
Chapter Seventeen Looking After the Father
Chapter Eighteen Crewe and District Memorial Hospital
Chapter Nineteen The On/Off Boyfriend
Chapter Twenty-One Playing Happy Families
Chapter Twenty-Two Life-changing Decisions
From my perch in the apple tree, I looked down and saw our new parish priest wobbling up the road on his bicycle. He was wearing a large black hat with a brim and was dressed totally in black apart from his white collar. His fat bottom bulged over the edge of the seat as he swerved from side to side, trying to avoid the puddles. I giggled at the sight, safe in the knowledge that even if he looked up he wouldn’t be able to see me through the apple blossom.
He turned the corner towards our front door and I scrambled down, getting raindrops and pink petals all over my new dress and freshly brushed hair. I had to be waiting inside when the priest was shown in. I’d been drilled endlessly over the last week about being on my best behaviour – demure and silent and respectful – while Father Kelly went through the elaborate ceremony of blessing our house.
I hurried in through the side door just in time to take my place in the semi-circle of family members who were standing in the sitting room, plenty of candles and holy water on hand. With a frown, Dad brushed the petals from my hair, grabbed my shoulder and pushed me to the front, where I’d be standing directly in front of the priest.
Father Kelly came in and I saw that he had a round, red face, wispy blonde hair and too many teeth for his mouth. This is the man who was in persona Christi, in place of Christ. His visit was only marginally less important than if Jesus himself had come to call.
He smiled down at me, and then I really don’t know what came over me. Maybe it was because I resented that I’d been told I wasn’t allowed to talk, or maybe it was the fact that the adults were taking it all so seriously, but I crossed my eyes and pulled down the corners of my mouth and made the funniest face I could.
Surprise flickered across Father Kelly’s eyes for a moment, then he looked up at the adults and launched into the long, boring ceremony.
Neither of us could have had any idea how pivotal that first meeting between a middle-aged priest and a little eight-year-old girl would prove to be. This was the man whom I would grow to adore, who would shape me into the person I am today. He would be the great love of my young life.
All that was still to come. At our first meeting, I think it’s safe to say that I managed to catch his attention and start to work my way just a little into his thoughts.
The first great love of my life was a big, plump Nepalese woman called Clara. She was my ayah, hired to look after me at the family’s tea plantation in Assam, northeast India. I emerged from the womb and was instantly snuggled into her soft, sari-clad bosom and lulled to sleep by the jingling of the dozens of coloured glass and silver bangles she wore right up to the top of her arms. I viewed the world from the safety of her lap and if I wakened in the night, I could hear her breathing, because she slept in a bed at the end of my own with her hand on my feet.
I went everywhere with Clara-ayah: as a baby I was tucked in the back of her sari as she walked along the dusty road to the bazaar, and as I got older she’d take me for a stroll round the fields of the plantation, which stretched into the distance like a sea of green. I’d play in the gardens outside the house with Clara’s two children, a boy called Tumbi and a girl called Arico, who were both a few years older than me. But most of all we did a lot of sitting around, because Clara wasn’t a very mobile woman. I curled up in the folds of her flesh, or in her sari, or in her vast arms, and she’d cover my face in kisses while telling me endless stories—stories about the past, and in particular about Jesus.
Clara had been brought up a Buddhist but after sitting in on the weekly mass that was held in our house, she decided to convert to Catholicism. Her religion was largely self-taught so, according to her, Jesus was born in Bethlehem, near India; he was dark-skinned, not white; and his miracles were performed not only in the Holy Land but also in India during his many visits there. Before every meal, she would thank Jesus for the food he’d sent, and she’d thank him for India. Our nighttime prayers were endless. With the zeal of the convert, she insisted we stayed on our knees till we had asked for blessings to be bestowed on everyone we knew and countless people we hadn’t even met: all the animals and trees and children everywhere, as well as the tiger under the bed, which, according to her stories, Jesus had tamed. I drank it in through my pores. Clara was the be-all and end-all, the centre of my universe.
