Only Strange People Go to Church

by Laura Marney

  Maria has lead responsibility for an initiative which is tasked to integrate the centre into the wider community. Her remit is to liaise with groups and ensure that centre clients play an active role in the life of the neighbourhood. Unfortunately it isn’t something that she has, so far, proven to be very good at.

  No one can say she hasn’t tried. She has postered everywhere, approached every voluntary group in the Hexton area. She attends every meeting hoping that an opportunity might present itself for integration with the ATC. It never does. The initiative has so far produced no integration, no volunteers to the centre, not one.

  Others, embarrassed by their lack of success, might be reluctant to ask for promotion, but not Maria. She has the full backing of her spiritual advisors. She understands it’s not logical when you’re apparently failing in your job to look for career advancement but, in this case, she has rejected logic in favour of instinct. Nevertheless, she knows this meeting is not going to be easy.

  She has a good idea of what’s going to happen: Mike will start to bang on, as he always does, about the Inclusion Initiative and how, after three years, she still hasn’t got anything off the ground. But this time, instead of cowering and nodding her head, yes sir, no sir, three bags full, she’s going to be ready for him.

  ‘Right. Let’s start with the plus points,’ Mike says as he sits behind his desk, carefully holding his tie to stop it falling on to the file.

  ‘As usual, an impressive 100 % attendance.’

  Maria has never had a day’s absence since she started at the centre. Even when she has a cold or a bug she makes it in, Blue Group need her.

  ‘Again you’ve scored consistently high in all of this year’s staff training, 93% for the homemaker’s course.’

  Maria smiles, she loves staff training.

  ‘85% pass rate in your crafts class.’

  Maria’s smile tightens slightly on being reminded of this. It would have been one hundred per cent if it hadn’t been for Martin insisting on doing his own knitting. Of course in a childish fury he ripped out the few rows of plain and purl he had managed and refused to even try again. Maria had considered quickly knitting a simple scarf in his name, it would only have taken a few hours, but she knew Martin would make a fuss. It had been selfish and disappointing of him to let the rest of Blue Group down.

  ‘Ah, this is interesting. You’re usually so hands-on with the clients, Maria. I’ve a note here from Bert to say that although you take your group swimming, you don’t enter the pool with them.’

  Cheers Bert, thinks Maria.

  ‘Mike, everyone’s perfectly safe, there’s a lifeguard on duty at all times.’

  ‘Yes, of course, but you know the policy, Maria: clients should be assisted in the pool, it helps their confidence.’

  ‘I’m allergic. The chloride in the water, it nips my eyes.’

  ‘Well, keep your eyes out of the water then.’

  ‘But they thrash about and splash me, it’s like a jacuzzi in there.’

  ‘Client confidence and personal development takes priority over your nippy eyes. Ask Alison for petty cash and buy goggles.’

  Maria’s face glows red. It’s pointless arguing with him.

  ‘Now to more serious matters. I’ve had a complaint from Fiona’s mother. Fiona has been crying a lot at night again. She says she has nightmares that you are hitting her.’

  ‘I’ve never laid a hand on Fiona!’ shouts Maria.

  She shouldn’t shout, not at an appraisal meeting with her boss, obviously, but the idea that anyone would even imagine such a thing.

  ‘No,’ says Mike calmly.

  ‘Or anyone, ever. Never in my life!’

  ‘No, I know that, or, let me assure you, you wouldn’t be sitting here now, but we have to look at the underlying reasons why Fiona is frightened. Her mother feels that you pick on her.’

  ‘She picks on me; she’s always trying to slap me! You know that, you’ve seen her.’

  ‘I know that Fiona is one of our more challenging clients. Perhaps we need to look more closely at her specific needs.’

  ‘I do, Mike. I spend more time with Fiona than with anyone else.’

  ‘Of course I’m aware of the extra hours that you put in, but I wonder if you’re not a bit too involved with the clients? At the end of the day they need respite from us as much as we need from them. I can’t tell you how to spend your free time, but perhaps you should cultivate friendships outside the centre. Have a normal social life with normal people.’

  ‘Blue Group are normal people who happen to have learning difficulties. I’d prefer if you didn’t speak about them like that.’

  ‘Calm down, Maria. These kind of emotional scenes aren’t helpful.’

  Shit. This is just the kind of outburst she has specifically meditated not to have. It’s not fair. She’ll never get her promotion now. How can such an insensitive prick like Mike wield such influence in her life? This is not going well.

  Chapter 7

  Mike takes his time rifling around in Maria’s file, perhaps to give her a moment to compose herself. She needs it. She breathes deeply.

  ‘Okay, let’s move on,’ says Mike in a faux-friendly management tone, as if nothing has happened. ‘Now, where are we with the Inclusion Initiative?’

  This is it. If the first half of the interview didn’t go well, it’s only going to get worse from here on in. Fuck it, Maria thinks. She’s got nothing left to lose.

  ‘Nowhere,’ she sighs.

  Mike lets his head fall forward dramatically.

  ‘I requested work placements for clients at the Breakfast Club at St Peter’s School but they say they’re too crowded as it is. There isn’t enough space for all the kids to sit down. Rather than turn kids away, they’re now operating a buffet.’

  ‘A buffet? How can kids eat hot porridge while standing? St Peter’s will end up getting their arses sued.’

  ‘The Elderly Forum applied for a sports grant.’

  ‘Typical, the most proactive group in Hexton is the Elderly.’

  ‘They got the full amount. Enough for a fitness instructor two days a week and all the equipment.’

  ‘Wow! That is good news. We could bus a few of our groups down there. In fact we could walk them down and that would be their warm-up. That’ll kick the client’s arses into gear. And,’ says Mike, pointing his pen at Maria excitedly, ‘this fits the health initiative remit like a glove.’

  But Maria is only building his hopes to bring them crashing down again.

  ‘Except that the Elderly Forum won’t let anyone, not just us, use their equipment. A unanimous decision.’

  ‘What? They can’t do that; it’s community equipment.’

  ‘They don’t want to share.’

  ‘Selfish old gits, they want their arses kicked.’

  ‘It stems from a complaint they raised last July about another user group, WAVAW, Women Against Violence Against Women.’

  ‘Oh God, the battered wives again? Irate husband running amok trying to chop up the missus, was it?’

  ‘No, not this time. The problem was caused by the Elderly Forum’s premises being closed for two weeks after the meeting. If it hadn’t been for that everything would have been fine.’

  ‘Eh? I’m not following.’

  ‘WAVAW held their meeting without incident,

  locked up and handed back the keys. The problem was that they forgot to empty the bin. One woman had changed her baby’s nappy and it was left there in the bin. You remember how hot it was last July. Two weeks later when the Elderly Forum re-opened they discovered an infestation of maggots.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’

  ‘And a really bad smell.’

  ‘I’m not surprised the Elderly won’t have them back. They’ve ruined it for everyone with their shitty nappies. Those battered wives need their arses kicked.’

  A silence falls.

  ‘That was a joke, Maria.’

  Another silence.


  ‘Yes!’ she blurts. Maria’s hand flies to her chest and presses hard. She pushes against her breastbone trying to contain her embarrassment. She never gets his jokes.

  ‘I’ll tell you who really need their arses kicked,’ says Mike.

  Who, Maria wonders, is to feel the force of Mike’s jackboot now? Cancer victims, holocaust survivors, disabled kiddies?

  ‘The scrotebags that torched the community centre, that’s who. I don’t know how I’m supposed to run a community without a community hall.’

  ‘Any word on when we’ll get the new one?’

  ‘Oh I wouldn’t hold your breath. Recession, economic downturn, credit crunch, blah-dee-blah. The planning meeting has been put off twice already and we’ve not even gone to consultation yet. I blame the Christians. That Pastor McKenzie keeps blocking it. He’s a slippery one. How the hell did he manage to get on the Community Council?’

  ‘He was the only candidate. His church group voted for him. Perfectly constitutional, they’re entitled to support whoever they like. The Victory Mission is part of the community.’

  ‘Oh wise up Maria! You don’t think any of these Christians actually come from Hexton, do you? They’re missionaries, for Christ’s sake. They’re parachuted in here every Saturday night with coffee and biscuits trying to bribe people to join their weirdo Jesus sect.’

  ‘Pizza. They’re offering pizza now.’

  ‘They’re giving out free pizza now, are they? Dirty bastards! It wouldn’t surprise me if it was the bloody Christians that burned the centre down. Divide and conquer, that’s their game.’

  ‘Although they didn’t bring any pizza when they came to the centre.’

  ‘They came here?’

  ‘Pastor McKenzie and a few of his followers came offering pastoral care.’

  Mike is outraged.

  ‘Trying to recruit the mentally disabled,’ he spits, ‘that’s low.’

  He looks set for a bout of apoplexy.

  ‘Unfortunately their visit clashed with ‘The Jeremy Kyle Show’ so they didn’t actually get any takers.’

  ‘Well, thank the Lord for that.’

  ‘I asked the Stoma club to come in and give us a demonstration of changing their bag,’ says Maria, counting off her fingers.

  ‘Euw!’

  ‘It said on their publicity that they did, but they politely declined. I asked the Mother and Toddler group if we could help out but they also declined, and none too politely. Liz Marshall said they couldn’t have loonies near the kids. That’s what we’re up against.

  ‘I started a Slimming Club at the centre, WUFACS, primarily for clients but open to anyone from Hexton.’

  ‘WUFACS?’

  ‘Women Using Food As a Coping Strategy.’

  ‘I see what you’ve done there. Good title. Non-judgmental, so’s not to make them feel bad about being fat. Any luck?’

  ‘Fiona came for a few weeks when I was trying to wean her off crisps, but no, nobody else.’ Mike giggles. ‘It might have been more successful if you’d called it Woman Using Food As a Stuffing Their Face Strategy.’

  Maria blanks this pathetic attempt at humour. She’s kept the best till last, a terrific example of the pains she has taken to fulfil the criteria for the Inclusion Initiative.

  ‘We joined the Stop The Motorway Campaign, went to the demo, banged our pots and pans. Obviously our involvement was limited once the police turned up and the protesters took to the trees. There was talk of rigging a block and tackle to hoist Brian’s chair up next time. Brian was pretty keen.’

  If there’s one thing that is sure to wind Mike up, it’s the idea of Brian, the youngest client at the centre, swinging from the trees like Tarzan, if Tarzan used a wheelchair.

  ‘What? There won’t be a next time.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Are you kidding? We have a duty of care to our clients not to get them arrested or have them fall out of trees. No more demos. That’s final.’

  Mike closes Maria’s appraisal file. The air that has been between the pages of the substantial dossier is forced out and smacks her face like a rebuke.

  ‘Anyway, good effort. I can see you’ve put a lot of work in.’

  ‘You don’t expect me to achieve anything, do you Mike?’

  ‘You’re a valued member of the team, Maria; don’t think for a minute that you’re not.’

  He reaches across and pats her. He delivers his standard one, two, three pats and then a soft up and down reassuring rub on a generally agreed, non-threatening part of the body, her elbow. She stares into Mike’s eyes. She wants to see beyond his eyes, into his soul, if he has one.

  ‘Believe me Mike, it’s impossible. The community councillors don’t care about our clients. They have referred to them as, and I’m quoting here, ‘subnormal mentalists’.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s wise to call the councillors ‘mentalists’, Maria.’

  ‘Not the…’

  ‘Joke,’ says Mike, holding up his hands.

  ‘I’m tired of begging snooty community groups to be kind, it just doesn’t work. I’m sick of kissing community arses. I’m up to here with the sausage roll circuit. I’ve had enough. It’s time to change tactics, time to get tough.’

  ‘Mmm,’ says Mike scratching his chin, ‘an aggressively negative approach to building community networks. That’s novel.’

  Maria barely registers his sarcasm. It’s time to deliver her master plan. The plan that came to her at the shimmering river of her meditation, the beautiful simple sweet plan that is going to solve the inclusion issue and get Maria promoted. Before she speaks she swallows the saliva that has pooled in her mouth. It tastes like bleach.

  ‘A show,’ she whispers. ‘I’m going to put on a show.’

  It’s Mike’s turn to stare into Maria’s eyes now.

  ‘Mike, it’s perfect. Everyone in Hexton fancies themselves as a singer. Instead of us chasing them, pleading to be involved in their little schemes, they’ll come to us. They’ll be queuing up to get involved. We can host it in our assembly hall. There’s room for two hundred people in there. A community show, with a theme, you know, like those tributes they have on telly on a Saturday night. I was thinking Rihanna, Lady Gaga or something.’

  Maria becomes aware of how heavily her hand is squashing her chest, constricting her breathing. She releases it and instantly feels giddy and reckless.

  ‘Rihanna I don’t mind, she’s tidy’, mumbles Mike. ‘Not Lady Gaga, she’s a gender reassignment, isn’t he?’

  Maria’s heart leaps. He’s thinking about it and he hasn’t said no. Yet.

  ‘A concert party; a musical extravaganza,’ she continues. ‘The school choir, the Elderly Forum Glee Club, these groups are always looking for somewhere to sing.’

  ‘God save us,’ says Mike with tired cynicism. ‘Hexton’s the place for singing Found Love in a Hopeless Place and, heh heh,’ he snickers, ‘you could always get the demented pensioners to cover What’s My Name.’

  He’s being deliberately objectionable, thinks Maria, but she stays focussed.

  ‘Most of the groups have some sort of musical ability. Stop The Motorway have jugglers and guitarists. Oh, and I’ve just remembered, Victory Mission has an organist.’

  ‘Whoa! I don’t know if we’d want those church weirdos in the centre.’

  ‘We can’t exclude them Mike, we can’t exclude any of the groups. And the beauty of us hosting it is that they can’t exclude us. We’re in charge. My drama workshops have been going well. The clients could perform something around a framework of other acts.’

  Having presented her evidence Maria forces herself to stop talking.

  Mike stares at the file, he screws his lips up, obviously deep in thought for self-serving schemes, and after an agonizingly long time he says,

  ‘Well, I suppose if nothing else it’ll look good on the annual report. Nobody will be able to say we haven’t explored every avenue.’

  ‘A theatrical production invo
lving some or hopefully all of Hexton’s community groups would fill the inclusion initiative criteria, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Mmm, yup, mad as it is, a community show ticks all the boxes.’

  The next question is not as assertive as Maria has rehearsed. ‘And that would then make me eligible for promotion?’

  ‘If you manage to get Hextors to set foot inside the centre you’ll get my job. It’ll be your ticket out of Hexton. Let me have a preliminary report in two weeks and diary a meeting in, say, a month from now?’ Maria nods graciously. She’s imagining a victory dance on top of Mike’s desk.

  As she shakes his hand and leaves, she allows herself a smile. In the words of one of her previous spiritual advisors, Freddy Mercury, the show must go on.

  Chapter 8

  Next morning Maria is meditating. Her body is lying on the bedroom floor in her flat but she is simultaneously inhabiting another, more idyllic location: the sky is blue, the forest is piney fragrant, the shimmering river glints in the fresh morning sunshine as she stands and waits for her spirit guides. This is often a difficult time in the meditation.

  If they take too long to come Maria might decide that she’ll do spag bol tonight. Use up that leftover mince. Pop into Waitrose for tomatoes on the way home. But she pulls her mind back. Meditate.

  One of the fun things about meditating is that spirit guides can be different every day. She’s never entirely sure who’ll turn up. Sometimes they are generic, kindly, smiling, wise faces, usually older men and women, sometimes famous people, like Nelson, and sometimes just ordinary people who’ve made an impression on her: a considerate boy on the bus giving up his seat to a blind man, a cheery mother of a seriously disabled child. Arlene, Maria’s ex-next-door-neighbour, has become quite a regular.

  Arlene and her husband Norman lived next door to Maria’s family until, when Maria was only thirteen, Norman’s job forced them to move away. She has wonderful memories of Arlene and Norman: they were such a glamorous couple, the Charles and Diana of the neighbourhood. Arlene wore beautiful clothes, not like Maria’s own dowdy mum, and Norman was incredibly handsome. Arlene was kind and funny, and Maria always wishes she’d gotten to know her better, but she was only a kid. Arlene and Norman didn’t have kids of their own and didn’t socialise with anyone Maria knew.