From witchcraft to Christ

Doreen Irvine

Contents

Foreword by Arthur Neil

Chapter One Life's Early Morning

Chapter Two The Fishing Trip

Chapter Three My Mum

Chapter Four Black Arrow

Chapter Five Transformation

Chapter Six The Stranger

Chapter Seven Departure

Chapter Eight Streets of Paddington

Chapter Nine Road to Prison

Chapter Ten Prison and Cold Turkey

Chapter Eleven The Empire of Satan

Chapter Twelve Queen of Black Witches

Chapter Thirteen No Way Out

Chapter Fourteen First Step to Freedom

Chapter Fifteen Search for Deliverance

Chapter Sixteen The Finger of God

Chapter Seventeen Jesus is Victor

Chapter Eighteen Peace at Bethany

Chapter Nineteen A Rough Diamond

Chapter Twenty A Fuller, Deeper Ministry

Chapter Twenty-One A Spiritual Warfare

Afterword by Keith Blades

Foreword

IN 1968, while conducting a church anniversary service in a city suburb, I was deeply moved and greatly encouraged to see in the congregation a woman I had not met since her deliverance from forty-seven demons three years previously. Once a prostitute, heroin addict, witch, satanist and a victim of abominable practices, here she was now radiant with the glory of the Lord and rejoicing in him. It wasn't by chance that we were singing

Long my imprisoned spirit lay

Fast bound in sin and nature's night;

Thine eye diffused a quickening ray,

I woke, the dungeon flamed with light.

My chains fell off, my heart was free,

I rose, went forth, and followed Thee.

How especially true this was of her! Yes, it was Doreen Irvine.

When I spoke with her after the service Doreen told me that her time was now spent in dealing with the kind of people with whom she had mixed in past years, and in speaking to groups seeking illumination and instruction in the ministry of deliverance. What impressed me most was that, three years before, the Holy Spirit had restrained me from continuing immediate contact with her. But now he confirmed for me that what he begins he continues and completes in his own perfect way and time.

When I recall the experiences through which the Lord took me in relation to Doreen's emancipation, I marvel at his authority, his mercy and his compassion. She gives her own vivid and vibrant account in this book.

It was in Bristol in June 1964 that our paths first crossed. Doreen's condition was that of unbelievable evil, for her life had been immersed in debauchery of a kind I had never before come across. For seven months I knew what it was to contest the terrible powers of evil in her ruined life. On the occasion of every session of exorcism, she had to be restrained by Christian men and women in prayerful support.

The New Testament came alive as we battled against demons of different character who contested the ground they had in her life. With extraordinary intelligence, utterly beyond the mere human, they acted and spoke through her. We were driven to the Bible to discover what we needed to know relative to this particular phenomenon of evil. I remember so well the Sunday night in February 1965 when the last of the forty-seven demons was expelled from her tormented and tortured being, so ending seven harrowing months of hell in a life-and-death struggle.

Doreen is a veritable trophy of God's grace. The power of God was demonstrated in her supernatural deliverance by the dynamic authority of the Lord Jesus Christ. All the credit and glory go to him. It was my awful privilege simply to be his agent. There are facts of an alarming nature which it would be unwise to divulge, but I have revealed some aspects of my involvement with Doreen in my book, Aid Us in Our Strife (Vol 2), which fills in much about which Doreen herself was unaware at the times of ministry.

In a personal note to me Doreen said:

All I know is that I am free for ever from demons. I went to the doctors, and they are all amazed at my marvellous recovery. They cannot understand what has happened to me. I've been to London and been examined by top brain specialists there. My X-rays are normal since the demons have gone. Previous brain scans and X-rays of my cranium had revealed extensive brain damage, and I was classified as being in a serious and well-nigh hopeless state neurologically and physically. In the psychiatric category I was a very bad and perplexing patient. One thing they cannot get away from, and that is that I was a hopeless case. I was a very dangerous "schizophrenic" (so called) with only six months at the outside to live. It was such a marvel, and the source of much discussion among the doctors. No one there [London] or here [Bristol] can explain it. But I know that Jesus lives, and he is the One who has done it. Glory be to God! Once I was in darkness, thick and black, controlled by powers of evil within. Once I was bound, now I am free. It's been a long road to deliverance-a year in fact, since the first step was taken at the Colston Hall at that Eric Hutchings crusade meeting. But it's over, and I am out of darkness. Praise be to God!

Subsequent events from 1965 until 1994 have validated the reality of the work of God in this former queen of witches. She has been graciously used by the Lord in this and other lands to advocate his power to save and deliver from satanic bondage and hell.

During the thirty years since our first contact, I have had periodic fellowship with Doreen, and have marvelled at the way she has been enabled to witness clearly and courageously through good report and ill, to expose the works of the devil, and to honour him to whom she owes everything.

This book makes a vital contribution in warning those who indulge in the deep and dangerous things of Satan; it serves to open the eyes of Christians to the stark reality of the demonic in these critical times, and points positively to the means of grace for salvation and deliverance through our Lord Jesus Christ. It is my prayer that the Holy Spirit will use this new edition to magnify the name of our allpowerful Redeemer. "Thanks be to God who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ."

Arthur Neil

Torbay, 1994

CHAPTER ONE

Life's Early Morning

THAT Sunday morning in September 1939 began in the East End of London like any other Sunday. I was born there, and I knew its blend of sounds and way of life.

The voices of children at play in the streets mingled with the excited barking of dogs. Clad only in my knickers, I was having my weekly wash at the rough wooden table in the kitchen of our tenement home. The dirt from the grimy street seemed reluctant to leave my knees as my mother scrubbed them with a piece of rough flannel.

The radio in a corner of the bare room added a sort of accompaniment to the scrubbing operation. My mother paused as the solemn stroke of Big Ben rang from the radio set. I, at the age of seven, was more interested in the beckoning sound of play from the streets than in the droning sound from the radio.

"Oh, my God!" cried my mother suddenly, dropping the soap to the floor.

"What's up, Mum?" I asked.

"It's war, war...."

Almost as she said the word - which I little understood - the hollow frightening wail of an air-raid alert rang out over the city. It was a sound I was to hear frequently in the months ahead.

By early summer of 1940 the air-raids had increased so greatly that we were evacuated to Uxbridge - not a great move in terms of geographical distance, for Uxbridge lies only sixteen miles from London. Here a true Cockney kid - a cheeky one - whose early years had been spent within the sound of Bow Bells, was to spend the rest of her childhood, with all the problems that came with it.

Uxbridge lies at the end of the Metropolitan Line and is now the home of many London commuters. Not a very large town, it is, however, busy with a steady flow of traffic mainly on the London Road. The beautiful surrounding countryside, in the neighbourhood of Windsor, is popular with Londoners seeking week-end recreation. Two rivers run through Uxbridge, also small streams and a canal, all giving rise to industries needing water.

On the edge of the town is a large moor, and it was near here that our new home stood: a new council house on a small estate. Other evacuee families lived nearby in their "home from home."

Our house was treated with no great respect by the tenants, who had come from an East-end slum. The front gate was ripped off for fire-wood. The garden, soon a wilderness, fronted a house that became increasingly untidy.

Home life centred in the kitchen which was dirty and scantily furnished. Dominating the room was a large, rough wooden table, on which I sat to have my weekly wash. The tablecloth was an old newspaper, patterned with news from the war fronts. In the centre of the table stood a huge brown teapot, very rarely empty, as someone was always making tea. A bottle of milk, watered down to make it go farther, had its place near the brown teapot.

There were only three chairs in the kitchen. No rugs or lino covered the bare boards of the floor. No curtains hung from the windows - just old sacks that also served as blackout blinds.

Very few meals were eaten at the table. My four young sisters and I had to sit on the floor or the back doorstep to eat whatever we had given us, which was not much – mostly bread and lard. We drank tea from a jam jar. I had to hold my jam jar with the end of my dress as it was so hot.

"Why can't we have meat and roast potatoes and cake, Mum?" I asked one day. "My friend 'round the corner does."

"We can't afford things like that, so stop moaning and eat what you've got."

"Do yer need a lot of money, Mum, to buy meat, potatoes, and cake?" I persisted.

"Yes. So be a good girl and be satisfied with what you've got."

But my mum's answer didn't satisfy me any more than my diet did. My curiosity grew, and one day when school was over, I decided to find out more.

It was a warm spring day, and the trees and lawns were lovely. The blossoms looked so beautiful, in fact, that I wanted to climb up into the pink-laden branches.

Beyond the trees were well-built, expensive properties, where the "posh people" lived. This little girl, open-mouthed in wonder, somehow managed to peer through the windows of one or two of the nice houses.

It was like looking into another world: furniture so highly polished you could see your face in it, big, soft-looking chairs, coloured carpets, and lovely, lace tablecloths.

"I wonder what it's like to live in a house like that?" I asked myself. "I wonder what it's like upstairs. And fancy having such lovely trees growing in the garden!"

I remembered that my friend who lived 'round the corner had a real bed with white sheets - not at all like my bed, which wasn't a bed at all, only a makeshift pile of dirty coats on the floor, upstairs. Mum and dad had the only bed in the house, but it was without sheets too.

I giggled when I thought how the large brass knobs of the bed often fell to the floor with a loud clang. Sometimes that happened late at night, when dad stumbled in from his night out at the pub.

"Ah, well."

After one final, envious look at the houses and the lovely trees I made my way home.

No one asked me why I was home late from school, although I nearly lost my tea. Keeping the exploration a secret, I decided I would go again another day. This experience was the first discovery of beauty in the life of a sensitive, neglected little girl. It made me wonder about a lot of things.

I was the eldest of five girls and as "big sister" was often left to look after the rest of the family (even though I was still very young myself). Dad worked as a refuse collecter for the local council - at least when he was sober. My mum, thin and worried, often had to go out late at night into the blacked-out streets in search of him. In a strange way she always made excuses for his drinking habits and blamed them on the war.

With my keen sense of humour and vivid imagination I carried out my family responsibilities easily. My younger sisters loved me, even though I took a page from the tough book of life as I observed it and didn't think twice about giving them a sharp box around the ears when the situation demanded it. In fact, my own special brand of discipline became widely known.

No one minded - after all, it was my job to look after them. And after others too - lots of them - as neighbours also left their children in my tender care. The little ones looked up to me and respected me. Because I was bigger, had a good sense of humour, and was, in fact, a born leader, like a youthful Pied Piper of Uxbridge I was followed by a selection of grubby but smiling children.

And of course by my dog.

Animals played a lively part in my life. The back garden was full of them. My father kept chickens, although there were never any eggs to eat. Perhaps dad sold the eggs in the pub to obtain more money for drink.

"Him and his beer," I would say.

The garden also contained two rabbits, a couple of ferrets, many cats, and a goat. But the family dog - Bessie, a black Labrador - was my favourite and was known everywhere as "Doreen's dog." Bessie followed me everywhere I went.

With such company I needed wide, open spaces. Fortunately there were several places to have adventures: two recreation grounds, the river banks, and a playing field, where the grass was always green and springy. My form of democratic decision-making was quite unique in someone so young.

"Now kids," I would address the grubby throng around me, "where shall we go tonight - the swing rec or the playing field ?"

"The swing rec, Dor, the swing rec!" the children would shout.

I reflected for a moment and said, "No, we'll go to the river," and they duly followed me. The swing rec, with a multitude of playing apparatus, was a great favourite. But it was bound to be fun wherever Dor went.

The fun often inclined to mischief, and my nimble mind invented many pranks to keep my charges happy - even if the grown-ups were less amused.

One of my tricks was to assemble the children at the bus stop. When the bus approached I would solemnly hold out my hand. The driver dutifully slowed down. When the bus stopped, we would all race away laughing. But the trick didn't fool the driver for long. He got wise to us. Instead of stopping he accelerated, and with a broad grin at us he hurtled past.

One night when I and the children were passing the public house, we saw "Old Joe's" horse and cart outside, as usual. Old Joe was the local "rag and bone" merchant and was well known for his drunkenness. I had a sudden inspiration: why not unharness the horse and put him back to front between the shafts and wait to see what happened?

The docile old horse was very obliging, as led by me we performed the tricky operation. An hour or so later out came Old Joe, drunk as usual - so drunk in fact, he noticed nothing wrong as he stumbled up onto the cart.

"Yee up! Get up, there!" shouted Old Joe.

Imagine our shrieks of delight as the old horse obeyed and the cart with Old Joe went hurtling backward instead of forward. Old Joe couldn't understand it at all and swore and shouted at the poor horse, while we were doubled up in fits of laughter.

Not all the tricks were so harmless however - like the petty thefts from the local shops. But these acts were prompted by my concern for the children, who were always hungry and never had sweets and other nice things to eat that some of the other children enjoyed. The only way to get them was to steal them.

My strategy was simple. Somehow I would obtain a penny or two, usually by begging from a passer-by, then walk into the sweet shop with the children. Whilst the shopkeeper's attention was taken up by me and my penny, the other children would be helping themselves to what they wanted.

The cake shop was another easy target where it was easy to grab a bun from the display in the window if you were quick - and I was quick. On one occasion we nearly got caught. My sister snatched a bun, only to find that five more came with it. As they fell to the ground, she stopped to pick them up instead of running away at once. It was a near thing.

Had my mother known about this stealing she would have been angry, but in the face of her own worries mother was often apathetic. Life was too much of a struggle to worry about morality - or God. God! It was just like another swear word to me.

There were plenty of swear words in our house. My father's drinking habits were getting far worse, and he was often violent. I saw the cut lips and bruises on my mother’s face. She always had black eyes.

I would run into the back garden. "Oh, God !" I would say aloud. "Don't let anything awful happen, oh, God !"

That word again. How readily it came to my lips !

What would happen to us all if things continued this way?

But it was the look of sadness and resignation on my mother's face that was the worst of all. I tried to push my fears away by thinking, "Perhaps things will be all right in a little while. Perhaps things will be different tomorrow."

One morning I felt mum's hand gently shaking me.

"Wake up, Dolly, wake up!"

Mum always called me Dolly, as I was so small for my age.

I sat bolt upright on the pile of dirty coats that were my bed.

"What's up, Mum? What's up?"

"Nothing's wrong, Dolly. I just want you to take this little note to the shop on the moor."

Even though it was early in the day, I did not fail to see the look of concern on my mother's face.

"Ain't yer got no money, Mum?"

"That's right. Now you be a good girl and hurry back home."

Asking for credit was now the only way my mother could feed her young family. Yet her pride dictated that she send her daughter early in the morning, when no one else was around.

I dressed quickly and was off. It was a long way for my young legs, and the morning was cold and windy. As I hurried along the main road, I looked up at the tall trees and saw the branches bending in the strong wind. I felt a sense of mystery as I watched the dark trees.

I paused at the entrance to the small graveyard, which was a short-cut to the shop. Familiar in the broad light of day, it looked so eerie in the wild dawn. Although I was afraid, remembrance of my mum's face drove me to begin my cautious way along the graveyard path, glancing over my shoulder as I went along. I was afraid that at any moment one of the graves would open and swallow me.

At last the other side was reached. Here I had to cross a small wooden bridge. Having fished for tiddlers in the stream below, I knew the bridge well, but today, creaking in the wind, it looked so different. In fact, everything looked different - larger, more menacing, and strangely new.

The bright lights at the little shop cheered me up a bit. The shopkeeper read the note and smiled at me.

"You're up early today."

He gave me a few groceries, and I retraced my steps home.

"All right, Dolly?" asked my mum.

"Yes, Mum. I'm just cold."

Mum made some cocoa, and we sat by the fire chatting as Uxbridge itself awoke to another day in war-time England.

I never forgot that early morning experience in the early morning years of my life. So many questions spun around in my little head - questions which I had never asked before.

"Where did the wind come from? Who made the trees so tall, and how long do they live? Why was I born? And what is it like to die?"

There seemed to be no one to whom I could put such questions. Mum had enough on her mind. Besides, I wasn't sure that mum would know about such matters.

I had become aware of life. What did it all mean?

Memories of my early years are stamped indelibly on my mind. So much happened - sad things, comical things, puzzling things, but not many happy things.

However, life is for living and not for brooding. Instead of brooding, I stored things up inside me.

In the summer holidays the sun always seemed to shine. The days were long and warm, and most of them were spent out of doors. I roamed the streets, often having fun until late at night. And always with my little band of followers.

We must have looked a very sorry sight. My constant attire summer and winter was a thin cotton dress and a matted jumper which seemed to last for years. Socks were an unknown luxury, and we often had no shoes to wear.

But at this stage of my life appearances didn't worry me, although at times I was aware of these things. After all, I was very young. This was still life's early morning.

CHAPTER TWO

The Fishing Trip

ALTHOUGH my father was usually drunk and often aggressive, I loved him with all my heart.

"If only he wouldn't drink so much and make mum unhappy," I thought.

Every penny he earned was spent on drink. Even the ration and clothing coupons were sold at the pub for more drink. What was left for clothes, food, or fuel? Still, he was my dad, and he did have his sober moments, even if they were few and far between. These times were precious to me.

Let us look at one of these rare events, for I recall it very clearly.

It was a fine summer morning, a Saturday, when there was no school. My dad was up early for a change, having a shave in the dingy kitchen. He was cheerful too and singing at the top of his voice.

Suddenly he called out, "Doreen, are you awake?"

"Yes, Dad," I answered.

"Are you coming fishing with me today?"

"Yes, Dad."

I could hardly believe my ears and couldn't dress fast enough. Dad got out the rusty old fishing tackle, and very soon father and daughter set off happily down the road, hand in hand.

When we reached the river, I watched my dad proudly as he cast the line. Dad was a good fisherman. He began talking about fish and how fish should be caught. I listened - not that I understood all he was saying. But it didn't matter. Most important for me was that I was out with my dad, with no grubby children around.

I enjoyed every moment of that fishing trip as we sat side by side, chatting and laughing and watching the red float in the water. It was a perfect day, like those cloudless, sunny mornings we remember from childhood.

The clean, sweet air smelt fresh, as the summer breeze swept my long brown hair across my face. I felt good to be alive. The tall trees looked beautifully green. The mossy river bank was soft, the green rushes stately and peaceful. All the unhappiness of the past weeks seemed to melt away in the golden sunshine.

Apart from the singing of the birds and the gentle ripple of the river nothing could be heard. No one would believe there was a war on. Everything was so peaceful and still that it seemed my dad and I were the only ones alive in the whole wide world.

Little did my father know what else I was thinking.

"Perhaps dad won't want to drink anymore. Perhaps he will take me fishing with him instead. Everything would be so wonderful!"

These were the happy thoughts and this was the bright hope that filled my young heart.

"Time to go home now, Doreen," said my dad.

The time had passed so quickly. When dad got home, he put the few fish he had caught into the bath, where he always deposited his catch. The bathroom was never used for its proper purpose.

One time dad caught a large eel. My sister and I watched in awe as he filled the bath with water and put in the big eel. I remember standing on an old wooden box and poking the funny eel with a long stick - through the small window, as dad always locked the bathroom door.

If my hopes had risen that unforgettable Saturday, they were soon to be dashed, for as soon as dad had put the fish into the bath, he went straight to the pub and stayed there until closing time.

There were times when I felt I could hate my dad for all the unpleasantness he caused. At other times a great sense of pity for him would sweep over me. It was then I would try to please him by cleaning his big boots, hoping he in turn would take me on his knee and tell me how much he loved me. But I never heard the words I dearly longed to hear. The conflicting emotions of love, hate, and pity for my father only made me more confused and insecure than ever.

"If only someone really loved me," I would think sadly.

Life only seemed to worsen. My father drank more heavily, and mum always looked worried.

As the war progressed with alarming severity, more air-raids were made, and other fears were then added to my life. Anti-aircraft guns stood at the top of Chandler's Hill, not very far from my home. In the daytime the air-raids and the sound of gunfire were not so bad, but at night they were terrifying. On more than one night I was left alone to look after my sisters, while mum as usual was out looking for my dad. I was beginning to think that mum was right, and it was the war that caused dad to drink so much.

My four sisters would be very frightened, crying and clinging to me as we sat on the dirty coats that served as our beds.

"It will be all right, you'll see. I won't let anything happen to yer. I'll look after yer," I would say, trying hard not to show how frightened I too was.

When at last they fell asleep, tears would run down my cheeks - tears I had held back for the sake of my sisters. I felt utterly miserable and all alone. The strange, eerie light from the searchlights across the night sky lit the otherwise dark and bare room.

I would stand at the dirty windows and look up into the starry sky and then down into the street below, hoping to see mum and dad returning home. Sometimes I would stand there hours on end. It was then I would try to pray.

"Oh, God, please help me, and if You don't think I'm worth it, please do something for my sisters and don't bother about me. I know I'm not always very good, but I do try. Please, God, let it be all right for all of us - mum and dad and everybody."

Nothing changed for the better, however, and because I felt my prayers went unanswered, I finally decided that there was no God and did not pray again.

My four sisters and I went to Sunday school every week, but it was only to get us out of the way for a while so that dad could have some "peace and quiet." Dad came home from the pub stone drunk every Sunday afternoon, and my sisters and I were only too glad to get out of his way.

The Sunday school mission hall was just around the corner at Waterloo Road. I hardly listened to a word. In fact, I was most unruly and difficult to manage.

More than once I was sent out for disrupting the meetings, putting my own words to the hymns and choruses, and generally making life very difficult for the poor teachers, even throwing stones at the windows after being turned out for bad behaviour. Someone would then come out to chase me away. They never caught me - I was too quick for them.

We rough Cockneys sat apart from the better-dressed children, nearly all of whom were the children and friends of the adults who tried to teach us. I nicknamed these children "the posh kids" and made fun of their Sunday-best clothes, straw hats, and white socks.

When Doreen and her band of followers marched into Sunday school, battle commenced. I was the ringleader, and the other Cockney kids merely followed my lead. In my estimation Sunday school was just another place in which to have a bit of fun. Little did the teachers realize that if I had a hard and unhappy time at home during the week, I took it out on the Sunday school, and they bore the brunt of it on Sundays.

Nevertheless, the Sunday school teachers were patient and took an interest in me and my sisters. For no matter how many times I had to be turned out, no matter how unruly I was, the door was always open for me the next Sunday.

These incidents may be a source of encouragement to readers who are Sunday school teachers or youth workers, for as you read on you will see that the seed sown many years before my conversion did bring forth fruit.

The teachers may have felt that they were struggling in vain with me, but I never forgot those days at Sunday school. Occasionally I did pay some attention to what they were trying to say, and many times my conscience would be pricked as they spoke of the sin in boys' and girls' hearts and of the Saviour's love and forgiveness.

I could never sing these words from the Golden Bells Hymn Book:

There is a city fair;

Closed are its gates to sin.

Naught that defileth, naught that defileth,

Can ever enter in.

The words conjured up a picture of a pair of golden gates with an angel on both sides holding flaming swords and barring the way from the golden streets and the place called heaven. I knew there was sin in my heart. I thought there was no chance of my getting into heaven. The Sunday school teacher had told me that no sin could ever enter that city so fair.

"No one who steals can enter heaven."

No one who steals.

"That's me," I thought. "I will never get in, because it's steal or starve."

So I gave up any idea of getting into heaven. Still I would go to the mission hall Sunday after Sunday, if only to get lemonade and cake, and sometimes apples, after the meetings had finished - gifts the teachers offered to us Cockney kids.

Besides, there were the Sunday school outings and parties to think about. I was not going to miss those. My sisters and I had little else to look forward to. Christmas came and went each year with neither me nor my little sisters ever getting a single toy - or indeed anything else. It was the same on our birthdays - not one card, not one present.

The outings and parties at the mission, then, were very important indeed to all of us. My sisters and I were always the first children to arrive, sometimes waiting for hours before the doors opened.

When the air-raids were severe and I was frightened, I thought of the lessons I had heard at Sunday school. I considered prayer but in the end rejected it, thinking that Christianity was after all just a silly fairy tale.

When I was ten years old, however, I decided to join the C.A.W.G. Messengers, a group similar to the Brownies. Here I learned many interesting things, like tying knots, the Morse code, first-aid, etc.

The captain took a great deal of interest in me, and I in turn liked her very much. She gave me a uniform, knowing I would never get the money from my parents.

On Sundays, then, I was unruly and badly behaved, but on Monday evenings, when the Messengers met, I was as good as gold. The captain could hardly believe the reports she heard of my Sunday escapades.

One day she asked if I would like to go camping with the Messengers during the summer holidays, explaining that she would pay for me herself. Would I like to go! Why, I had never heard of anything more wonderful. I ran home and asked mum if I could go. Mum agreed.

I could hardly wait for the day to come. One week before camp was to start captain drew me to one side and gave me all the things I would be needing for camp: scented soap, a soft flannel and towel, a new hairbrush and comb, tooth brush, and toothpaste, together with two new pairs of socks and a pair of pyjamas. I could only stand and stare at the lovely things, for I never before had such articles.

Captain said, "Tell no one I have given them to you. Take them home now, and bring them along when you go to camp.”

She wanted me to be no different from any other Messenger. I was filled with gratitude and joy beyond my wildest dreams. Every now and then I would unwrap the small parcel to see if all the items were still safe and, of course, to have another long look at them.

At last the great day came. I was up with the lark. It was a Saturday, unlike any other I had known. I was the first around the corner to wait for the transport - hours before it was due to arrive.

Eventually it came, and I scrambled into the huge van with the other Messengers. All "the gang", as I always called them, plus my little sisters, were there to wave me good-bye. It was a proud moment in my life.

The campsite was situated in the beautiful countryside near Woking. Although it was not far from Uxbridge, it seemed like hundreds of miles away to me, who had never been on a bus ride.

I have never forgotten that glorious week away from home. We had the greatest fun playing in the woods, picking flowers, and running in and out among the trees. Campfire was just wonderful as we sat around it in a circle every evening, singing choruses. The fragrance of pine needles and the smoke from the fire mingled with the delicious smell of baked potatoes in their jackets and lingered in the warm evening air.

Yes, everything was too wonderful for mere words: the crackling of twigs in the campfire, the singing of the birds in the woods nearby, and the sun like a big red rubber ball glowing behind the tall fir trees.

It seemed that all creatures, from the birds to the grasshoppers, knew of the joy and utter contentment in my heart. My heart was singing, and even my quota of duties were a pleasure.

Sleeping in a real pair of pyjamas and under clean blankets was a delightful change from what I was used to. Cleaning my teeth was completely new to me. A change too was the good food - and plenty of it - the fresh air and spare time to do just what I liked. Even washing was an adventure - with the nice scented soap, soft flannel, and a big, fluffy towel to dry on.

Those seven days away from home were the happiest in my young life.

We were taken to a chapel on Sunday, and I enjoyed that too. I noticed that when the preacher spoke of Jesus dying on the cross, he wept real tears. That did impress me and made me feel very guilty about my bad behaviour at the mission hall in Uxbridge.

I didn't want the week to end but to last forever and ever, as I told the captain. But the day came to leave, and all the Messengers were busy packing the equipment into the van, ready for the trip home.

I was very sad but thought, "Oh, well, there's still the journey home and the ride in the van to look forward to."

All too soon we were back in Uxbridge. It seemed to take hours to get to camp, yet the journey home lasted only a short time.

Back in Uxbridge on the grimy estate, a grubby crowd of children, "the gang," was there to welcome me home as I jumped down from the huge van. The ugliness of home life was more evident than before, contrasting with the camp I had enjoyed so much.

I did not know then that in a strange way the camp had prepared me to become a different kind of messenger. I did not know that I, who had been fishing by the river bank, would one day hear God call me to be a fisher of men.

CHAPTER THREE

My Mum

AFTER my short holiday at camp with the C.A.W.G. Messengers life went on much the same as before. The fights and arguments at home were unbearable at times. I wondered where and when it was going to end. What would happen to us all - my father, mother, and young sisters ?

I could hardly be the school's best pupil when my mind was preoccupied with such questions. I had been attending day school at St. John's Primary in Uxbridge but was never able to learn very much. The teachers, who did not understand my problems, were always telling me off. School was one long nightmare. I constantly got into trouble for being late, etc. Even if I did try, nothing went right.

"It's all right for them," I thought. "It's easy just to sit there and tell me off all the time."

"Maybe it's because of my clothes," I decided.

I was beginning to realize I was different from some of the other children. My hair was always untidy, and the nurse kept sending me home because I had lice. "Nitty Nora" I called her. I hated her.

"It's not fair. She's always picking on me and my small sisters. Why do the teachers poke their nose where they're not wanted ? Why can't they leave me alone?"

I was an object of ridicule to other boys and girls, who were better dressed and well cared for. The ridicule hurt me as I was very sensitive, despite my outward show of bravado. Yells of "Flea head!" and "Yellow teeth!" followed me wherever I went. The teachers were as bad as some of the children and made unkind remarks about my appearance.

"I can't 'elp it, can I? I hate yer and yer rotten old school," I would say.

Inevitably I played truant many times. Instead of going to school I went off to the park for the day. On these occasions I would lie on the grass, gazing up at the tall poplar trees and the clouds, daydreaming about faraway places like Africa and India - which proved I had listened to something at school - wondering what it would be like to travel to those distant lands across the sea.

I missed school for other reasons too. Mum often kept me at home to look after my baby sister Sylvia, or simply because I had no shoes to wear.

There was one subject in which I excelled: P.T. I could run like a hare, jump like a frog, and swim like a fish. These accomplishments earned me a little respect from some of the children at day school.

But even here I had problems, for long ago the elastic had parted from my very old knickers, which had to be held up by a very large safety pin. You can imagine the loud laughter of the girls when I had to remove my dress for P.T.</