Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
C hrissie opened her journal. She had time to jot a few things down before meeting Rae at the community centre.
Rule one progress: Nisha. Obviously, I’m not in love with her. Is this an echo of love? Like the memory of a moment? I mean, what even happened back then? No, this is just a frisson of a shadow of a hint of something long dead. We’ve both lived our own lives since then. And even if I was in love with her (which I’m not), she definitely isn’t in love with me, and anyhow, I am not doing this again. Bad things happen when I fall in love.
Rule two progress: No questionable facts believed today, and no cults joined today. Hurrah!
Rule three progress: Off to serve lunch to anyone who needs it today. I’m not changing the world, I get it, but perhaps someone gets a meal today that will keep them going.
Chrissie laid down the glittery pink pen and smiled. Yes. It was all coming along nicely. Rebuilding your life after escaping a cult wasn’t easy, but she could do it. She remembered the words of the counsellor she’d seen for the first seven or eight months after she left: progress isn’t always a straight line . She’d definitely had her jagged moments, but right now she couldn’t complain.
She walked the ten minutes to the village square, passing trees as she went. The sun was shining and the leaves were mostly green, but a few were beginning to turn yellow around the edges. Autumn was definitely making its presence felt. She quickly crossed the road before passing the Jam Pot café. She never went in there, preferring the Vine and other cafes.
“Morning,” she said, as she walked into the community café attached to the church. Initially Chrissie had been hesitant to join in any activity that might be connected to the church – in the spirit of questioning everything. At first, she’d been concerned that the friendly reverend might try to entice her into the pews. But Rebecca, the vicar, hadn’t said a word about prayers or hymns or soul-saving. She’d not tried to offer Chrissie any answers. She simply got on with cooking up massive vats of hearty soup and provided a kind ear for the many people in the area who needed one.
“Morning, bab,” said Rebecca, whose warm and rasping Brummie accent was the inevitable result of sixty years in the UK’s second city, alongside twenty cigarettes a day.
“Morning, Rebecca. You ok? Shall I sort out the bowls and stuff?”
“Rae’s already onto that, but I am sure they’d appreciate your help,” said Rebecca, who was somehow buttering multiple slices of bread at the same time as making vast quantities of soup.
“Roger,” said Chrissie.
“Morning, lovely,” said Rae. “I missed you at yoga yesterday.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. We had a meeting that ran late. The last thing I needed!”
“No need to sweat it. I hope you’re taking it a bit easier today, though. It is Saturday, after all!”
“You know me,” said Chrissie, “I like to keep busy.”
“I know, but you need to stop sometimes,” Rae replied, a serious expression on their face.
Chrissie didn’t answer immediately, feigning interest in the cutlery drawer. She didn’t want to have this conversation again. Stopping was scary. She wasn’t sure what might happen if she did. The closest she got to stopping was in Rae’s yoga class.
“I know, I do,” she said, before changing the subject to the new restaurant that had opened up on the high street. Rae raised an eyebrow, but said no more.
“Ready?” said Rebecca, who had left the soup to bubble away and the mountain of buttered bread under copious amounts of cling-film. Chrissie sighed; she’d tried so many times to get Rebecca to abandon cling-film in favour of a more environmentally-friendly reusable covering. “Don’t give me that look, bab,” said Rebecca, adjusting her bright yellow apron. “I know you think I am single-handedly destroying the planet, but it’s the most sanitary way to do it.”
“I said nothing,” said Chrissie, with a small smile.
“Mmm hmm. You didn’t have to. Now then, let’s get cracking.”
It was almost a repeat of breakfast club at school, with a diverse group of people – this time adults as well as children – arriving for their meal. They paid what they could, and many of them couldn’t pay at all, which was fine.
The chatter in the room made Chrissie feel warm inside. This was so much better than the hungry days she’d endured herself. Hers weren’t due to poverty, but rather down to disastrous judgement and decision-making. She recalled the cold, empty days in a Welsh cabin with the others, abandoned by a man Chrissie could now see had been abusing them all along. The charismatic, benevolent leader who’d turned out to be anything but.
Lucian had left them without food or supplies for days on end, in order to ‘test their faith’. She thought back to the darkness and despair that had enveloped her, and how she tried to wrangle her brain into believing this was a good thing. She knew now, through hours of counselling, that it had never been a good thing. It was control, coercion and abuse. She looked at Rebecca, the community minded cling-film warrior, making people’s lives better, one fag at a time. Never once had she mentioned her faith to Chrissie, but it was clear how she tried to live it – in the service of others. There was no talk of tests, or of faith through suffering. There was enough of that in the world without adding to it deliberately.
She often found herself watching the portly older woman with admiration. Rebecca never sought plaudits or power. She just did her thing. Maybe the planet wouldn’t thank her for the added plastic, but Chrissie was sure the people she helped would.
“Hiya,” said a voice, rousing Chrissie from her musing.
“Nisha!” she said, in slightly more shocked a voice than she would have liked. Nisha wore her hair in a ponytail and was dressed in a football shirt, shorts and muddy shinpads that poked over a pair of equally-muddy socks. There was a sheen of sweat on her forehead which made Chrissie wonder how warm the teacher was underneath. She shook herself slightly. No.
“Yep, that’s right. Nothing wrong with your vision today,” said Nisha, grinning and appearing much more relaxed than she had in the week.
“Been playing football?” asked Chrissie.
“You don’t miss a trick do you?” said Nisha, with a warmth alongside the teasing. Chrissie laughed, her cheeks going pink. “Yeah, I’ve joined a local women’s team and there was an informal kickabout in Kings Heath Park earlier. I thought I’d come and get some soup – if it’s still going?”
“Everyone’s welcome,” said Chrissie, and served Nisha a generous bowl with a couple of slices of bread. Nisha dropped a tenner into the bowl. “It’s quietened down a bit. I’ll come and join you,” she said, before she could stop herself.
“Great,” said Nisha. There was that grin again. And the dimple.
Oh, the dimple!
Chrissie walked over, trying to silence the voice in her head that had started bellowing out “Oh, Ms Rajan’s dimple” to the tune of Seven Nation Army. She needed her journal, and she needed it the moment she got home.
“I’m just popping out for a fag, Chrissie,” said the vicar, sweeping past clutching a packet of Silk Cut. Chrissie smiled and waved, knowing that during the course of her cigarette break, Rebecca would end up chatting to a few hungry or lonely souls and bringing them back in for soup and bread.
“So, tell me, what’s been happening with you in the last twenty years? I mean, it’ll have to be the edited highlights, as I need to go to Holland and Barratt in a bit,” said Chrissie.
“Touche,” replied Nisha. “Well, I went to uni and studied French and Maths.”
“I remember that,” said Chrissie. “UCL, right?”
“Yeah, London. I spent a bit of time in France as part of that, and went back after my course as well.”
“Ooh la la, Ms Rajan, très, um, exciting,” said Chrissie, her GCSE French letting her down.
“It looks to me like you need those lessons as much as the children do. Yeah, I was in Paris for a bit, which was amazing.” Nisha took a mouthful of soup. “In fact, I was wondering if we could take the kids to Paris for a short school trip? It would be an amazing way for them to try out their new skills.”
“Oh my God,” said Chrissie, “that would be awesome! Some of those children have never been outside Birmingham, let alone the UK.”
“Well, I know for a fact that Dottie went to Disney Land last year,” replied Nisha, her eyes sparkling.
“Oh my, don’t we all know about that! If I had a pound for every time she mentioned it…” Chrissie tailed off.
“But yeah, I think we could make it work. Do you reckon Dan would come with? The three of us could do it, right? It’s a small class group.”
Nisha and Dan seemed to have struck up quite the friendship since the start of term. Chrissie wasn’t sure about how she felt about it. But she knew she couldn’t control it.
“I’m sure he would,” said Chrissie. “But back to your life in France,” she pressed, curious to know what had happened next.
“So I worked there for a bit, and I met someone. Someone I fell in love with.”
Chrissie’s heart began to beat inexplicably quickly. “Someone?”
“Jake. We were working in a bar together and when we met, we didn’t really look back.”
“French?” asked Chrissie, processing the male name, her brain working overtime. Nisha was straight. Yes. Of course she was. Why shouldn’t she be? And anyway, it didn’t matter, right?
“No, from London. In fact, we both moved back to London and lived together there. We both trained as teachers, and that’s where I’ve been ever since. I was teaching in an inner-city primary school.”
“And this, um Jake,” said Chrissie, the name jagged in her mouth. “He’s in Birmingham with you?”
Nisha’s face clouded. “No. We split up a few months ago. It was all quite difficult.”
Seeing her friend’s obvious sadness, Chrissie’s empathy pushed everything else aside. She reached her hand out and rested it on Nisha’s arm. Nisha looked up at her, surprised at the physical contact. “I’m sorry, that sounds really hard,” said Chrissie.
“Mmm, yeah, it was.” Nisha wiped the final remnants of the soup from her bowl with a crust. “But it was for the best in the end. We’d grown apart. I think we both needed to admit to ourselves that it was time to move on. It just took us a little while.”
“So that’s why you came back home to Birmingham?” asked Chrissie.
“Partly. Jake and I taught in the same school. While we parted on amicable terms, it felt weird to carry on working together every day. I decided I needed a fresh start, and I saw all the gorgeous pictures and film of Birmingham during the Commonwealth Games in 2022, and I thought, well, it’s as good a place as any. I have history here.”
Chrissie nodded. Yes. History. “It sounds like you made a good job of a very difficult situation. It must have been hard,” she said again.
“Yeah. I guess.” Nisha screwed up her face momentarily. She looked like she wanted to say something else, but quickly moved on. “Anyway, enough about me. What about you?” asked Nisha, leaning towards Chrissie. “I’m guessing you haven’t spent the last twenty years doing nothing.”
“Well, no,” said Chrissie, wondering where to start. “I went to uni, obviously.”
“You were going to do psychology at Leicester, right?”
“Yeah. That’s what I did. And I’ve done all sorts of jobs since then.” Chrissie faltered. She didn’t have any tales of Paris or exotic travel. She’d come home after university and moved back in with her dad.
“But you came back to Brum? To be close to Don?”
Chrissie smiled, enjoying hearing his name. “Yeah, to be with Dad.”
“How is he?” asked Nisha. “He was always so lovely – didn’t seem to mind us camping out in the garden that summer.”
There was a pause in the conversation. It was the first time either of them had acknowledged that summer. They had mostly stuck to work talk, or small talk. Hearing Nisha mention it made Chrissie shiver, slightly. Would they have to go over that? She wasn’t sure she wanted to. But there was something else, too, a sadness she had to share.
Chrissie set her face and broke it to Nisha as gently as she could. “He died, eight years ago.”
Nisha’s face fell. “Oh, Chris, I’m so sorry,” she said, wrapping her fingers around Chrissie’s wrist.
“It was a long time ago,” said Chrissie, ignoring the tears that welled up in her eyes. It seemed forever since she’d spoken to anyone who knew Don. There was something evocative and painful about it, but at the same time, something welcome. “He’d been ill for so long. I was with him.” She looked at Nisha, whose own eyes had started to fill.
“I’m so sorry. And I wasn’t here.” She squeezed Chrissie’s hand. “I’m sorry I disappeared on you. You deserved so much better than that.”
“Well, Nish,” said Chrissie, using the nickname she’d not spoken in two decades, “that was a very long time ago. We’ve both moved on since then.” But somewhere in her heart she felt something change. Nisha had never explained what had happened before, and much less said sorry. She’d spent years dreaming of Nisha coming back and saying sorry. And here she was.
But everything was different now.
Nisha’s face clouded. “You seem so put together, so sure of yourself. I’m glad you had such strength through all that.” Chrissie nodded, absentmindedly, trying to ignore the warmth that travelled up her arm from Nisha’s fingers now tangled with her own.
“I had help,” said Chrissie, before excusing herself to help with the clearing up.