Signs, Secrets, Threats

In 1982, I was sixteen years old, in the Lower Sixth at Loughton County High School for Girls. In 1981, due to the late Sixties baby boom, it was decided that Loughton sixth-formers would move to the old Brook School down the road, along with the chaps from Buckhurst Hill County High School for Boys up on the hill.

This was an exciting prospect. In other news, 1981 had been eventful. Lady Diana Spencer and Prince Charles had married, AIDS was identified for the first time, the Yorkshire Ripper was apprehended, the Pope got shot and the first London Marathon was run. On a lighter note, someone invented Post-It Notes.

The first year’s educational experiment went well and we duly pitched up at our new place of learning on a crisp September day in 1982. I was there by the grace of God and Miss Woolf, our eccentric Head of English, a woman without whom I would not have met my husband and be living here in Suffolk. I owe her, big time.

I was doing English, RE and Economics A-Levels. Our Economics teacher was both relaxed and chronically late, so we spent the first ten minutes of every lesson chewing over the telly from the night before. Dangermouse (the original one) was cult viewing, but in November, along came Channel Four and everything suddenly got a lot more colourful.

On the first night of transmission, 2^nd November, The Comic Strip burst on to our screens with, “Five Go Mad in Dorset.” I was hooked. It was HILARIOUS!! We talked of nothing else in Economics the next day. One of the phrases heard frequently around the Sixth Form Centre for weeks after that was, “Signs. Secrets. Threats” delivered in a thick West Country accent, à la Robbie Coltrane. I still sometimes say it now.

Later that year, two shy sixteen-year olds, my husband-to-be and I met at the top of the stairs leading to the library. But that’s another story.

Life at Loughton had not been good for me. There were all the signs that I was a complete loser. There were a fair few secrets too, but sadly I had no-one in whom to confide. As for threats – just getting through each day felt like an achievement, and my future felt burdened by anxiety, fear and dread.

I left Sixth Form in 1984, was a bridesmaid at my cousin’s wedding and then left home in a precipitate manner. I was eighteen years old, knew nothing about anything and believed that there was no hope. Fortunately, I was wrong.

I ended up in Exeter, sleeping on a floor with no job and no home. God was watching out for me. I found a flat and a job and gradually built up a happy and fulfilling life. The signs were better. The secrets were still there and they dripped poison into some parts of my life. The only threat was the fear of not being able to pay the rent, but I was young and I didn’t need sleep back then so I worked hard and got by, with the help and support of my lovely boyfriend.

Let’s skip over my twenties and thirties and catch up with me in the early spring of 2008, pregnant with my third and last child. I was in Suffolk, trying to work out what I was meant to be doing with my life. My dream of being a writer seemed further away than it had ever done, but then I got a phone call as I sat at Ipswich Hospital waiting for a scan. It was Sarah, one of my old youth group from Essex, now working at Stewardship, a Christian charity.

“Hey Ruth, I was just thinking of you. Did you know that Stewardship have got a magazine they publish three times a year?”

I didn’t.

“The editor’s overwhelmed with work and he’s looking for someone to help out. He asked if we could think of anyone suitable before he started advertising. I was reading it the job description and I knew it reminded me of someone but I couldn’t think who. Then I realised it was you! It’s part-time, mostly from home and you can choose your hours. What do you think?”

What did I think? I nearly fell off my chair. Could it be that my dream was finally coming true? Sarah had told me that the line which alerted her to my suitability was: "Needs to be nice, but pushy.” I loved that.

Did I get the job? Yes. I completely forgot to tell my new boss that I was pregnant, but he seemed fine about it. I went to my first editorial meeting in June 2008, the start of my freelance writing career. The signs were good. Secretly, I used to sit there doubting myself. For years, the threat of being let go hung over me, not from anything Stewardship said or did, but from my own insecurities.

In June 2019, I travelled to Stewardship’s offices to attend their morning prayer meeting and interview a lady called Cally Magalhães for Share 43. She’d left Milton Keynes for the favelas of São Paulo in 1999 to work with street children, armed with only two phrases in Portuguese: “My name is Cally” and “Where’s the loo?” This hadn’t stopped her starting a charity called The Eagle Project and transforming the lives of many of the street children and inhabitants of the youth prisons.

As we sat down together, I felt a bit over-awed. I’m used to interviewing amazing people, but this woman had something about her that I hadn't seen before. We did the interview for the article which ended up being entitled, “Slums, Sewers and the Art of Salvation.” I asked her about her book. In her talk in the prayer meeting, she’d mentioned a publishing deal.

“Oh, I haven’t written much of it yet,” she replied. I was extremely surprised. “Do you realise how unusual it is to have a publishing deal before you’ve written the whole book?” I enquired. She didn’t.

Being a fully fledged ACW member by then, I wanted to know more. “Who’s your publisher?” I asked, remembering the Writers’ Day in Bath where Sarah Grace and Nicki Copeland had spoken. “Is it Malcolm?”

Cally’s mouth fell open. “How could you possibly know that? It is Malcolm!”

We chatted for ages, a friendship emerging as we laughed and encouraged each other. On the plane back to São Paulo, she started writing more of her book. The words flowed. I was privileged to be the first person to read her initial chapters. It’s finished now, entitled, “Dancing with Thieves” and published by Malcolm Down. Cally has just joined ACW and I know you’ll welcome her as you welcomed me.

The signs were all there that a God-breathed, inspiring, uplifting friendship would emerge between Cally and I. Secrets? We both had a few but Cally’s honesty and authenticity about her life doesn’t let anything lurk in dark corners. No-one else had the courage to live where she lived in São Paulo, but God kept her safe from threats.

We chatted on Zoom last week. I’m in a good place these days, but a few regrets remain. She told me that she would have never written her book if it wasn’t for me. Her words soothed my soul. She told me some other things too, which encouraged me to believe that God is using me in His own special way. She’s a tonic, a life-changer, a true inspiration.

Image by Pixabay

These days, thirty-eight years after Channel Four started broadcasting, I’m more aware of signs than ever I was, have no truck with secrets and trust in God to keep me safe from threats.

Thank you, Cally.

Ruth is a freelance writer. She is married with three children, runs a catering company and keeps chickens and quail. She has her first novel in the editing stage, another two on the go, writes for a number of Christian charities and has her own business writing blogs for small Suffolk businesses. She is a recovering over-achiever who is now able to do the school run in her onesie most days. She blogs at @bigwordsandmadeupstories, covering topics as diverse as King Zog of Albania, a Christingle plagued by punch-ups and tummy upsets, and the inevitable decline of elderly parents. She has abnormally narrow sinuses and a morbid fear of raw tomatoes, but has decided not to let this get in the way of a meaningful life.