1000 memories: the Jehovas Witnesses

During weekdays, my sister and I were back home before mom returned from teaching at her school in Stafford. That hour gap before the Mini Metro would appear in the drive, she’d open the door, let out a sigh, undo her bra and fix herself a stiff gin and tonic, was always a space of opportunity. In the winter, the tasks piled up and the hour quickly passed: I had to get the coal and logs in for the fire (and then light it using firelighters and kindling), feed the dog and cats and then take the dog for a walk along Monk’s Walk. In the spring and summer, the absence of fire preparation gave me more time for mischief.

One spring day after school, when I was twelve, there was a knock at the front door. Two men wearing overcoats, and a woman wearing black, were standing in the street. The two men had briefcases and serious smiles, the woman stood impassive. I invited them all in. When mom got back she found us all in the living room, with my guests sipping tea and munching on MicVities, with their literature and pamphlets spread around the coffee table. Alarm wrote itself across her face in thick indelible ink. As soon as the teas were over, they made their excuses, and left me with one of the booklets.

A few days later, Mom gave me a tape. It featured an ex-Jehova talking about his experiences, and listing the key arguments against the faith. The one that most impressed me was the suggestion that there are too many Jehova’s for them all to get on the guest-list to Heaven – given that only 144,000 or so can be allowed (based on the number in the Bible about the twelve tribes, or something) and there are 3 or more million Jehovas. With this and other little conceptual snags, I felt armed with the facts and ready for battle. The next time my new grown-up friends knocked on the door, I asked them this question as they stood outside. They decided not to come in this time. The philosophical spirit was born in me.