Free Forged with Flames by Ann Fogarty, Anne Crawford Page A

in. The scent of wood enveloped me, the smell of an institution that had been there solidly for years and years. I sat down in a pew and picked up a small pamphlet left for visitors. The message was simple and direct, with a picture of Jesus sitting surrounded by children. It talked about how God cared for everyone and wanted us to turn to Him for help with all our difficulties. I felt as if it were speaking directly to me. In the circumstances, it was an offer I couldn’t refuse—at that stage anything would do it!
    In the weeks that followed, I went back to the church at night and sat talking to God, awkwardly at first, then pouring out my soul, especially about my debilitating shyness. This was the first time I’d verbalised it out loud and the relief was immediate and profound. Suddenly, I saw a glimmer of hope. And so began a relationship that would come to mean everything to me as the years went by.
    Although the first nanny position turned out to be disappointing, it did have one outstanding advantage for an impressionable eighteen-year-old: Cliff Richard lived across the road. Cliff had been my idol for a long time and I had a huge collection of his records—that’s what I spent most of my wages on. I loved his soulful ballads. The Hymans had a record player that I was allowed to use, so whenever the parents were out I’d play the albums as loudly as possible without waking the children. I could hardly believe it when I found out fromour housekeeper that he was a neighbour. I’d become friendly with another nanny nearby and discovered that we could see directly into Cliff’s back garden from her bedroom window. Our own private viewing area! We’d often just stand at the window hoping, vainly, as it turned out, that he would come outside to cut the lawn, or to enjoy the garden with its many flowers.
    Just catching a glimpse of him would make my insides churn. The first day I saw him at close quarters I had Emma in the pram and John alongside. He had just arrived home and looked at us from his car and waved. He was quite young then and handsome with that cute crop of dark hair, dark eyes and flashing smile. He looked exactly like a heart-throb should—fabulous.
    One day, when I was talking with the housekeeper about Cliff again, we devised a plan. She knew I was smitten and desperate to see him face-to-face, so we, mistakenly, decided that it wouldn’t be too much of an invasion of privacy for me to go across the road to his home and ask him for his autograph. It seemed a better idea than asking for a cup of sugar. I couldn’t really make the request for myself but reasoned that it would be perfectly acceptable if I pretended it was for my sister—he’d think it was such a nice thought and happily sign it. Then, who knows, he’d say hello whenever we saw each other in the street or ran into each other at the shops.
    I dressed groovily, right down to my bright red knee socks (I’d progressed from the white ones I wore as a sixteen-year-old!), choosing a smart coat—short, dressy and with a red collar that matched the socks. I washed and brushed my hair so that it looked sleek, patting it into place once again before taking a last look in the mirror. Drawing in a deep breath to steady myself, I walked across the road.
    Cliff lived in a two-storey, freestanding house with a big front door. To me, the house was grand, but there were certainly bigger ones in the neighbourhood. My heart was thumping as I knocked—it was hard to believe I was actually standing there doing this. An older woman, dressed dourly in a straight skirt and cardigan, opened the door. She didn’t look too happy as she listened to my request. A sense of disapproval hung heavily in the air as she pulled the door shut and disappeared inside with the record I’d brought to be signed. ‘Oh bother’, I thought. ‘Cliff will sign it but she’ll bring it back out to