Dad hugged me and said, ‘You were such a miserable, sad little thing. You pined so hard that nothing would make you happy. In the end, I promised you that I’d wait before taking a new partner just in case Mum changed her mind.’
I believed his assurances whether they were true or not, and his words gave me hope that our broken family was only temporary, a poignant hope I carried in my heart for the next two years, over two continents.
Two weeks later, Dad and I and flew out to Dubai. Dad was devastated because he had learned to love India and the future before him was uncertain. In Dubai, Dad received an unexpected phone call from Faithy, Mo’s youngest daughter. She had been scouting in Greece, looking for a new location in which to begin a new project. Faithy had flair and charisma and a way with words that could convince just about anybody. She set out to gather together the most talented musicians, singers, songwriters and artists to use them as an attraction to advance the cause to the outside world and gain them more followers.
‘Simon Peter,’ she started, ‘Mo is very pleased with all that you have achieved. He has decided to support the production and distribution of the Music with Meaning show worldwide.’
The show was to be bigger and far more commercial than before. It would be a hook to catch listeners, who would write in. They would be invited to come along to local Music with Meaning ‘clubs’ in their area. There would be regular mailings, a magazine and friendly conventions. Being telephoned personally by Faithy was a great honour. Dad was thrilled that he was receiving full support and backing for his programme. His goal was always to win souls and he was very passionate about it. Not being a very practical person, he was happy to allow the leadership to take over all the organization of it so he could just concentrate on the show.
That was how we arrived in Athens in late 1979. The scenic view of high, pale mountains, soaring into a bright blue sky was breathtaking, as we crossed the ancient peninsular to reach the coast on the opposite side, a couple of hours away. As we drove down, between stands of dark pine trees, I could see the sparkle on the sea and fishing boats bobbing in the harbour of the old port in Rafina.
Our house was a typical modern Greek villa, painted white and with a red tiled roof. The surrounding garden contained fruit trees, some scratchy lawn grass, yellow mimosa and olive trees. We were within walking distance of a large campsite by the sea called Coco Camp. Half was for regular holidaymakers; the other half was block booked for us, the Family. Families began arriving in their caravans and trailers until about two hundred new people had joined us. All of them were either musicians or technicians who had been specially chosen to work on Dad’s show.
During the day I would run free, playing with the children within the camp’s grounds and along the beach. There were big coloured pebbles to collect, and dead starfish, shells and sea urchins. There was so much to see and do I never stopped playing from dawn to dusk. My hair would go unbrushed for days. I remember an American woman called Windy, a singer/songwriter for the show, sitting me down with a comb and laboriously untangling my thick mop of curls.
Sometimes in the evening I would lie on my bed for hours, bored while Dad recorded late into the night in the studio with Faithy Berg and Jeremy Spencer, whose fame had followed him here. Faithy had decided to use him as a selling point to pitch the show to broadcasters.
To solve the problem of the little wild mustang I was becoming, Faithy sent a succession of nannies to take care of me. First it was a married woman named Rosa. Then Crystal, a hot-tempered American woman, replaced her. Crystal was a petite woman with pursed lips and a mane of shoulder-length light-brown hair. She didn’t have a motherly bone in her body and cussed like a trooper, not the sort of language that good Christians should use, and was always getting into trouble for drinking too much. Crystal often referred to me as the ‘girl with the curl in the middle of her forehead. When she was good, she was very good, but when she was bad, she was horrid.’ I admit I did have a stubborn streak, especially with her. I hated her because I knew she had set her sights on snatching up Dad for a husband and I was determined to do all I could to scotch any romance between them. I wasn’t successful. Dad did have a fling with her, but their love affair was to be short-lived.
The only one I would listen to was Dad. I loved him more than anybody in the world and did my best to please him. I took no notice of anyone else, expecting my mother to come back at any time, even though we had said goodbye and she had been gone for what seemed aeons of time.
But why, why, couldn’t I remember her? Why couldn’t I even remember that dreadful final moment of our parting in Bombay?
I pined so much that finally Dad arranged for me to speak with Mum on the phone, long distance to London.
I felt weak with shock and took the phone, hardly able to believe that I was hearing her voice again. ‘When are you coming, Mummy?’ I asked anxiously, the years of yearning filling my voice.
‘I love you, Celeste. I’ll try to come soon.’ I heard a voice I didn’t recognize say on the other end of the line. ‘Your sister Kristina and brother David love you and want to see you too.’
She had said that she was going to come back to live with us again! I was so excited.
‘It’s all worked out,’ Dad told me after the phone call. ‘The tickets are booked and everything. It won’t be long now, darling.’
I looked over at Crystal, who was sitting nearby, and pronounced triumphantly, ‘You don’t need to be here anymore. My mummy’s coming back.’
Crystal glowered. A few weeks later the leaders – who had the final say in everything, even love – broke up their relationship, thinking she was not good enough for my father, their new media star. I certainly didn’t think so. All I knew was that my mum would be there soon and I would be reunited with her and my sister and brother. I longed to have her there, cuddling me, brushing my hair, and being my mum again. But time passed and I heard nothing. I waited in a frenzy of impatience. Every day I talked – and thought – about my mother. When, when, when?
One day, when I asked Dad for the umpteenth time, ‘When’s Mummy coming back?’ he could not put off telling me any longer what he knew would shatter my world. ‘She’s changed her mind. She decided to stay with Joshua.’
I stared at him, shocked, feeling my heart jump and beat in panic like a fluttering bird. I did not understand. Why had she changed her mind? Who was this man Joshua, who had taken her away from us? It did not make sense to me and I could not accept that it was final. My memories of her had faded by this time, and I did not even remember what she looked like anymore – but she was my mother and it was the idea that I had clung to for half my life. I remained fiercely determined that no matter what, no one would take her place.
We had a little beat-up car that barely puttered along. The back seats had been taken out by the previous owners (which is why we got it cheap) so you had to sit on the floor. I was in the back with my playmate, Nicki, and we were giggling as we experimented with what we imagined sex to be, like we’d seen the adults do it, undies down, on top of each other and humping away. We were both only five years old. Obviously, things didn’t work properly and it was just a game.
‘You’re tickling!’
‘No I’m not–’
‘Yes you are. Ouch. My leg’s stuck.’
I heard muffled laughter, and glancing up, saw Nicki’s mum, Patience, peering in through the car window at us, her face alight with amusement. Like a shot, I sat up and shoved Nicki away.
He saw his mum and went bright red.
‘It’s okay, you guys can carry on,’ she said.
But I felt very