Cult Sister. Lesley Smailes

had to taste good before it cooked. That was the secret.

      Grant brought a stack of letters from South Africa, and one from England. It had Stewart’s beautiful, artistic handwriting on it. I opened it first. He addressed it to me like he often did. ‘Lesley Darling.’ ‘What is he doing, calling another man’s wife his darling?’ Thomas asked disdainfully.

      Stewart had found out I was married. He was already in London, waiting for me. He had found a place for us to share and had fixed it up so that it was ready for me.

      I struggled to control my anger when Thomas forbade me to write back to him. By this point I really resented him. I thought he had taken advantage of me, marrying me when I was so vulnerable and I disliked the way he treated me like some kind of possession. I belonged to him. I had taken on his name and I was his.

      Now I struggled with a dilemma. Should I leave with Grant and go to my Stewart in England, or should I stay with Thomas and the sisters? My zeal to be right and my strong teenage arrogance held me back. I had done the deed, made a commitment and now I had to be a dutiful wife.

      From this time one memory vividly stands out. I recall walking with Thomas from Hoyt Street to the camp at Nevins Street. I was happily skipping along the pavement in front of him when he stopped me. ‘A sister is to walk a few steps behind her husband. Let me go ahead,’ he said. My heart sank. I was being reprimanded! My dad had taught me that ‘ladies go first’ but the custom in the Church dictated otherwise. From then on I always walked a little behind him.

      Poor Thomas. He felt it was his husbandly duty to constantly correct me and put me in my place. I was often in his bad books. I remember him scolding me soon after Grant left, seated at one of the dining-room tables at Nevins Street. I think it went on for over an hour. I felt wounded inside and also grew bored while I silently listened as he droned his reproof – it was mostly about how proud I was and how I should be more humble.

      Sister Nediva was making food in the kitchen. Peeping at her and drumming my fingers on the table, I wished the lecture would end. He was embarrassing me. It seemed like I was getting a public rapping over the knuckles. Humiliated, I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. I had begun to think it was a big blunder marrying him. But it was too late now. My pride would not allow me to admit that I had made a mistake. He was right. I was too proud for my own good.