During the first year my mother had gone into all the pubs and clubs urging the drunkards to join her at church. She used to sit at the piano and sing Have You Any Room For Jesus? It was very moving, she said. The men cried into their tankards and stopped playing snooker while she sang. She was plump and pretty and they called her the Jesus Belle. ‘Oh, I had my offers,’ she confided, ‘and they weren’t all Godly.’
