The remarkable true life story of Peter Newman (Part 5)

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A Brand-New "New-Man"

I ended up in Manchester having hitch-hiked there from London. Little did I realize as the miles sped past, that the old Peter Newman was travelling to his death. I was to meet God in Manchester.

I've talked to a lot of people who have met God for themselves, and many have told me that, at different times in their lives, they have felt His presence. I hadn't told anybody, but I had too. I remember when I was a little boy in Sunday School. I wasn't allowed into the main hall but was taken upstairs where a man was on his knees crying and praying for me. I felt God in that room.

Then there was the fairground in Luton. I was working on the rides when suddenly I could hear the Salvation Army Band playing. I jumped off the Waltzer so that I could listen to the music that was drifting across the field. There was a warm, wonderful presence around me. I felt daft because I knew that I wanted to pray. Tears came into my eyes. I told the gaffer I was nipping off for five minutes and I ran across the field to where the band was playing. I followed them down the hill, rounded the corner with them; then dived into the first pub I came to. Try as I might I couldn't understand the peculiar feelings which had so gripped me.

Then there was the old Army Scripture reader in Benghazi who waited for me to return drunk to the barracks every night. I used to stagger into his room on his arm and he would help me sit down and get me to sing "Guide me, O Thou Great Jehovah" with him. I was drunk, but he was serious. I didn't ever let on to that old man, but every now and then, drunk though I was, I would feel that intangible Presence.

And here I was in Manchester, looking every inch a tramp, about to meet God properly at last. I knew there was a Salvation Army hostel in Francis Street and I made straight for it. Time and need had eroded my principles about staying in hostels. I was glad of any free hand-outs I could get, no matter what the source. Just as long as those too-good-to-be-true officers didn't start going on about the Lord and God and all that, I was quite happy to borrow one of their beds and wash the taste out of my mouth with some "Sally Bash" tea.

Once installed in the hostel, I settled into my usual drinking routine. The nickname of "Laughing Peter" wasn't particularly applicable at that time. I was starting to get really fed up with my alcoholic, filthy lifestyle and I'd long since been feeling that there had to be something else to life other than dog ends and booze. But what? I sat and chatted to one of the hostel officers one day and asked him if joining the Salvation Army would make me any different.

"No," he said, and I was shocked at his answer. Why then, I wondered, had they all shouted "come and join us" so often and so long, if it wasn't going to change people? He must have seen my amazement because he looked at me and said: "Peter, the only thing that could ever change you and your life is a person-to-person meeting with the Lord Jesus Christ."

My hackles rose straight away. Which Christ would want to meet me person-to-person? I was dirty, smelly and had nothing to offer. Oh, it was all right for the young Army officer: he was all bright and shining and clean. So I retaliated in the best way I knew how; I swore loudly at him and told him where he could stuff his religion. He was persistent though and insisted that I should pray. I knew that the only way to get out of his clutches was to let him have his way, so he prayed. Then he got me to pray after him. I didn't know what I said at the time, but like a child I said whatever he said. Then I escaped into the nearest pub. The next day I had a strange experience: I could not leave the hostel. We had two exits and every time I went to leave there was an invisible barrier that I couldn't break through. For several hours I walked around the hostel, failing to get out. Suddenly the Army officer who had prayed with me earlier approached me and said, "Peter, do you want a job?"

To my utter amazement I heard myself reply, "Yes", and I found myself cleaning the toilets in the hostel. My opinions about men who capitulated to become workers in hostels was that they had succumbed to the lowest form of employment; thieving and even begging were higher. My views were well known in the hostel, and many a man had felt the lashing of my tongue for stooping so low. The news soon spread. Those who thought they were in the know rumoured that my employment was just a ploy to enable me to rob the hostel.

As weeks went by I was given a cubicle to sleep in, all to myself. If you knew anything about hostel hierarchy, you'd know that that was quite an achievement.

I thought long and deep about what the officer had said to me, although I didn't tell him, and one night I decided I would have a bash at praying. It was years since I had prayed by myself and I felt a bit ridiculous even thinking about it. But now I made up my mind, just as long as no one was going to overhear.

I stood on my bed and looked over the partition into the cubicle on the left. It was empty. Then I peered over into the one on the right. That too was empty. I was so determined that no one was going to know that Peter Newman had been praying that I put a chair under the door handle as an extra precaution. Feeling absolutely foolish, I dropped to my knees. Grandad had prayed on his knees and he knew God so I felt I should do the same. I took a deep breath and announced, "God, I don't really believe You exist, but if You do, You've got to help me. You've got to stop me from drinking and, if You do, I'll serve You for the rest of my life. Amen." I stuck the last bit on the end as a kind of deal just so there would be something in it for God, if He existed, that was.
I didn't tell a soul about my little prayer session and I got on with life in the hostel. Within a few weeks they promoted me to tea-boy. It was my job to serve the morning and afternoon teas and I got a nice, white jacket to do it in. All the other lads thought I'd wangled the job so I could make off with the takings.

I was serving teas out of the giant urn one Saturday morning when in walked an old pal of mine. Once upon a time he'd been a wealthy aristocratic sort of chap, but he'd fallen on hard times. He still had a very upper-class impression of himself and always reckoned he was a cut above the other riff-raff who frequented the hostels. Well, when he saw me serving up the tea he was absolutely amazed that Peter Newman, his friend, should be doing something so low and menial. "Peter," he said to me, "how could you possibly do a job like this? Come," he said, theatrically patting his pocket, "I have money. Lots of it. Let's go out and enjoy ourselves."