Theodora's Diary Read online

  ‘What about this weekend?’

  ‘Sorry, I’m busy this weekend. Oh, I didn’t tell you, did I. Brilliant news! I’m going out with Kevin again. As a matter of fact, we’re off for a romantic trip to Italy this weekend. I was just packing.’

  ‘That’s … marvellous, wonderful … great. I wish you both all the best, really I do …’ His voice trailed away. ‘Catch up with you sometime then.’

  Funny, he suddenly sounded really offhand. It’s not as if I’d planned to visit him this weekend. I can always go and see him another time.

  Saturday 26 June

  11 a.m.

  Hotel in Milan is beautiful. We flew in last night and had a romantic meal in a little restaurant—pasta and just the one glass of Chianti. Spent the morning sightseeing and shopping. It’s wonderful to be with Kevin again. He may be spiritually degenerate, but I love him really.

  12 noon.

  FOOTBALL! The ‘special place’ he’s taking me to this evening is the blasted football stadium, where England are playing Italy! Some stupid European match. I might have known. I really thought he’d changed. Men!

  1 p.m.

  Kevin finally resorted to calling to me under the locked door of my hotel room. ‘Please come, Theo. You never know. You might like it.’

  ‘I won’t. I’ve already made up my mind not to. I can’t believe you brought me here to watch football!’

  ‘Please, just do this one thing for me. Come to the match.’

  He sounded so pathetic that my heart melted. I unlocked the door. Besides, he had paid for the trip—I think.

  ‘OK, but I’m not wearing the scarf and I’m not singing those songs.’

  9 p.m.

  The stadium looked enormous. We settled in our seats and waited for the match to start. We were in the away supporters’ end and therefore surrounded, as I’d expected, by sweaty, yobbish Englishmen. To my surprise, there was also a large number of sweaty, yobbish Englishwomen. My summer dress and sunhat looked out of place in the sea of football shirts. Kevin saluted and grunted at some people he appeared to know. Then the whistle blew and the match commenced.

  Whenever I had occasionally watched football matches on television at home, there had always been a commentator to provide information about what was happening on the pitch and make comments such as, ‘Apart from the broken leg, he’s perfectly fit.’ Or, ‘The number of goals each team scored made all the difference to the outcome of this game.’ But here there was no commentary, helpful or otherwise. The events on the pitch happened with only the roaring, hissing or collective breath-holding of the crowd to give any indication of how the match was going.

  ‘What’s happening?’ I called up to Kevin, who was on his feet.

  ‘Well, our forwards are pushing up the wing and … ooh!’

  ‘Was that nearly a goal?’

  ‘Yeah. Sshh.’

  ‘What’s happening now?’

  ‘Now he’s taking the corner, and … YEEEEESSSS! Nice one, my son!’

  I applauded politely, while the players on the pitch and the fans in the stands hugged and kissed each other.

  ‘What’s happening now?’

  ‘They’re starting again from the centre.’

  The ball flew up and down the pitch. Players kicked other players, who in turn rolled around on the ground for a while. I began to wish I’d brought my knitting. Suddenly there was a cheer, which turned to a groan.

  ‘What’s happening now?’

  ‘Offside! I can’t believe it.’ He sank into his seat with his head in his hands.

  ‘What’s offside?’

  ‘I can’t explain it now. Just watch.’

  ‘That’s not very helpful. I don’t know why I bothered coming.’ I folded my arms and stuck out my bottom lip in an exaggerated pout.

  He took a deep breath. ‘Well, offside is when a player is nearer to the goal line than the ball, unless he’s either in his own half or there are two players from the opposing team who are nearer to the goal line than he is. But the referee will only penalize him for offside if he’s deemed to be interfering either with play or with an opponent, or seeking to gain the advantage by being in that position. However, he can’t be deemed offside directly following a goal kick, corner kick or throw-in.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  As he was explaining it for the second time, there was a roar from the home crowd. Italy had scored.

  Then I felt it—the rush of disappointment; the feeling that, if I wished and willed a little bit harder, we would score.

  Yes, we. Suddenly I was on the pitch with the England team in spirit, driving the ball forward, straining for the goal.

  I was wearing the shirt with three lions.

  I was saving the goal.

  I was kicking the penalty. I was there.

  Play recommenced and I was out of my seat, shouting and cheering and jumping with the rest of the crowd. I chanted and yelled as the adrenaline pumped.

  Then the whistle blew for half-time.

  I sat down in the Italian sunshine while Kevin went to buy drinks. Today I understood what it was all about. Today I knew how Kevin had felt for all these years about his game. I realized why it was so important. For the 90 minutes of the match, nothing else mattered, the rest of the world stood still. On those few square yards of turf, the only thing of any significance unfolded minute by minute, kick by kick. It was victory or defeat. It was war.

  Kevin returned with some iced lemon drinks.

  ‘Have a look at the scoreboard, Theo.’

  I shielded my eyes from the sun. A message flashed up on the illuminated scoreboard:

  THEODORA

  I LOVE YOU. WILL YOU MARRY ME?

  KEVIN

  I gasped and looked around the crowd for all the other Theodoras and Kevins there must have been in the stadium. Then I looked down. Kevin was on his knees in front of me, wedged between the two rows of seats. My face burned scarlet as he opened a small box. All eyes were no longer on the pitch or gazing into empty fizzy drink cans. They were on us.

  ‘Please say “yes”, and say it quickly—this concrete is killing my knees.’

  ‘Yes! Get up, you idiot.’

  The people around us shrieked in delight and gave us a round of applause. The public address system played the theme from Love Story. Kevin clambered to his feet, grinning, and pushed a gold ring with a single stone onto the third finger of my left hand.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ I said. ‘Is it real?’ I held up my hand so the stone caught the sunlight.

  ‘Course it’s real. Vague Dave down at the market swears it’s genuine Hatton Garden.’

  ‘If it’s genuine Hatton Garden, what’s it doing in the possession of Vague Dave down at the market?’

  ‘Dunno. Dave was a bit vague about it. Still, if your finger goes green and drops off, I’ll buy you another one.’

  ‘Another finger?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’ He lowered his eyes and shuffled his feet. ‘I’d do anything to make you happy, Theo.’

  ‘Then shut up. The match is about to start again.’

  ‘Don’t I even get a kiss?’

  I don’t remember much about the rest of the match. Most of it was spent in Kevin’s arms with his lips pressed against my lips. Which, at that moment, was just exactly where I wanted to be. The only slightly annoying thing was that Kevin kept swivelling his head towards the pitch to try to catch some of the action and ricking my neck in the process. I forgave him.

  In the end we won 2–1. The winning goal was a blinder. The midfield players had just … No, I won’t go into that here. I’m in danger of becoming as bad as Kevin.

  When we arrived back at the hotel, there was a message to ring Reverend Graves.

  ‘I’m sorry to spoil your holiday with bad news,’ Digger said when I called him. ‘I just got back from the hospital. Miss Chamberlain … well, it doesn’t look too good, Theo love.
I thought you’d like to know.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Jeremiah and I are taking turns to sit with her, you know.’

  ‘Would you tell her something for me?’

  ‘Course.’

  ‘Would you tell her that Kevin and I just got engaged?’

  ‘Congratulations! You certainly kept that one quiet.’

  ‘It’s only just happened. Would you tell her that I’ve taken hold of the opportunity and made the best choice for the right reasons?’

  ‘I’ll tell her as soon as I see her, I promise. God bless, and tell that Kevin to look after you.’

  Sunday 27 June

  Tom came to collect us from the airport this evening and was astounded to see the engagement ring. Frustratingly, he had no news of Miss Chamberlain. He drove us back to his house and Ariadne hugged me and squealed when we told her. She even hugged Kevin. I rang Mum and Dad and we all had a glass of champagne while I cuddled Phoebe. Shortly after I got back to the flat, the entry buzzer sounded. It was Digger. I waited at the top of the stairs as he came up and ushered him into my flat. He perched on the sofa and indicated for me to sit in the chair opposite. His voice sounded strained. ‘There’s just no easy way to tell you. She died early this morning. I’m very sorry.’

  I just nodded, unable to speak.

  ‘She’s with Jesus now.’

  ‘That’s no good, I want her here with me!’ I shouted.

  ‘There’s so much I still wanted to tell her.’ The tears burned down my cheeks.

  ‘I know, Theo love. I gave her your message.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She was very weak. She sort of nodded and smiled. But I’m sure she was over the moon.’

  The funeral is arranged for next Friday.

  I walked past her cottage and everything looked exactly the same as always, except she wasn’t there. Soon the place will be empty and she’ll live on only in the memories and lives of those she touched.

  Monday 28 June

  As Miss Chamberlain had so many friends in the village, Digger has taken the unusual step of forming a committee to plan her memorial service. I think that by the end of today’s meeting he was starting to regret this. The committee comprised Digger, Jeremiah Wedgwood (who sat at the opposite end of the table to the vicar and appeared to be there under sufferance), Miss Cranmer, Mrs Epstein (who brought her knitting), Mrs McCarthy, Alfreda Polanski (who owns the post office and whom Jeremiah insisted had pagan tendencies because she once allowed a maypole to be erected on the green outside her shop) and myself.

  I felt honoured to be part of the group, as I’d only known Miss Chamberlain for a relatively short time (the whole of my life was probably less than half the time the rest of the group had known her). At the same time, it seemed very strange to be planning her memorial service. Just as Miss Chamberlain had never considered herself to be old, I could imagine her not quite admitting to being dead. She still seemed so present with us and, as the stories and anecdotes came tumbling out while we talked about her life, it seemed as if we were talking behind her back and that at any moment she would enter the room and bring us all abruptly to silence. But she didn’t.

  The meeting busied itself with deciding on the hymns and readings, appointing someone to organize the flowers, and designating stewards, people to make the tea, and the like. We suspected that St Norbert’s would be as packed as a lift full of sumo wrestlers with Miss Chamberlain’s friends, acquaintances and former pupils, so the process began to resemble a military operation in its attention to detail and contingency planning.

  I was stunned when, at the end of the meeting, Digger took me to one side and asked me to say a few words at the service about Miss Chamberlain.

  ‘Why me? Other people have known her for longer.’

  ‘I just think you’d be good at putting into words what the rest of us are thinking. And anyway, although she had loads of mates, I know she was especially fond of you.’

  ‘That means a lot,’ I said, fighting back the tears.

  Tuesday 29 June

  I have absolutely nothing to wear to this funeral. I was toying with the idea of the black suit I wore to Auntie Ivy’s funeral last year, but it makes me look too much like a policewoman. Mum offered me her black hat, which could easily have belonged to Morticia from the Addams family. I declined. Anyway, black doesn’t seem appropriate for Miss Chamberlain. I’ve finally decided on a cream dress with poppies on it. It reminds me of Miss Chamberlain’s garden. Help! I think I’m turning into Charity Hubble!

  July

  Thursday 1 July

  Why did I agree to do it? The cliché queen, that’s me. How is it possible to capture a life in a three-minute speech? Everything I try to write sounds so trite and obvious. Of course we all loved her. Of course we’ll all miss her. Of course she’s in a better place now. My speech is beginning to sound like a third-rate Victorian melodrama. I even researched some of Miss Chamberlain’s early life and career, found out which committees and organizations she’d belonged to (just to list them would take a good two minutes), only to discover that Digger is already going to include all that sort of thing in his address.

  Help me, God. Where are you when I need you?

  Friday 2 July

  I expected to wake up early this morning and spend time in quiet contemplation writing a proper speech before the service at 10 a.m. Instead, there was an overnight power cut and I woke to a blank alarm clock, a video recorder which had programmed itself to record an Open University programme about farming in the Scottish Lowlands, and a freezer full of defrosted chocolate ice cream. I had 20 minutes to get ready.

  I disposed of the defrosted ice cream in a humane manner, showered and washed my hair, which had now thankfully lost its brassy taint and settled to a pleasant dark blonde. Then I pulled on my cream dress, dried my hair and opened the curtains. A rain shower had washed the village clean and the morning sun had dried and warmed it ready for the day. The scent of roses perfumed the air and the garden birds twittered and trilled the same songs they twittered and trilled every morning. Didn’t they know that today was different?

  The buzzer sounded. It was Kevin in a shirt and tie.

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ I lied, and he gave my hand a squeeze.

  I grabbed my Bible with one hand and Kevin’s hand with the other, and we started up the hill to St Norbert’s. Digger greeted us at the door, looking pale and tense, and inside everyone wore similarly pale, tense expressions, smiled briefly, then busied themselves giving out hymn books and adjusting floral arrangements. I found a seat near the front and Kevin went outside for a walk.

  I still wasn’t sure what I was going to say. I was afraid I was going to cry and look a fool in front of all those people. After all, Hollywood actresses aside, no one can look their best with smudged mascara round their eyes and a runny nose. I lowered myself onto a kneeler and prayed like I’ve never prayed before. I prayed that God was really there and that he could hear me. I prayed that what we hoped about heaven was true, and that Miss Chamberlain was really with him. I prayed that he would help me find the right words to say. I prayed for her friends, for Digger, and for Jeremiah, both of whom she loved and who both loved her deeply in their different ways. My hands were shaking.

  I heard sniffing behind me and turned to see Jeremiah sobbing quietly into a large white handkerchief. The church was beginning to fill with people and I looked around to try to spot someone with a ‘comforting ministry’ who could sort Jeremiah out. I realized that I didn’t know anyone there. Presumably these were her friends and relatives from other parts of the country. There was no one else; it would have to be me. I went and sat next to Jeremiah. I was going to put my arm around his shoulders, but thought better of it.

  ‘We all miss her,’ I said earnestly to the handkerchief, which was now entirely covering his face.

  ‘You don’t understand. She was different.’

  ‘I know, she wa
s a very special person.’

  ‘Oh, shut up! What do you know?’

  I sat up. I’d never heard Jeremiah speak like this before. ‘Get thee hence, Satan,’ perhaps, but never ‘Shut up’.

  ‘You and all the others make me want to vomit, with your Sunday Christianity and worldly attitudes,’ he said sharply. ‘None of you try to live by the Bible. I bet half of you never even read it!’

  ‘I … I’m sorry if you feel this way, Jeremiah, but I’m sure…’

  ‘You all hate me. You all laugh at me behind my back. Just because I try to stand up for the truth. She was the only one who really liked me, the only one who cared. Now she’s gone.’

  He took a deep breath, buried his face again in the handkerchief, and years and years of pain and bitterness poured out with his tears. I didn’t know what to say to help him and decided, probably wisely, to leave him to sort it out with God.

  ‘If there’s anything I can do … well, you know where I am.’

  I stood up to return to my seat near the front. The church was full now and Kevin shuffled his way up the aisle and squeezed in next to me. Then Gregory Pasternak struck a chord on the organ and we shuffled to our feet as Rev. Graves walked up the aisle in front of a small coffin, carried on the shoulders of four men in dark suits and almost hidden under flowers.

  I sat in a daze, unsettled by Jeremiah’s outburst and uncertain of what I was going to say to all those people as the prayers, hymns, readings and address flew by. Suddenly it was my turn to get up and speak. Kevin nudged me and Digger gave me an encouraging smile as I stood at the lectern. I swallowed hard as I looked out at all the pale, tense faces.

  ‘I feel very honoured to be invited to stand here and say a few words about a remarkable lady. I’m sure everyone has his or her own special memories of her. I know she means so much to everyone in this church and, I’m sure, to many more people who cannot be here today. I know that a lot of care and preparation has gone into today’s service—the beautiful flowers, all the hymns and readings she loved so much. When we were planning for today, I heard people saying things like, “We must have pink flowers, she loved pink.” Or, “That was her favourite hymn.” Truth is, much as she would have appreciated the thought that has gone into the service, she may have questioned what all the fuss was about. And I know that she’ll be far too busy in heaven to concern herself with what’s happening down here on earth.