Theodora's Diary Read online

  ‘It’s from the church. For the old people.’

  ‘What, do they get to choose what they want and you deliver it, then?’

  ‘No, it’s Harvest. People in the church give food, then we put it in boxes and take it round to old people in the village.’ He shrugged and shook his head. He didn’t look very old. I tried to explain. ‘Don’t you remember doing it at school? Harvest Festival … “We plough the fields and scatter…”’ He looked blankly at his mate, who also shrugged and looked blank. ‘Sorry, love. We’re from Croydon.’

  I rang the doorbell and an old lady with a large hearing aid opened the front door. ‘Oh, is that for me?’ she exclaimed, clapping her hands together in delight. She peered into the box. ‘What’s this? Pâté, caviar … oh dear, I can’t eat that, I’m afraid. I was hoping for a nice packet of Rich Tea. What a shame. Never mind, I really am most grateful. I can give the pâté and stuff to the cat—I’m sure she’ll enjoy it, and it saves me buying cat food. Thank you so much.’

  Any hopes that I’d found my ministry gurgled noisily down the drain.

  Tuesday 15 September

  Came home to find Dad sitting on the front doorstep with his knees tucked up and his hands clasping his shins like a lanky garden gnome. Felt an instant sense of foreboding. There could only be two reasons for Dad to turn up unannounced—bad news, or his need to borrow some kind of obscure plumbing device from Kevin’s toolbox. I prayed it was the latter.

  ‘Dad, what a surprise! Is anything the matter, or do you urgently need a pipe-bender?’

  ‘Does anything have to be the matter? Can’t a man just visit his daughter sometimes?’ He pulled his long face into a kind of grimace, which I guessed was supposed to be an ingratiating smile.

  ‘Come on, I don’t normally come home to find you sitting there on the doorstep. What’s wrong?’

  ‘I don’t suppose I could stay for supper?’

  ‘Won’t Mum have cooked you something?’

  He let out a shuddering sigh. ‘That’s just it. I couldn’t stand it. I just couldn’t take any more.’ His voice trembled with emotion.

  I felt my eyes widen. ‘Whatever have you done?’

  I glanced at his hands for traces of soil, in case he had done away with Mum and buried her under the patio.

  ‘It’s not what I’ve done, it’s what she’s doing that’s driving me crackers.’

  ‘What is she doing?’ I had visions of him enlightening me about my mother having a sordid affair with the milkman, or running up thousands in gambling debts, or even running off to join the Salvation Army.

  ‘Moussaka. Blinking moussaka. I’m sick of the sight of it!’

  ‘But Mum’s always cooked moussaka at least once a week.’

  ‘Once a week would be bliss! Heaven! I’m getting it twice a day at the moment.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘It all started when the two of you went away on holiday. Your mother left me a freezer full of her home-cooked Greek delicacies, enough for the whole fortnight. One evening when I got back from work, I really fancied fish and chips. I knew I shouldn’t. I knew I’d get into trouble if I didn’t eat the supper she’d made for me, see, and I didn’t want to waste it, so the next day I took it to work with me and gave it to Georgie—his Mam’s Greek. Well, the next night I just thought, “I could murder a curry.” So I did the same again. The next night was Chinese and the night after that, pizza. So Georgie and his family was getting all your Mam’s suppers. Lapping them up, they were. Turns out Georgie’s brother Nicky runs a restaurant and catering business. Reckons your Mam’s moussaka’s the best he’s tasted outside of Athens. When she got back I made the mistake of telling her. That’s where the trouble started.’

  ‘You mean, she was angry with you for not eating them?’

  ‘No, she was delighted. Got the idea into her head of making this stuff and selling it to Nicky as a takeaway. Only trouble, see, is that she’s got to get the recipe absolutely perfect—bit more spice, bit less aubergine, make the béchamel a bit thicker. And guess who has to eat the flaming stuff all the time. I’d call myself a guinea pig, but at least a guinea pig gets to eat dandelions once in a while.’ He hung his head. ‘I’d do anything for a spot of steak and kidney pie or a couple of sausages.’

  ‘Is she serious?’

  His look said everything.

  ‘But that’s great!’

  ‘Not if you’re me it isn’t. She’s contacted the bank, put her name down for one of these food hygiene courses, even designed the packaging.’

  ‘Hang on. “Doreen Llewellyn, Authentic Greek Cuisine”—doesn’t sound quite right.’

  ‘Calling herself Aphrodite.’ His face suddenly broke into a grin and he let out a little snorting laugh. ‘That’ll be the day.’

  ‘Come on, I’ll see what I can find in the fridge,’ I smiled. I took his arm, unlocked the door and went up to search for something without olive oil, aubergines or tomatoes in my fridge.

  Wednesday 16 September

  Declan is off for a couple of weeks’ leave from today. He has told everyone else he’s off surfing in Cornwall, but confided to me that Katherine has insisted that he goes round and decorates her flat. I’m to be promoted temporarily to Trainee Assistant Deputy Manager. It means that I get an extra £3.84 per week and am permitted to use the executive coat rack.

  Thursday 17 September

  A memo arrived on my desk this morning. In my capacity as temporary Trainee Assistant Deputy Manager, I’m required to take over Declan’s post as secretary to the divisional committee at their AGM. My duties will comprise agreeing and compiling the agenda, taking the minutes and later distributing copies to those who were present at the meeting. Shouldn’t be too difficult—I just need to sharpen my pencil, brush up on my shorthand and practise crossing my legs in a ladylike manner. I’m quite looking forward to being an integral part of the cutting-edge, decision-making process, a vital cog in the managerial machinery. In fact, I think I’ll go and compile that agenda right now.

  10.30 p.m.

  Actually, I’m quite worried about this meeting. What if I can’t keep up with the cut-and-thrust dialogue? What if I’m way out of my depth in the higher echelons of management? I’m to meet the Area Manager. He’s only just below the Regional Administrator, who ranks slightly below the Divisional Director, who reports directly to the Managing Director. I can’t do it! I am too lowly.

  Too late to phone Declan now.

  Friday 18 September

  2.30 a.m.

  Phoned Declan, whose voice, through the yawns, sounded comforting and reassuring.

  ‘Sorry, did I wake you?’ I said.

  ‘Well, no. Whatever makes you think I’d be sleeping at this time of the morning?’

  I explained my dilemma.

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Theo, it’s all bluff. You’ll be fine. Just dress smart and pretend you know what you’re doing. If you believe yourself, so will they. Then all you have to do at the meeting is write down what they say, work out what they mean, and Seamus is your uncle!’

  ‘But what if I get it wrong?’

  ‘You’ll find that most of them are so well lubricated from the pre-meeting booze-up that you could write anything you like. They’ll never remember what they said. What do you think you’re there for, but to write down what they would have said had they been sober enough to think straight? Just one little tip, though. Don’t you be going sinking any of the brown stuff before the meeting.’

  ‘You know I hardly ever drink.’

  ‘Aye, you’re a good girl. Best of luck! Good night.’

  Sunday 20 September

  There was a notice in The Church Organ today which caught my eye:

  Vicarage Refurbishment

  Due to the refurbishment of the vicarage kitchen,

  it has been suggested by the PCC that

  parishioners might like to have the vicar for

  Sunday dinner. He has offered to bring his

 
own jar of mint sauce.

  I think, on the whole, I prefer chicken.

  Monday 21 September

  AGM at our City office today. I wore a black suit with a white shirt, black shoes with heels that were high but not too high, and carried a briefcase. The briefcase was empty apart from my sandwiches, because I couldn’t think of anything useful to put in it (I’m one of the few people who still doesn’t own a mobile phone). I toyed with the idea of removing the lenses from an old pair of sunglasses so that I could perch them on the end of my nose and peer over them to give myself an air of efficient authority, but decided against it.

  The meeting started at 2 o’clock and Declan was right: the Area Manager, two of the Regional Managers and their assistants had obviously spent a rather well-lubricated lunchbreak at the local wine bar. Consequently, their behaviour was rather peculiar. One of the assistants kept falling asleep and had to be nudged awake by his boss. A Regional Manager took frequent and embarrassingly long trips to the Ladies, while the rest of the committee made small talk and tapped their pencils on the conference table. She once disappeared for the best part of half an hour. The other Managers, now completely fed up, decided not to wait for her to return before resuming the meeting. When she eventually returned, she remained three agenda items behind the rest of the committee for the remainder of the meeting. She didn’t seem to notice.

  The Area Manager was obviously also suffering from the lunchtime hospitality. A man not known for his diplomacy and economy of speech at the best of times, he floundered around with the most extravagant and bizarre metaphors. I just did as Declan had told me, wrote down what they all said and then tried to turn it into what they meant to say. For instance, when the Area Manager said that the proposal for the new office site had ‘gone down like a damp squid’, I assumed he actually meant a ‘damp squib’—ineffectual firework rather than soggy marine creature. When he said we would run up and down the flagpole saluting the idea of more flexible working hours, I translated it as running the idea of more flexible working hours up the flagpole to see who salutes it. (Actually that didn’t really make sense either.) Finally, when he said that all the employees who belonged to the union were a bunch of idle troublemakers and slackers and that all the union representatives should have their philanthropic, socialist principles shoved up their backsides, lit, and then be launched off extremely tall buildings like rockets, I toned it down considerably and just reported that they would be instantly dismissed without recompense.

  I felt quite pleased with myself at the end of the meeting, as the Area Manager shook my hand warmly. I gained even more Brownie points when I offered to order him a cab to his hotel, although I declined the invitation to join him.

  Wednesday 23 September

  I decided to tackle the problem of Kevin’s spiritual degeneracy head on, to ask him why, despite my persistent efforts, he still refuses to come to church with me. Since I’ve been going out with him, he’s gone from being a ‘Christmas/ Easter/weddings/baptisms’ attendee to a ‘wouldn’t set foot inside that place if rabid dogs were chasing me up the high street’ person. Surely not even Kevin could be beyond redemption? So, no beating about the bush, I resolved to come straight out with it and ask him why he refuses to go.

  ‘Kevin,’ I wheedled, ‘there’s a family service at church this week.’

  ‘Yeah … and…?’ he replied sulkily.

  ‘Well, I just wondered if you’d like to come with me.’ I said this in my best baby-bunnies-and-kittens voice.

  ‘No thank you,’ he answered curtly.

  ‘Well, you should. It’d do you good, pagan!’ I snapped.

  ‘I just don’t want to.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘You know I hate family services.’

  ‘But why?’ I persisted.

  ‘Do you want to know the truth? Do you really want to know why I hate family services so much? Would you like to know why I’d rather walk naked up Oxford Street, or have my legs waxed, or go to a Barry Manilow concert, than go to one of your family services? Would you?’

  I nodded dubiously.

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you. I don’t have a problem with the God bit. The Creator who made me, loves me and sent his son to die for me. Yeah, that seems reasonable enough. If it’s true, and I think it probably is, I’m happy to hand over my life to him. He’d probably make a better job of it than me. Reading the Bible and talking to God—I can buy that.’

  It sounded good so far. I was beginning to hear choirs of heavenly angels singing the Ave Maria and was mentally deciding what I would wear on the occasion when Kevin finally stood up in the pulpit and humbly told how he had been led to Christ.

  My reverie was cut short as he continued speaking.

  ‘But what I just can’t take, the part that gets right up my hooter, is the thought of spending over an hour sitting on a hard bench in a freezing cold building with people I wouldn’t normally be seen dead with in a plague pit, and singing. Theo, you know me. I’ve got a voice like a walrus with laryngitis. I don’t even sing at a match. And doing a Placido Domingo in church, where people can actually hear you … I’m sorry, that takes the biscuit, that really does.’

  I sat open-mouthed. Singing. He didn’t like singing. Was that all?

  ‘Do you know the most embarrassing kind of song?’ he continued unabated. ‘The “Children’s Action Choruses”. The ones where you have to wave your arms about, being a chimpanzee or a Dutch girl, and looking a complete moron in front of the greengrocer, the doctor and the bloke who cleans your windows. And do you know the worst thing about it? They sneak these blooming choruses into the family services, when us ordinary blokes have been bullied by their girlfriends into setting foot inside the church. But these choruses aren’t just for the kids to sing. Oh no. They expect all the grown-ups to join in with the catchy tunes, confusing actions and oh-so-jolly words. It’s all right for you Christians; you must be immune to it. After years of exposure to “Children’s Action Choruses” you must get used to looking like a bunch of complete idiots. The other day, I even caught the postman humming “I want to be God’s pancake, stodgy, round and flat” out in the street! Forgive me, but that can’t be normal.’

  Well, singing children’s choruses! Was that it? That’s the reason he refuses to become part of the St Norbert’s flock? I must admit, I often find those choruses the best part of the service. ‘Drown Those Sinners’ and ‘I’m as Happy as a Puffer Train Bound for Glory Halt’—I love them all. ‘His Love is Bigger than the Widest Elephant’ was always a particular favourite, until I got a bit carried away with the actions and gave poor Mr Wilberforce a black eye.

  I tried to look thoughtful, as if I were weighing his comments. I knew arguing with him would be useless, and quoting scriptures (if I could think of any) would be futile. I had to try a new tactic.

  ‘OK,’ I conceded. ‘You’ve got a valid point. I can see exactly what you mean and I respect your opinion. If you really hate it that much, I won’t pressure you to come any more.’

  ‘What?’ He looked stunned. ‘You won’t try to blackmail me into going to church with you ever again?’

  ‘Of course not.’ I tried to look hurt.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Cross my heart.’

  ‘You’ll never make me sing those songs?’

  ‘Never. If you don’t want to come, it’s completely your decision. I respect that. I know that you’re a resolute and determined man who knows his mind. If you don’t want to come, I wouldn’t dream of trying to influence that decision. Conversely, if you do decide to come to church, I know full well that it’s a decision arrived at by an independent-minded man who couldn’t possibly be swayed by the opinions of any other person.’

  Evidence of a deep mental wrestling match appeared on Kevin’s face. He was weighing up the arguments. I’d just told him I didn’t care if he came or not. I’d just said I respected his opinions and he wa
s free to make his own decision. That was obviously a new one to him. He had to think independently. He’d never done that before. He always found out what I thought and did the opposite. I was refusing to state my opinion for him to contradict. Was it possible that I actually didn’t want him there? If not, why not? What was I hiding? His brows knitted together in a deep frown of suspicion. He looked up to the ceiling, then down to his feet. Finally he sighed deeply.

  ‘OK then, I’ll come.’

  ‘If you like.’ I shrugged with a feigned indifference.

  ‘But I’m not singing.’

  ‘Fine. Whatever you say.’

  He stood up, covered in confusion. ‘Save me a seat on Sunday.’ He picked up his coat, planted a kiss on my forehead and started off home, still looking puzzled.

  Massage his ego, confuse him by refusing to give an opinion, then make him think it was his idea in the first place. The perfect strategy!

  I hadn’t thought about it before, but, when you consider it, it is an extremely strange thing to expect people to do. In fact, the whole procedure of a church service is quite bizarre. A group of people from different backgrounds and of different ages, with very little in common, gathers once or twice a week in a draughty stone building. They talk, not to each other, but to someone who died 2,000 years ago. They sing about gathering at the river, putting on armour, washing in the fountain and the blood of the lamb. They sit and listen while a man in a long dress tells them how to behave. They read from a book no bigger than a James Clavell novel, the same book people have been using for hundreds and hundreds of years, sometimes in an obsolete version of English. Occasionally they queue up to sip a tiny drop of wine and eat a crumb of bread, given to them by the man in a dress. The only part that really seems to make sense is the coffee at the end. Thinking about it like that, it’s a wonder that Christianity as a whole and the Church of England in particular have survived as long as they have.

  I suppose it shows it must be true.

  Either that, or all Christians are two quiches short of a bring-and-share.