Theodora's Diary Read online

‘You’re just two tents.’

  Tuesday 13 October

  I’m refusing to talk to Kevin until he explains yesterday’s comment. He doesn’t seem to understand that those things get me really wound up.

  Wednesday 14 October

  Informed Kevin on the phone that I was very sorry, but, un-Christian as it was, I was going to have to kill him unless he told me what on earth he was talking about. He laughed so hard I thought he was going to choke. I eventually hung up on him.

  Declan asked me today if anything was wrong. When I asked him why, he said that if my shoulders were scrunched up any higher around my ears, I would go deaf. He also threatened to take away all my pens and pencils if I didn’t stop tapping them on the desk. He said it was like working with Ringo Starr. I explained my predicament over Kevin’s comment.

  ‘Oh Theo,’ he laughed, ‘he’s quite right. You’re definitely two tents!’

  Thursday 15 October

  Gritting my teeth all day. Prayer Partner meeting with Charity again tonight. Ariadne is still not speaking to me after I made her lie for me last week, and Declan fell off his chair laughing when I told him about the cat search.

  Hoped I would get run over by a bus on the way home from work tonight, but it didn’t happen. Nobody has phoned, urgently requiring my attendance at something. War has not been declared. So, there’s no choice. I’ll just have to endure it.

  I wonder if she’d notice if I wore my Walkman.

  11 p.m.

  When Charity arrived this evening, her usual, beaming, ‘I’m completely at peace and my Christian life is advancing in leaps and bounds’ smile was missing.

  ‘What’s up, Charity? Has Naphtali lost his school tie again? Or have you and Nigel had a tiff about whether to buy chunky or thin-shredded marmalade?’

  ‘Actually, it’s my Granddad,’ she said. ‘I’m desperately worried about him. He was rushed to hospital last night. I just thought I’d call in on my way to see him. I wanted to ask if you’d mind praying for him.’

  ‘What’s the matter with him?’

  ‘They think he’s had a stroke. Things don’t look too promising.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Of course I’ll pray for him.’

  She forced her lips into an impostor of a smile.

  I sat alone and thought of Charity’s grandfather. I remembered when I was a child, seeing him in church. He seemed prehistoric then. Now he must be well over 90. He used to sit very upright in his dark suit, blinking slowly as he listened to the sermon. He had bushy white hair and long white whiskers. The general appearance was decidedly feline, like a very old, dignified cat. During silent prayer, I swear I could hear him purring.

  It was difficult to know what to pray. After all, he’s an old man and old men die. I thanked God for his life and then prayed for Charity. She might make me want to reach for a bucket every time I speak to her, but I really don’t like her to be unhappy. It makes me feel guilty about detesting her.

  Friday 16 October

  Two tents—too tense! I’ve got it!

  Now, where’s that large, unpleasant cactus? I have an overwhelming desire to use it to inflict something very nasty upon Kevin.

  Saturday 17 October

  Finally got round to reading last week’s copy of The Church Organ and was intrigued by an item of village news about the new curtains purchased for the Scout hut as a result of funds raised by the WI, who held a sponsored ‘creamcakeathon’. (See? More fundraising—it gets everywhere.) Rather than allowing the occasion to go unmarked and just putting the curtains up in the windows, inhabitants of the village have been invited to a ‘public hanging’ at the Scout hall next Friday evening. Apparently refreshments are available (not cream cakes, sadly) and visitors are welcome to take photographs.

  Sunday 18 October

  Rev. Graves is on holiday for the next two weeks, so we have what are known as ‘visiting clergy’ to officiate at the services. A succession of visiting clergy certainly makes you appreciate your own vicar. A rather worrying notice in The Church Organ read:

  During Reverend Graves’s leave of absence, the visiting clergy will be found pinned to the noticeboard by the front doors.

  It’s little wonder that none of them comes back for a second visit.

  Monday 19 October

  Ariadne accosted me at lunchtime, just as I was about to sneak out to the cake shop.

  ‘I got a letter this morning,’ she said curtly, brandishing a blue airmail envelope at me. ‘I think you need to do some explaining.’

  She seized me by the arm and marched me up the street to Gianni’s Italian Café. There she sat me down and slapped the letter on the table in front of me like the bad cop in a police drama.

  ‘Well?’ she demanded.

  ‘I don’t know what this is all about,’ I protested.

  ‘You remember Steve, the missionary?’

  ‘Um, yes…’ I replied rather more cautiously.

  ‘I’ve just received this letter from him. Shall I tell you what he says?’

  I had the feeling she was going to tell me anyway, regardless of what I said.

  ‘He wrote to our church to thank everybody who had written and to say how grateful he was for their prayers and support. He also said he was fascinated by one of the letters. One from a young teacher, a young, female teacher who is thinking of becoming a missionary. A young, female teacher who is thinking of becoming a missionary, by the name of Theodora Llewellyn. He’s asking for a photo and has enclosed this personal letter to the young lady in question. What have you been up to?’

  ‘Well, I might have exaggerated a bit.’

  ‘You didn’t exaggerate. You lied. What you wrote was a blatant pack of falsehoods to make yourself out to be something you’re not. How could you?’

  My face glowed with shame. I suppose that, technically, I had lied. I had also known full well how upset Ariadne would be if she found out. Put like that, I felt second only to Jack the Ripper in the ranks of all-time low-life scum.

  ‘I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I just wanted to, well, to improve on myself a bit.’

  Ariadne sat, arms folded, and snorted in disgust. Honesty has always been of paramount importance to Ariadne.

  ‘Let’s face it,’ I continued, ‘people like us are boring. We’re short and dumpy with mousy hair, we’re pushing 30, we do boring jobs, drive boring cars, live boring lives. We never write books, compose music, or do anything that doesn’t perpetuate our own boring existence. We’re from Sidcup, for goodness’ sake! Nobody in their right mind is going to be interested in us, particularly a handsome doctor who travels to exotic parts of the world to change things, to make a difference. People like us—people like me—don’t make a difference. I wanted to live in that other world, just for a little while, and pretend I was someone else, someone worthwhile.’

  ‘How can you say that? No person is more or less important than another because of what they look like, what they do for a living, or where they were born!’

  ‘It feels that way.’

  Ariadne took my hands and held them in hers. ‘If that was the case, what future would there have been for a carpenter, “pushing 30”, from the backwater town of Nazareth? At least Sidcup’s got a McDonald’s! I know you’re finding it hard to see what God wants you to do at the moment. Just being yourself might be a start.’

  She passed me the letter. ‘Here, you’d better have this.’

  ‘I’ll have to write back and … explain, I suppose,’ I said reluctantly.

  ‘Look, Steve’s a really nice guy. He won’t be angry, really.’

  ‘No, he’ll probably have a good laugh, though.’

  10 p.m.

  Read the letter from Steve. It was kinder than I deserved. He gave details of a missionary society and some books to read if I really thought God was calling me to be a missionary. He suggested, however, that if I really looked how I’d described myself in the letter, perhaps I should think about a career in modelling inste
ad. He also asked me to pass on his regards to my brother Ag. Apparently they were in the Scouts together.

  Steve?

  Steve! All of a sudden I remembered a tall, gangly boy who used to play football with my brother. I once asked him what he thought the offspring of a basketball player and a guppy would look like. He shook his head and looked down at his shoes.

  ‘Look in the mirror, then,’ I had taunted.

  That was Steve.

  Please God, make the world end tonight.

  Tuesday 20 October

  The world didn’t end. No sign of a ministry of any sort and, to cap it all, I’ve just discovered irrefutable proof that I’m getting old. I watched a gardening programme on television—and enjoyed it.

  Wednesday 21 October

  Phone call from Charity. Her Granddad died last night. I didn’t know what to say. Suddenly all my problems seemed trifling and insignificant.

  Her voice was full of tears. ‘I just wanted to thank you for praying for us, Theodora,’ she said. ‘It makes a difference, knowing someone cares.’

  ‘If there’s anything I can do to help,’ I said sympathetically. It felt good. I was offering a fellow human being my compassion in her time of trouble. This was what Christian living is really about.

  ‘Well, there is just one teensy-weensy little thing. I hate to ask, but…’ She paused, and then took a deep breath. ‘The funeral will be a week on Friday. I wonder if you could just look after baby Ezekiel for a couple of hours?’

  Noooo! Anything but that! Please God. I’m psychologically incompatible with babies, especially hamster-faced Hubble babies.

  What could I do? I had offered. I had backed myself into a corner. I was only saying what anyone says in these circumstances. I didn’t really want to do anything for her; I was just making the right noises. A sigh escaped. There was no getting out of this one. I would have to do it.

  ‘Just for a couple of hours, you say?’

  ‘Oh yes. I’ll leave everything you need—his toys, bottles, nappies. You’re a gem, Theodora.’

  I groaned and sank to my knees. What have I done?

  Thursday 22 October

  Toyed with the idea of borrowing a book on baby care from the library, then thought better of it. Surely anyone can manage a baby for a couple of hours? I remembered the selection of childcare books Mum and Dad had on the bookshelves at home. Most of them seemed to have been written by Dr Spock. How could my parents possibly have entrusted the upbringing of their children to a man with pointy ears?

  Friday 23 October

  Having decided that visiting is definitely not my gift, the more I think about it, the surer I am that God is grooming me to become an evangelist (perhaps with a bit of fundraising thrown in for good measure). After all, I enjoy talking to people, I’ve been a Christian for absolutely ages, so I know what it’s like, and I happen to own a very large Bible. I think I’m well qualified. Anyway, after missing the ‘public hanging’, attending Professor Hardy-Larkin’s course will be a good opportunity to admire the new curtains in the Scout hall. Training starts on 3 November.

  Saturday 24 October

  I can’t do it. I can’t possibly look after a baby for a whole two hours. By the end of it I’ll be clinically insane. Will phone Charity and explain the problem. Perhaps I could tell her I’m suffering from a contagious disease.

  Sunday 25 October

  Why do there always seem to be more people in the queue for coffee after the service than there were in the service itself? Where do all the extra people come from? Mentioned this to Nigel Hubble.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he said as he scratched his chin. ‘Perhaps it’s the thirst after righteousness.’

  Monday 26 October

  Passed Charity on my way to work today. I’ve never seen anyone looking so crestfallen. Started to tell her that it had all been a mistake and that I couldn’t look after Ezekiel after all. Before I could say anything much, however, she told me she had just had to cancel their holiday. Racked with guilt, I told her how much I was looking forward to looking after Ezekiel.

  Tuesday 27 October

  Work is hectic this week. They’ve just finished installing a new computer system. It seems to be one of those systems that allow you to do half the work in double the time.

  Wednesday 28 October

  Declan sent a memo to all staff today. It was entitled ‘Working Towards a Paper-free Office’ and appealed to staff to use e-mail and electronic data storage systems to reduce paper consumption. He sent the memo, to all 140 staff, on A4 paper.

  Thursday 29 October

  I must confess, I’m quaking at the mere thought of Ezekiel Hubble. What if I lose him or drop him or do something you’re not supposed to do with babies and damage him for the rest of his life? Fingers will point and everyone will accuse me.

  ‘It was her!’ they’ll say. ‘Never let her near your children!’

  In the end I phoned Mum, who absolutely refused to come round and help me. ‘Just two things you need to know about babies, Theo. Firstly, they bounce. Secondly, they’re too young to remember. Just don’t forget those two things and you won’t go far wrong. That’s what got me through bringing up you three.’

  That explains everything.

  Friday 30 October

  8 p.m.

  Just getting ready for bed. Absolutely exhausted. Looked after baby Ezekiel for almost two hours today. I need a drink.

  Saturday 31 October

  Finished wiping the trail of slimy rusk and congealed snot from my walls and furniture this morning. I didn’t know it was possible for one small person to produce so much bodily effluent from so many different places.

  I started off hoping that yesterday would be a quiet day—a stroll with the pushchair in the park to feed the ducks, a story after lunch and an afternoon nap for both of us. Some chance! I thought babies just sat there and looked cute. Not Ezekiel.

  The panic I felt at the thought of being in sole charge of such a frail little object evaporated when I actually saw Ezekiel, who is built like a miniature sumo wrestler. I was convinced that Mum was right and that he definitely would bounce. I’m not sure about his capacity to remember things, though. The look he gave me as Charity heaved him up the stairs seemed to say, ‘Watch it. I’ll remember you.’

  ‘He’s just started crawling,’ Charity informed me proudly as she dropped off the department store’s worth of paraphernalia a baby seems to need. ‘You’ll have to keep an eye on him. Oh, and I’d rather you didn’t leave those magazines lying around. They wouldn’t be good for him.’ She nodded towards my pile of Cosmopolitans that had slipped out from under their surreptitious covering of back issues of St Norbert’s The Church Organ.

  Was this child genius able to read as well? Did Charity seriously believe reading the candid yet curiously discerning articles would damage him? I promised that I would move them, gave Charity a ‘chin-up, old girl’ hug and watched her descend the stairs. When I returned to the living room, I understood immediately what Charity meant. Ezekiel was sitting in the middle of the carpet, devouring the glossy pages of my magazines. I also understood what she meant by the magazines not being good for him, as he proceeded to hawk up large, slimy globules of paper on my living room carpet.

  Feeding the ducks was equally stressful and almost as messy. Ezekiel, restrained and thankfully immobilized by a four-point harness like an overweight parachutist in his pushchair, solemnly chewed his way through the stale crusts intended for the ducks. I stopped him, just in time, from eating the plastic bag as well.

  Lunch was a holocaust. Apparently, even after the magazines and the ducks’ bread, there was still space in his stomach for the home-made braised vegetable mush Charity had supplied. I valiantly dipped, shovelled, scraped and scooped the mush into his mouth. Most of it ended up dribbled down his chin, in his hair or over me.

  I cleaned him up as best I could and laid him in his pushchair for an afternoon nap. He went to sleep surprisingly quickly.
I gazed at his food-encrusted face, plump fingers and soft, wispy hair—and wondered how Charity managed, day in, day out. After two hours I was a physical and mental wreck. At least I hadn’t dropped him.

  The buzzer sounded and I helped Charity load her van with Ezekiel’s impedimenta.

  ‘How was he?’ she enquired.

  ‘Oh, fine. No trouble at all. Good as gold,’ I lied.

  ‘How many times did you have to change his nappy? Only he does seem to have rather rapid digestion at the moment.’

  Change his nappy? Oh, so that’s what the smell was.

  November

  Sunday 1 November

  ALL SAINTS’ DAY

  Jeremiah Wedgwood stood up after the prayers today to bear witness to the depravity and pagan idolatry that gripped our village. There were shocked gasps as he recounted how, on his way home from his ‘ministry of visitation of the sick’, he was mistaken for a trick-or-treater. The horrified gasps gave way to stifled sniggers and muffled chortles as he described the episode. Even the normally imperturbable Rev. Graves was biting on his handkerchief and crossing his legs for fear of embarrassing himself.

  Jeremiah Wedgwood’s long black coat and dark trilby leave very little of the man exposed, except his watery blue eyes. No one could describe Jeremiah as portly. Indeed, cadaverous would be an apt description. On Halloween night, he would look something like a cross between the Phantom of the Opera and Freddie Kruger.

  He described how a group of small children—dressed as a ghost, a pirate and a Teletubby—had run up to him in the street, screaming and whooping. They skidded to a halt a few feet in front of him, performed a perfect U-turn and vanished, screaming, into the nearest house. When he knocked on the door in order to reprimand the parents for allowing their children to participate in such a profane ritual, the door was opened a fraction, five pairs of anxious eyes peered through the gap, then a bag of sweets and biscuits were pushed into his hand and the door was slammed in his face.

  A moment later, the door opened a crack and a man’s voice requested, in quavering tones, that Jeremiah kindly give their house a miss next year, as the children were scared rigid.