Theodora's Diary

by Penny Culliford

  Thursday 24 September

  I’m in deep trouble. I may have to leave the country under a false name, change my appearance and take on a new identity, or at least get another job. I’ll probably never work in an office ever again. My name will be blacklisted.

  I got a phone call from one of the Regional Managers who had been at the committee meeting. He’d just received the minutes.

  ‘What’s wrong with them?’ I enquired rather shirtily.

  ‘What’s wrong with them? You’ve just said, in black and white, that the Area Manager stated that all trade union officials would be instantly dismissed!’

  ‘So? That’s what he said, wasn’t it? In fact, I even toned it down. Considerably.’

  ‘Did you ever consider the possibility that he didn’t actually mean it and that he was just sounding off? That he didn’t actually want that part written down and circulated? Don’t you think that, if the union officials themselves ever get hold of it, they might just be the tiniest bit upset? Didn’t you contemplate for one moment that, if this ever gets out, there’ll be a strike? Industrial relations would completely break down. It would be curtains for the Area Manager. And as for you…’ He paused to draw in a hissing breath between his clenched teeth. ‘As for you, it would make the Spanish Inquisition look like the Teddy Bears’ Picnic, Miss Llewellyn.’

  Aaagghh!

  Friday 25 September

  Finally calmed down enough to pluck up the courage to ring Declan at a quarter to one this morning. ‘You seem to be making a habit of these nocturnal phone calls,’ he said. ‘I’d better not let on to Katherine that you’re phoning me at all hours. She’s a suspicious woman, that one.’

  ‘Yes, sorry. It’s just that it’s really important, Declan,’ I sniffed. ‘I’ve well and truly blown it.’

  I explained what had happened and for a while Declan was very quiet. He didn’t try to tease me or make a joke of it.

  ‘I see your problem.’

  ‘What can I do?’

  ‘Have you thought about the Foreign Legion?’

  I thought it was too good to be true. I was sunk, and Declan was indeed laughing at me.

  ‘Wait a minute!’ he exclaimed suddenly. ‘Theo, did you send all the minutes out?’

  ‘Yes. I sent them to the Regional Managers a couple of days ago, but I only sent the Area Manager’s copy yesterday.’

  ‘Great. We’re saved! Leave it to me, Theo. Go and get some sleep and I’ll ring you this evening.’

  7.30 p.m.

  Declan is the most wonderful person in the whole world. He should be knighted. No, sainted!

  After years of being secretary to the committee, Declan has enough sleaze on every single Regional Manager to ensure that they will instantly and unquestioningly do whatever he asks. He spent the morning phoning each Regional Manager, reminding them of their little foibles and peccadilloes, and suggesting that they might like to ‘lose’ their copy of the minutes in the vicinity of the shredder and await an amended copy.

  He spent the afternoon charming the Area Manager’s secretary into handing back his copy of the minutes unopened and unread.

  ‘Thank you so much, Declan, you’ve saved my life. How can I repay you?’

  ‘I’ll think of a way.’

  A thought struck me. ‘Hang on, though. The Regional Managers all know what the Area Manager said, even if they no longer have the paper copy, including the ones who didn’t attend the meeting. It went out to the entire team.’

  ‘Theo, you just don’t understand the workings of a great bureaucracy at all, do you? You see, it doesn’t matter what the Area Manager said. It doesn’t matter that the Regional Managers know what the Area Manager said. What matters is that the Area Manager doesn’t know that the Regional Managers know what he said. He doesn’t know that they know, and they don’t know that he doesn’t know whether they know or not. You see, as long as nobody knows exactly what anyone else knows, no one is going to give the game away and you’re in the clear. Simple as that!’

  I’ll take his word for it.

  Saturday 26 September

  Mum phoned me this evening. She was checking up on Dad, as his frequent disappearances, which mysteriously coincide with their suppertime, have aroused her suspicions. Firstly, I was able to reassure her that he had been to see me and he definitely wasn’t seeing another woman—yet. Secondly, I was hoping to squeeze in a tactful suggestion that she started varying the menu a little, before Dad left home completely and ran off with the woman from the fish-and-chip shop.

  Just as I was about to make this suggestion, however, Mum launched into a description of a business meeting where she’d met Georgie and his brother Nicky, and of how she was about to go into partnership with the brothers and their mother and father. There was just one problem. The parents spoke little English, so for the venture to succeed, she would really need to learn to speak Greek. She seemed so excited and I really didn’t want to throw cold retsina on the idea, but I have serious doubts about Mum’s capacity to converse in eloquent business Greek.

  Despite her long association with the country, one area in which Mum has failed to make progress is the language. During our recent trip to Kos, Mum marched confidently down the town’s main street, phrasebook in hand, wishing everyone we saw ‘good morning’.

  Or so she thought.

  Part of the problem is that Mum’s Greek accent is actually very good and she exudes self-assurance, which unfortunately makes things worse. Her downfall is her vocabulary. She muddles words. Instead of saying ‘kalimera’, which is ‘good morning’ in Greek, she greeted everyone we met with ‘kalimari’, which means ‘squid’. An easy mistake to make—the words sound very similar. But that goes no distance at all to make up for the perplexed expressions on the faces of the local populace that morning, as my mother waved at them and greeted them all with a cheerful cry of ‘Squid!’

  Sunday 27 September

  Kevin came to church. He sat through the entire service and even opened his eyes and unclenched his fists for part of it. Unfortunately he refused, even metaphorically, to ‘raise his hand for the altar call’, in spite of a rip-roaring sermon from Digger. Still, as someone said, ‘A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.’ I think it was Elvis Presley. Or that astronaut.

  Monday 28 September

  The suntan from my holiday started peeling alarmingly today. I noticed it after my shower. It looks as though I’ve got all-over body dandruff.

  Tuesday 29 September

  MICHAELMAS

  That’s a funny idea. Fancy naming a diary date after a type of daisy.

  October

  Thursday 1 October

  Could hardly get my front door open for all the junk mail that had arrived while I was at work. I’m one of the few people who don’t mind receiving bills. After all, if I’ve used it, I expect to pay for it. What I object to are the glossy brochures suggesting I need double glazing, my drive paved, hideous leisure suits or a new three-piece suite.

  I also received a newsletter from a neighbouring church that was almost as entertaining as The Church Organ. Its headline read, ‘NEW BELL TOWER HELD UP BY RED TAPE’. Sounds rather precarious! Still, it got me thinking about fundraising. St Norbert’s doesn’t seem to do it, but just about every other church and organization does. We haven’t got a huge hardboard thermometer outside our church. Why not? There must be something we need. I want to belong to a proper church with a proper fundraising campaign like everyone else. Perhaps I’ll start one at St Norbert’s.

  Hang on, this could be my ministry. I can see it now: I could be the campaign co-ordinator and have my picture in the local paper presenting the cheque. In a humble, modest, self-effacing way, of course.

  Sunday 4 October

  Rev. Graves’s sermon today was about members of the church supporting each other and learning to be tolerant of each other’s faults. Felt rather peeved. People who tell me to be more tolerant get right up my nose.

>   ‘Be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love,’ intoned Jeremiah Wedgwood from the lectern, reading from Ephesians 4:2. ‘And would somebody please keep that baby quiet!’

  At the end of the service the vicar announced that, in order to put the principles of the sermon into practice, the church was setting up a system of ‘Prayer Partners’. Two people would be randomly chosen (to avoid the problems of either cliques or personal antipathy) and would meet once a week to share problems and joys and to pray for each other. There was a general murmur of approval from the congregation. Greasy Roger Lamarck caught my eye and wiggled his eyebrows at me suggestively. We’ll each find out on Tuesday who our randomly selected partner is to be.

  I made a list of people I don’t want to be partnered with. Unfortunately, it accounted for most of the congregation.

  Tuesday 6 October

  The church secretary rang today to tell me who my Prayer Partner is. I thanked her politely, put down the receiver … and screamed. Then picked up the receiver again and rang Ariadne. When I explained the principle of the idea, she thought it was an excellent notion.

  ‘But how am I going to get out of it?’ I pleaded. ‘They’ve partnered me with Charity Hubble! I’d rather die.’

  ‘Stop being so melodramatic, Theo. Who is she, anyway?’

  I tried to explain the phenomenon that is Charity Hubble.

  ‘Oh, I remember, Kew Gardens on legs. I must admit, she makes Pollyanna seem clinically depressed.’

  ‘I could leave the country, convert to Islam or develop a tropical disease. Anything has to be better than spending an hour with her. Help me, Ariadne!’

  ‘I think it would be good for you. After all, isn’t the point of the exercise to practise patience and forbearance? The best thing would be to try it, see how it goes.’

  Why is it that those closest to you make you suffer the most?

  Wednesday 7 October

  Spent most of last night wrestling with the idea of Charity being my Prayer Partner. Came to the conclusion that, deep down, I don’t mind praying for her. I just can’t stand the thought of her praying for me. The idea of having to expose my hopes, doubts, fears and insecurities to her makes me want to lock myself in the cupboard with the dusters.

  I’ve known Charity since we were at school. One day, when we were about 14, the teacher, Miss Tyson, asked our class to write down what we would like to achieve in life. The class frantically scribbled their hopes and dreams onto pieces of paper. I scribbled a bit, crossed it out, chewed my pencil, scribbled a bit more, stared out of the window, then spilled my ambitions onto the paper. Miss Tyson asked us to stand up, one by one, and read them out to the rest of the class. Some wanted to be politicians, actresses, doctors, lawyers, professional boxers (it was a very progressive girls’ school). My ambitions, I remember, included being a successful businesswoman, owning a large house and a beautiful car, being a patron of the arts and supporter of humanitarian causes, and being universally respected and accepted. Charity wrote that she wanted to get married and have lots of children.

  Everyone laughed at her.

  The thought has struck me that I’m still light years away from achieving my ambitions, whereas Charity has realized hers. And she’s happy. That’s why she irritates me so much.

  Thursday 8 October

  Charity is coming round for our first Prayer Partner meeting tonight. Must think of something she can pray for—can’t bear the idea of telling her my real worries.

  6 p.m.

  Done it! Have composed a list of things to ask Charity to pray about:

  Button has fallen off my best coat.

  Auntie Maggie’s cat has a bald patch.

  Declan has lost the key to the ladies’ toilet at work. (Genuine need for prayer there!)

  I was tempted to eat three doughnuts at lunchtime.

  Actually ate two. Prayer for forgiveness for sin of gluttony.

  10 p.m.

  List not required. Charity brought her own list, which, from what I can remember, included:

  Forgiveness for forgetting to iron Nigel’s shirt.

  Thanks that Nebuchadnezzar’s missing biro has been found safely.

  Prayer for success in Bathsheba’s spelling test.

  Release from bad habits (which sounded interesting, until it turned out to be thumb-sucking) for three-year-old Ahimelech.

  That a Christian home might be found for Solomon, their budgie, when they go on holiday soon.

  Apparently Charity is deeply concerned that the budgie, which can say ‘Praise the Lord’ and recite parts of the Nicene Creed, might learn bad language while they’re away, if left with ‘unsound elements’.

  I offered to look after the budgie for her. Can’t wait to increase its vocabulary!

  When we’d got about halfway through the list the phone rang, as arranged, and I answered it.

  ‘I’m not doing this again next week, you know,’ said Ariadne’s irritated voice.

  ‘Ah, Mrs Barrie!’ I said in a jolly tone. ‘How nice to hear from you.’

  ‘Next time, you’re on your own. I mean it!’ came my sister’s voice.

  ‘What’s that? You’ve lost your cat?’ I sounded concerned.

  ‘You know how I hate covering up for you,’ she hissed through her teeth.

  ‘And you’d like me to help you look for it?’

  ‘Right, that’s it! I’m going now. You can find someone else to do your dirty work for you,’ grumbled Ariadne, and hung up.

  ‘Of course I can come now, Mrs Barrie. See you in a minute.’

  I put the phone down and turned to Charity. ‘That was Mrs Barrie, the old lady from downstairs,’ I lied. ‘She’s very attached to her little cat and it appears to have gone missing. I hope you don’t mind ending our prayer time early so I can go and help her find it.’

  ‘Not at all. I’ll help you search for it.’

  ‘Er … no, that’s perfectly all right, thanks.’

  ‘But it will be quicker with both of us looking, and it’s a foul night for a poor little creature to be out.’

  I looked out of the window at the grey sky. A fine, tenacious drizzle hung in the air along with the autumn smell of bonfires. ‘Really, I’d hate you to get soaked. Didn’t you need to get back to iron some shirts, or something?’

  ‘I insist. Nigel’s shirts are of secondary importance to helping alleviate a poor old lady’s distress at the misplacement of her beloved pet. I’m sure he’ll forgive me for deserting my wifely duties this once.’

  Charity and I put our coats on, I found two torches, and we went out into the cold wet night to begin our totally pointless search. We peered under cars, called ‘Puss, Puss!’ into gardens and swept our torches like searchlights into trees. I didn’t even know if Mrs Barrie owned a cat.

  ‘What does this cat look like?’ asked Charity.

  ‘Er … it’s black, I think. With white bits.’

  ‘What’s its name? I feel silly just calling it “Puss”.’

  My brain worked frantically. I glanced around and my eyes alighted on Mr Barrie’s old car. ‘Allegro,’ I blurted.

  ‘That’s a funny name for a cat,’ remarked Charity.

  After about half an hour we called off the search. ‘Oh well, I’m sure Allegro will turn up. We’d better go in,’ I said wearily.

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ said Charity, ‘but I think I’ll just see how Mrs Barrie is.’

  ‘No!’ I exclaimed. ‘I really don’t think we should disturb her.’

  ‘Nonsense. She’ll be worried.’

  It was too late. Charity had marched up to the old lady’s door and pressed the buzzer. After a few seconds the door opened and there, framed in a rectangle of light, stood the short, stout figure of Mrs Barrie, cradling a small, black and white cat.

  ‘Oh, you found him. How super! I am pleased,’ said Charity.

  Mrs Barrie stood there looking puzzled.

  ‘Goodnight then, God bless.�
��

  Damp, cold and feeling sour, I trudged back up the stairs to my flat. Charity had remained good-humoured throughout the totally futile cat hunt and had positively glowed at seeing the old lady reunited with her very-much-inresidence feline.

  Why do I do it, God? Why do I have to make life so complicated?

  Saturday 10 October

  I received a photocopied sheet among my junk mail (just how do these people get my address?) proclaiming that Professor Ignatius Hardy-Larkin of the Worldwide Evangelism in the Community Fellowship Training Institute was offering a training course every Tuesday in the Scout hut, starting next month. Eight Easy Exercises in Enthusiastic Evangelistic Endeavours, it was called. Evangelism—could this be my ministry? Decided instantly to go along. It sounds right up my street. Must phone Ariadne for moral support. After all, they might turn out to be some kind of cult and try to brainwash me. No one would dare try to brainwash Ariadne.

  Sunday 11 October

  Visited Ariadne and Tom’s church today. Even they are involved in fundraising. They have an appeal fund for a new organ. Apparently a colony of a very rare species of bat has been found nesting in the pipes of the old one and wildlife conservationists are reluctant to have them disturbed from their slumber by the Evensong hymns. Instead, the church is fundraising for a new, digital, state-of-the-art electronic organ, which is the size of a small suitcase. They will, of course, keep the old one for show.

  Feel even more jealous now. We don’t need a new organ. There are no rare bats in our organ loft, although someone once suggested to the vicar that he might have some in his belfry. I don’t think so. The bells would have frightened them off. There must be something we need to fundraise for. Overseas mission? New hymn books?

  Monday 12 October

  Kevin refused to come round this evening. He said I’ve been snappy recently, always barking up the wrong tree and then biting his head off. Makes me sound like a cross between a Chihuahua and a Rottweiler.

  ‘You’re like a bivouac and a marquee, Theo.’

  ‘What are you jabbering about in that half-witted way?’ I drummed my fingers on the tabletop.