Theodora's Diary

by Penny Culliford

  ‘Yes…’ I replied cautiously.

  ‘Well, Bathsheba’s class are having a “Careers Week” and I thought you’d be just the person to help us out. That is, of course, if you don’t mind.’ She smiled graciously. Charity obviously recognized in me a certain professionalism, coupled with an innate ability to communicate. ‘Most of the other women I know haven’t put aside their calling to motherhood in favour of the pursuit of financial gain and worldly status…’

  ‘Hang on a minute! I haven’t put it aside; I’ve just postponed it until the right time. And I do a very worthwhile job. Financial gain is not my prime motivation.’

  ‘What is, then?’

  ‘All right, financial gain is my prime motivation, but I’ve got to live. I haven’t got a husband to slog his guts out every day to keep me in Fairy Liquid. Everything I have, I’ve worked for.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Charity.

  ‘In addition to the monetary gain—a substantial proportion of which I donate to charitable organizations—I get satisfaction from doing my job as well as I can and co-operating with my colleagues. Why, in my last yearly review, I got a grade one for “teamwork and dedication”. I felt, well … valued.’

  ‘My point exactly: worldly status,’ said Charity.

  ‘That’s without bringing in the intrinsic worth of the job itself. If I didn’t input that information or file those records…’ My mind searched for the logical consequence to my job not being done and I found, to my horror, that it would make very little difference to the great scheme of things if I disappeared in a puff of vapour. ‘Well, it just wouldn’t be a good thing.’

  ‘Super. I’ll tell them you’ll do it, then. Thanks, Theodora.’ Charity gave a little wave and departed.

  Why does arguing with Charity always feel like trying to knit with spaghetti?

  Thursday 14 January

  Spent the evening flicking through cookery books trying to find a suitable quiche recipe for the ecumenical lunch on Sunday. Just because I’m a key player in the cut-and-thrust world of business and finance, does it mean I can’t do a Delia Smith occasionally? If Charity can do it, then so can I. Maybe I should phone Tom for a recipe. On the other hand, things between Tom and Ariadne are a little delicate at the moment. Better not bother them with the trivialities of quiche.

  The notion that Christians eat a lot of quiche is a longestablished one and, from my experience, seems to have its basis in fact. However, the quiche recipes in my book all look very complex and difficult. (What is ‘baking blind’? Would it do if I just close my eyes?) I’ll go and buy a quiche on Saturday. I won’t tell Charity that it isn’t home-made. No one will know the difference. Except that it will be edible if I buy it, whereas if I make it there could be serious doubts.

  I wonder if it’s possible to buy chocolate quiche?

  Friday 15 January

  Sat at my desk and studied the list of training course titles from Declan. Apparently he was serious—a rare occurrence and an opportunity to be seized with both hands. Ten Things You Wanted to Know about Assertiveness but Were Too Much of a Wimp to Ask was tempting. Thought I might like to try Communicating Utilizing Unequivocal, Condensed and Elementary Techniques Designed to Assist the Average Personage to Impart Information in Lucid Phraseology. In the end, though, I chose Counselling in the Workplace, which was described as a course to help employees understand and support their colleagues at work. I must admit, as I filled in the form, that I had one eye on my ministry.

  The weather report warned of impending blizzards. Must check I still have sufficient tread on the soles of my moon-boots.

  Saturday 16 January

  Bought one of Mum’s feta cheese and aubergine quiches from the supermarket. She refused to make me one for free.

  ‘I’ve got a business to run, you know. I can’t just go giving it away free.’

  It says on the packet that it tastes just as if you’d made it at home. I do hope not.

  I wonder what kind of quiches other people will bring? Does the type of quiche reflect the characteristics of the denomination? For example, would an Anglican quiche be very traditional, if slightly bland? Is a Baptist quiche particularly wet? A Salvation Army quiche would, of course, contain no alcohol, whereas a Pentecostal one would be filled with the Spirit and a Roman Catholic quiche would surely turn into something else after it had been blessed.

  Sunday 17 January

  I can remember reading novels where the scene for the events that were about to unfold was characterized by the weather. If the heroine fell in love, it was always on a bright spring morning. A violent disagreement and a fight where the hero was about to die in tragic circumstances always unfolded to the accompaniment of a violent thunderstorm. This morning I hoped fervently that this only happened in fiction. The sky was more than grey—it was an oppressive yellowish-black. The snow didn’t come. Instead, there was a vicious, stinging wind, which stole the words from your mouth and slapped your face as it chased through the village. In the wind, shards of sleet threatened to perforate anyone foolish enough to set foot outside their front door.

  I called in at St Norbert’s to collect the orders of service that the secretary had compiled on her new computer. In the end she was delighted with the system we chose. The orders of service, apart from the catering, were St Norbert’s contribution to the event. I toyed with the idea of invoicing the other churches for the ink and paper, but decided against it. Things were bad enough.

  There’s no doubt that The Church Organ has improved considerably since the new computer was installed. It has revealed, however, that many of the mistakes in the publication, previously blamed on the antiquated equipment, are actually attributable to the antiquated secretary. I hoped against hope that no major mistakes had occurred in the order of service. I flicked through and was pleasantly surprised by the content and layout. It was carefully and artistically set out, with appropriate pictures and attractive fonts. I could see no glaring errors. I bundled the sheets into a bag with my quiche and set off, with teeth clenched and eyes half-closed against the stinging sleet, to the United Reformed Church hall.

  I arrived to find people bustling around, arranging flowers and setting out chairs. Several people stopped and smiled at me. Most of the St Norbert’s regulars were there. Jeremiah, of course, was not among them. A pleasant woman from the Methodist church introduced herself and relieved me of my bundle of service sheets and my quiche. I had removed it from the box, partly because I wasn’t sure how ‘Aphrodite’s Greek Luxuries—Atlas Mountains Quiche Delight’ would go down among the assorted churchgoing population of the village. I didn’t want to raise concerns about ‘food sacrificed to idols’.

  I looked around the inside of the building. It was large and old, but warm and comfortable. The wind drove the sleet against the windows and I could hear the roof slates shifting. The ceiling, with its brown watermarks and bulging plaster, was testimony to many leaks and missing slates. Suddenly I didn’t begrudge them the money towards the hall’s upkeep. It was obviously needed. More people were arriving and I was tempted to go and sit in a St Norbert’s huddle at the back with Roger, Doris and Maurice, Miss Cranmer, Mr Wilberforce and the rest. I resisted the temptation and went to sit next to a lady whom I vaguely recognized, as she catches the same train as Ariadne and me in the mornings. It turned out that she attended the Baptist church and we had a very pleasant chat.

  The hall filled up and the service finally started with a well-known hymn. There was a warm, friendly atmosphere in spite of the animosity during the preparations. Disputes seemed to have been resolved and differences put aside. The ministers all seemed genuinely amicable and united, each of them taking a different part of the service. We followed the perfectly typed order of service and everything ran smoothly. The Roman Catholic priest led the prayers and a worship group from the Christian Fellowship led the singing. Digger was to read a lesson, and we stood for the Gospel reading, following the words printed in the order of service.


  ‘The lesson is taken from the Gospel according to St Luke, chapter 24, verses 36 to 49…’ He started to read about the meeting between the risen Jesus and his disciples—and then it happened. Instead of verse 49 saying, ‘…stay in the city until you have been clothed with power from on high,’ Digger read in a loud, clear voice exactly what was typed in the order of service: ‘…stay in the city until you have beer clothed with power from on high.’

  Snorts and giggles broke out all over the hall.

  Digger looked embarrassed.

  At that moment a slab of bulging plaster gave way and water started gushing through the ceiling as if from a hosepipe, splashing down near to where Digger was standing. Someone rushed to find a bucket. Digger simply picked up the glass of water next to the lectern, emptied it into a flower arrangement and placed the glass on the floor under the leak. The brownish rainwater poured down into the glass, filling it to the brim and forming a foaming head. It looked exactly like a glass of beer.

  Digger threw back his head and laughed. ‘You see, you sceptics: God always keeps his promises!’

  After that, the praise and prayers rose to heaven with a refreshing lightness and joy. All the denominations present in the leaky hall on that Sunday morning, with their different outlooks, their different priorities and agendas, were united by laughter which had been initiated by the ultimate celestial practical joke.

  Monday 18 January

  Quiche for supper. After the service yesterday, Charity divided up the leftover food among those helping to clear up. I’m sure there was more left over than was brought in the first place. It was just like the feeding of the five thousand.

  Charity said, ‘Theodora, I saved some nice cottage cheese quiche for you. I noticed you’ve put on a little weight recently.’

  I’m thinking of joining the Baptist church.

  Tuesday 19 January

  Wore my moon-boots to work today, just in case. Ariadne refused to sit with me on the train.

  ‘I realize, dear sister, that you’ve been prey to some of the more extreme whims of the fashion industry over the years, but believe me, moon-boots were never acceptable office attire and certainly aren’t now.’

  I think she’s jealous. Just wait until she’s too big to fit into her Gucci suits.

  Wednesday 20 January

  I refused to sit next to Ariadne today. She had brought a bag containing marshmallow and pickled onion sandwiches.

  ‘Helps my morning sickness,’ she explained.

  Thursday 21 January

  Still no sign of the blizzards forecast in the weather reports. I think I’ll stock up on candles and tins of soup—just in case.

  10 p.m.

  Had supper with Ariadne and Tom this evening. Or rather, Tom and I had shepherd’s pie while Ariadne munched on celery, watercress and chocolate spread. She looked healthy enough on this strange diet, unlike Tom, who had a pale, anxious look.

  I leaned over and whispered to Tom, ‘She’s looking well. How’s the morning sickness now?’

  ‘Terrible, Theo,’ he shook his head. ‘I can’t keep a thing down before lunchtime.’

  Friday 22 January

  Gave my ‘Careers Week’ talk to Bathsheba’s class today. I think they were suitably impressed. Maybe the history of the company’s development and projected sales forecasts for the next 10 years were a little too detailed. Perhaps I shouldn’t have dwelt so long on data protection legislation and company law. Still, the entire class of six- and seven-year-olds sat riveted throughout my PowerPoint presentation, complete with graphs and moving images. I resisted the urge to use my laser pointer to fry one little boy who sat picking his nose throughout the entire presentation. After talking for 40 minutes, I invited the class to ask me any questions. They all looked a little dazed.

  ‘They’re usually much livelier than this,’ their teacher giggled apologetically. ‘You really seem to have the knack of subduing them beautifully.’

  ‘Can I ask a question?’ Bathsheba raised her hand. I smiled and nodded encouragingly. ‘How come you’re so old and you’re still not married? My Mummy thinks there must be something wrong with you.’

  Saturday 23 January

  Toyed with the idea of returning the moon-boots to the back of the wardrobe today, then the first flakes of snow began to fall. I was rather concerned about driving over to Ariadne’s and Tom’s for lunch, but decided to risk it. If I get snowed in there I can eat their food, benefit from the warmth of their central heating and watch their television—they’ve got cable.

  Ariadne looked the picture of health. She’s working as hard as ever, but seems to glow with energy. Tom, on the other hand, was a pale shadow of himself. While Ariadne went out to chop wood for their open fire, I sat next to Tom on the huge cream sofa.

  ‘How are you, Tom? I can’t help noticing you’re looking a bit tired.’

  ‘Oh, it’s just this pregnancy, Theo. What with the backache, the swollen ankles, getting up in the night, the vomiting, the cramps…’

  ‘But Ariadne looks remarkably well.’

  ‘Oh, she’s fine, blooming even. I don’t know how she does it. It’s me. I’m a wreck. And I know it’s silly, but the least little thing seems to upset me…’

  His voice cracked and he turned away, sniffing. I laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. If he’s suffering like this during the pregnancy, I hate to think how he’ll cope when she goes into labour.

  Thursday 28 January

  It’s a relief to get the electricity back on after being stranded in snowdrifts with no amenities, and no chocolate, for four days.

  It started snowing seriously on the way back from Ariadne’s and Tom’s on Saturday. I had to walk to the morning service on Sunday because the roads were covered with ice and snow. (And, Ariadne, if you ever get to read this, I was extremely glad of my moon-boots.)

  St Norbert’s, perched on the top of the hill, looked just like a scene on a Victorian Christmas card. The figures entering the building were no more than coloured smudges against a white canvas and the warmth inside the building radiated out through the stained glass. I slithered and skated my way up the frozen paving stones to join the coloured smudges.

  It continued to snow during Sunday afternoon. It fell in large, stout flakes, country snow, which cloaked the buildings and landscape and muffled all sound. I was dreading the journey to work on Monday, with frozen points and bleak, polar platforms.

  When I woke up on Monday, however, it was apparent that no one in the village would be going anywhere. During the night, the ponderous flakes had been whipped into huge drifts across the road at the point where the village dissolves into fields. The power lines and telephone lines were down, and the lanes linking us to the next village and the nearest town were also blocked. Thank goodness for candles, and for other people’s mobile phones.

  I ventured out mid-morning (wearing my trusty moon-boots) to see if anyone needed help. The normally busy roads were empty of vehicles as I crunched my way towards the post office. The village school was closed and children on sledges and trays caromed down the hill. Miss Chamberlain, wrapped in coats and scarves, was standing outside her house with a shovel, chipping away at the frosty mound. I took the shovel from her and dug a path from her front door to her gate. I have no idea where she planned to go or how she planned to get there, but it seemed very important to her that her path was clear.

  After a cup of tea (she uses Calor gas) in her drawing room, I continued up to St Norbert’s, where it was evident that most of the village had gathered. Candles had been lit in the church building and the church hall had been converted into a makeshift community centre. Mr Wilberforce and others from the congregation were manning a tea bar. I recognized several people from the ecumenical service. One of the local farmers had used his tractor to drop off a generator, which supplied enough electricity for the tea urn and lighting and heat for the hall. St Norbert’s regulars, young mums and elderly people sat and chatted with commuters
and shopkeepers. Teachers, doctors and lawyers handed around cups of tea and pensioners played chess and dominoes with schoolchildren. It seemed that only the farmers were absent. Farm life seems to continue with no regard to the weather. I was surprised at how many people I didn’t recognize, considering that I’ve lived in the village nearly all my life.

  ‘Isn’t this lovely,’ beamed Mrs McCarthy. ‘Just like the war!’

  ‘In what way was the war lovely?’ I asked. ‘What about all the bombing and capture and death and destruction?’

  ‘Oh yes, there was all that, but there was such a lovely community spirit. Everyone ’elped everyone else.’

  ‘But wasn’t that because everyone else’s house had just been flattened by a doodlebug?’

  ‘Some very good things come out of the war.’

  ‘Like what? Rationing, concentration camps and the Berlin Wall?’

  ‘There was always powdered egg. That was a very good thing. You never got none of that newfangled stuff in it. Not like you get nowadays in the eggs.’

  ‘What stuff?’

  ‘That semi-Nelly stuff.’

  ‘No, you’re right there,’ I agreed. ‘There’s definitely no semi-Nelly in powdered egg.’

  Digger Graves brought over a tray of tea in polystyrene cups and we each took one.

  ‘Oh, I’m having a lovely time, Reverend,’ said Mrs McCarthy. ‘It’s just like the war!’

  His brow creased. I shook my head. ‘Don’t ask.’

  I took my cup of tea and sat in a chair, looking round the hall at all the people who wouldn’t normally come into the church. The staff from the baker’s shop had set up a trestle table and were selling cakes and rolls. The milk, which had been delivered to the village by helicopter, was being sold from crates in another corner of the hall. Children played and old people chatted. Digger looked contented and relaxed as he talked and handed round the tea. His love of being with people shone from him like the Ready Brek glow.

  The convivial atmosphere was shattered as the door of the hall swept open and the steaming figure of Jeremiah Wedgwood blew in. He was followed by a flurry of snowflakes and an icy blast. He stomped over to the vicar, his eyes streaming as much with indignation as with the bitter cold.