‘You got your outfit, didn’t you?’
‘—but also confirmed stereotypes about pregnancy being an illness rather than a normal, healthy state of being, where women have no need for pampering and mollycoddling.’ I folded my arms triumphantly.
‘Theodora.’
‘What?’
‘I didn’t pretend.’
Saturday 8 May
Emergency!
It’s 11.30 p.m. and I’m suffering from an incredibly intense chocolate craving that won’t leave me in spite of prayer, distraction activities and half a loaf of bread and butter. Got out of bed and searched the flat.
No luck.
Not even a Bourbon biscuit.
Not even a cream egg left from Easter.
All the shops are closed, so no chance of nipping out to replenish supplies.
There’s nothing else for it. I’m reduced to the chocoholic’s equivalent of meths—cooking chocolate.
Sunday 9 May
Today Nigel Hubble had organized a visiting speaker from Forthright Fundamentalists for Foremost Formation of the Firmament. The lady, who wore a dress the colour and texture of the English Channel, asserted that the account of the creation of the universe in the book of Genesis happened over six days in the year 4004 BC. She called Darwin, Huxley and other scientists ‘liars and perverters of the truth’. Fossils were obviously God’s way of decorating the earth and not evidence of extinct creatures. She said that carbon-dating was a ‘conspiracy of falsehood’ and, as dinosaurs were never mentioned in the Bible, they couldn’t really have existed.
Obviously she was speaking total rubbish. Has she never seen Jurassic Park?
Monday 10 May
Declan left today. He’s going to spend a year working on a project for homeless people, to test his vocation. At the end of the year he’ll decide whether to train for the priesthood. There was no time to organize a proper leaving party, but someone bought a cake and someone else brought in a few bottles of wine. I wasn’t in the mood for a party and sat in the corner of the office fiddling with a tray of paperclips.
When Declan was ready to go, he went round the office shaking hands with everyone. He came up to me and I flung my arms around his neck and howled.
‘Theodora,’ he chided gently, ‘don’t be after getting my collar all wet.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I sniffed, ‘it’s just that I’ll really miss you.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep in touch. You won’t be rid of me that easily.’
And he went.
Tuesday 11 May
Commuting without Ariadne has its advantages. I can eat a bar of chocolate at 7.30 in the morning without being made to feel guilty. Better not eat too many, though. I want to be able to fit into my suit for the wedding.
Declan’s departure has left a gap in the office which, in spite of September’s minute-taking fiasco, I have been asked to fill until a replacement can be found. It means extra money—not, of course, that money is my prime motivation for working. After all,
… the love of money is a root of all kinds of evil.
(1 Timothy 6:10)
And,
… it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.
(Matthew 19:24)
Of course, on the other hand, … the worker deserves his wages.
(Luke 10:7)
And,
The Lord will grant you abundant prosperity …
(Deuteronomy 28:11)
Hmm. I’d better put down the concordance, or it will be ‘God’s arms’ all over again.
Thursday 13 May
Miss Chamberlain is in hospital. She had a fall at home and has broken her ankle. She looked quite old and frail, her porcelain skin almost translucent as she lay sandwiched between the sheets of her hospital bed. I took her some chocolates and flowers and told her about my suit for the wedding. She smiled and nodded, seeming content to be there, not anxious to stay but not in a hurry to leave either.
‘The nurses are lovely, Theodora dear. There’s even one nice young male nurse. And I can choose what I want for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I feel as if I’m in a hotel.’
I smiled and took her hand.
‘Reverend Graves has been to see me and even Jeremiah Wedgwood popped in. It was lovely to see him again, although I have no idea what I’m going to do with all the potatoes.’
‘You’re amazing,’ I said. ‘If I was stuck in bed for weeks, I’d soon sound like Victor Meldrew with toothache.’
‘I have just one little complaint. I think the hospital have made a mistake. They’ve put me in a ward with all the old people…’
Friday 14 May
Ariadne and I have been invited to Cordelia’s hen night tonight, even though we’ve not even met our future sisterin-law. I’m not sure whether to go. After all, she’s supposed to be in telly and all her cronies are bound to be there. I’m not sure I’m going to be media-friendly. I wonder what she’s like.
‘It’s just going to be an excuse for a drunken rampage. There’ll probably be a male stripper and everything,’ I whined to Ariadne.
‘Sounds great! Just what I need. Can’t wait to go.’
I’m sure pregnancy is having a detrimental effect on my sister.
Saturday 15 May
Decided to give the hen night a miss and had an evening in with Mel Gibson instead. When I say Mel Gibson, I mean on video, obviously, not the real thing—unfortunately.
Got a postcard from Declan. He has a place as a volunteer helper on a project for the homeless in Manchester and is settling in well. A panoramic view of the Manchester Ship Canal now has pride of place on my fridge.
Sunday 16 May
I did the reading at today’s service. I hadn’t had time to read it through in advance. It was from I Chronicles and contained a list of the descendants of Adam. Nearly all of the names were practically unpronounceable. I felt like a five-year-old reading Spot the Dog in front of the entire school as I stumbled and stuttered my way through.
‘Why did you give me that horrible reading?’ I hissed at Digger on the way out. ‘I would have had more chance of pronouncing the Albanian premier league football scores!’
Monday 17 May
Mum phoned to arrange transport to Marrow-on-the-Wold on Saturday. She and Dad are going up on the train the day before and Tom will drive Ariadne and myself up on Saturday morning. Apparently, no one trusts my car.
I tried on my white suit with some new shoes and a black top and was pleasantly surprised. I seem to have lost a little weight. I don’t know how—I haven’t so much as looked at a tub of cottage cheese for months.
I’m going to have my hair cut on Friday evening. I might even try a few highlights if I’m feeling adventurous.
Wednesday 19 May
Went to see Ariadne and Tom. My car started blowing out extravagant clouds of black smoke from the exhaust as I turned into their drive. Must remember to get it fixed. Perhaps I should start writing memos to myself:
MEMO
Phone garage.
Apparently the hen night was just as horrendous as I’d imagined and Ariadne insisted on describing it in graphic and explicit detail as she sat cross-legged on the settee with a large tub of ice cream resting on her bump. She looked rotund and vigorous and contented. Tom, by contrast, seemed pale and anxious. When he left the room to fetch Ariadne the ketchup, she explained that he’d been suffering from back pains and stomach cramps and had spent much of the night pacing the floor.
‘I’m getting really worried about him. This phantom pregnancy business is going too far,’ she confided.
‘Do you think he should see a psychiatrist?’
‘Hmm, perhaps an obstetrician would be more appropriate.’
The conversation was terminated by a cry of pain from the kitchen. I rushed out, with Ariadne waddling a few yards behind me. Tom was lying curled up on the kitchen floor like a giant prawn. His face was pale and twisted
. Ariadne knelt on the floor rubbing his back until the spasm passed.
‘It won’t be long now,’ he groaned, as Ariadne soothed and fussed.
Thursday 20 May
Poor Tom is in hospital with kidney stones. Ariadne is relieved that it’s renal colic, not labour, but rather irritated because it means I shall have to drive her to the wedding as she doesn’t fit behind the steering wheel any more. Still, we can use their car. Must remember to take mine to the garage.
Ariadne didn’t seem to have much sympathy for Tom, chiding him as if he’d done it on purpose just to inconvenience her. Tom just lay there and groaned.
Saw both Tom and Miss Chamberlain tonight. Luckily they’re in the same hospital. Feel rather like Florence Nightingale without the lamp.
Friday 21 May
8.30 p.m.
I knew it would be a mistake, I knew it. Why didn’t I listen to myself? Why did I let that hairdresser persuade me? My ‘highlights’ would make Marilyn Monroe look like a mousy brunette. Mrs Barrie, downstairs, asked me if I’d just had a nasty shock or if premature greying ran in my family. I haven’t got time to buy some hair dye or a hat for the wedding. Oh well, with any luck, no one will recognize me.
Saturday 22 May
9.40 a.m.
At 5.37 this morning, the shrill sound of the bedside phone dragged me from a dream that I’d gone completely bald. I put my hand to my head to check it really was a dream, then picked up the phone.
‘What? Who is it?’ I slurred into the receiver.
‘It’s me, you idiot,’ came Ariadne’s voice. ‘I need a lift. I’m having the baby.’
‘But it’s too early.’
‘Only three weeks. That’s within the normal range.’
‘No, it’s 5.30. That’s far too early.’
‘Oh, go back to sleep. I’ll call a taxi.’
I must have dozed off again, because the next thing I was aware of was the trilling alarm clock. I showered and put on my suit. My hair didn’t look quite as bad as I’d remembered from the day before.
Then it hit me.
Ariadne was having the baby. Tom was in hospital. Mum and Dad had already gone. I quickly dismissed the idea of grovelling to Kevin. I had no alternative—I would have to drive my car to the wedding.
I rang the hospital to check that Ariadne was all right. I spoke to Tom, who told me, in graphic detail, how he had ‘passed’ his kidney stone the previous night and had recovered sufficiently to hold her hand and mop her brow. She was apparently at the ‘pacing up and down the corridor, occasionally clinging to doorframes’ stage of labour. It would be a while before the baby made an appearance. I offered to go to the hospital to be with Ariadne, but Tom bravely brushed me aside and ordered me to go and enjoy the wedding.
I did a little circuit round my car, caressing the paintwork, making encouraging sounds and whispering prayers.
I called in at Ariadne’s and Tom’s home to collect their wedding present, loaded up my own gift and, equipped with a map and a sense of foreboding, set off in my white suit and my blonde hair, clouds of smoke billowing from my exhaust pipe.
I must have driven a total of no more than four miles into the countryside when there was an enormous bang and the car stuttered to a halt. I got out and lifted the bonnet. I don’t know the first thing about cars.
MEMO
Join the RAC.
I poked and wriggled some of the bits of wire and pluggy things, as if that would do any good. I turned the ignition key, but nothing happened. The engine was deader than a Tuesday night in Sidcup. I took the screwy lid thing off the bit at the front, and brown water surged out of the grey corrugated pipe, all over my suit. I threw the screwy lid thing on the ground in disgust. I peered at the car’s grimy innards, then pulled out the bendy thing that tells you how much something-or-other there is in your engine, but couldn’t find the hole to put it back. I flopped down on the grass verge in despair. I would have to look for a telephone box.
MEMO
Buy a mobile phone.
I walked about a mile to find a pub, with the time ticking away, my white suit grimy and the bendy thing still in my hand.
I found the only pub in England with no phone.
The landlord, however, was sympathetic to my predicament as I poured out my story. I tried to sound pathetic, which wasn’t that difficult, in the hope that he would have pity on me and lend me his car or something.
‘ … and then I took the bendy thing out and I can’t even get that back,’ I sniffed.
‘Dipstick,’ he muttered.
I know I must have been a sorry sight, but there was no need to be rude. He didn’t offer to lend me his car, but drove me instead to the nearest phone box so that I could call the garage.
10.50 a.m.
It was clear that I needed to go home, change, and then try to get to the wedding by public transport. I suddenly felt overwhelmingly weary. I collected the presents and map, locked my car (why?) and began to trudge home along the lane.
On a particularly sharp bend, I suddenly came face to face with the front end of an ancient and rusty minibus with ‘REPENT’ painted across the front in huge red letters. Brakes screeched and Charity’s bus slid to a halt, narrowly missing me. I was starting to wish it hadn’t. Charity’s beaming face peered out of the window.
‘Theodora?’
‘Don’t say anything.’
‘I didn’t recognize you … your hair …’
‘Yes, yes, I know. I look like Jezebel’s promiscuous sister.’
‘Actually, I think it looks very nice. Suits you.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Can I give you a lift anywhere, or do you prefer to walk?’
‘Marrow-on-the-Wold, if you happen to be headed in that direction.’
‘Well, I wasn’t, but I could if you like.’
‘Please, just take me home.’
I hauled myself into the passenger seat of the van and began to tell Charity the story. Baby Methuselah, who was sleeping peacefully in his car seat, gave a huge yawn. I glanced at my watch and sighed.
‘My brother’s wedding starts in just under three hours. Looks like I’ll miss the service for sure. Oh well, perhaps I’ll catch the reception.’
‘There’s no way you’re going to miss that ceremony,’ said Charity firmly, putting her foot on the accelerator, hauling on the steering wheel and pulling the bus into a creaking U-turn.
‘What about Nigel?’ I protested. ‘And the children. They won’t know where you are.’
‘I’ll telephone when I get there.’ The bus was beginning to rock with speed as we bulleted along the country lanes towards the motorway.
‘But my clothes! I can’t go like this.’
‘Look behind you. There’s a bag of clothes. Some of them are quite new. Unfortunately, after Methuselah, I seem to have gained a few pounds, so I was going to take them to the Oxfam shop.’
‘That’s kind, Charity, but I really couldn’t.’
‘Nonsense.’
I reached behind me and grasped the carrier bag. I shut my eyes tightly, like a child taking a lucky dip.
I opened them again.
Flowers.
My worst fears were justified. The bag was stuffed with Charity’s floral frocks.
I closed my eyes again, wishing the flowers gone.
I opened them.
Flowers.
‘Charity, I don’t think these dresses are really me.’
‘I understand,’ Charity sighed. ‘They’re rather old and tatty. I’m sorry, it’s just that Nigel only earns a curate’s salary and, what with the children to feed and clothe, there just doesn’t seem to be much left for me.’
My heart melted.
‘Charity, they’re perfect. Thank you.’
MEMO
Take Charity to Tranquil Lagoon and treat her to a new outfit.
I rummaged in the bag for the least heavily bloom-laden garment and smiled at Charity.
‘Thank you,�
�� I said again.
And I meant it.
The bus rocked and pitched down the motorway like a yacht in a squall. I clung to the door, trying not to succumb to mal de mer. Methuselah swayed, lulled by the movement.
12.15 p.m.
We stopped at a motorway service station, where Charity fed Methuselah and I made a desperate attempt to salvage my beautiful suit with assistance from soap and the hand dryer. I failed. The dirty brown stains were just as evident and, in addition, the fabric had taken on a crumpled, abraded appearance where I’d tried to scrub at it.
I lowered Charity’s ex-frock over my head. It was shapeless and flowery, and I would have fitted into it twice. I nearly cried.
‘I wonder if we could just stop ever so briefly in the next town, just to have a tiny peek in Marks & Spencer?’
My suggestion was lost on Charity, who was beaming magnanimously.
‘You look lovely, Theodora. Honeysuckle really suits you.’
I knew the battle was lost.
1.20 p.m.
When we arrived at Marrow-on-the-Wold, with 40 minutes to spare, the little church looked beautiful. It was a small, flint-covered, picture-postcard building, the sort of place where you could sit inside and wish away most of the last two centuries. I felt calm and relaxed in spite of the journey and the dress, and managed to slip away from Charity, who had taken Methuselah and gone to telephone Nigel.
I stepped through the wooden doorway expecting the cool tranquillity of the ancient building to enclose me. Instead, I was blinded by the most powerful light I had ever encountered. I was just about to drop to my knees, anticipating a booming voice demanding, ‘Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?’ when the beam swung upwards in an arc, now illuminating the belfry. There was a squeaking protest and frantic flapping sounds, presumably from the bats, disturbed mid-slumber. I shaded my eyes from the light and could make out several figures, including one in a long, whitish dress wandering aimlessly around at the front of the church near the altar. I realized they must be the film crew. I hadn’t expected so many people.
At my friend Tracey’s wedding, there was just the registrar, the bride herself, a passing traffic warden who had been drafted in as a second witness, and me. It was touchand-go whether the groom would turn up. I know the wedding had to be organized in a hurry, but a little more forward planning would not have gone amiss. At least the christening, six-and-a-half weeks later, was a more ceremonious affair.
Theodora's Diary Page 18
