That had to be Cordelia, cruising around in the low-cut ivory silk gown, like a heavily laden galleon in full sail, barking instructions to the film crew. She referred to them all as ‘darling’ or ‘sweetie’. I suppose it’s easier than remembering their real names.
She saw me, and I introduced myself. ‘Theo, darling, come and meet the crew!’ She grabbed me by the shoulders and hugged me into her cleavage, then kissed me on both cheeks and introduced me to the strange-looking bunch who were milling around. I’m sure there were more people than there were useful jobs to do. One lad’s job seemed to be to go round with a large reel of silver sticky-tape, fixing down everything that might conceivably move. The woman who seemed to be wearing her underwear outside her clothes was in charge of ‘wardrobe’. A young man practically shoulder-barged the ushers out of the way and chose the prettiest girls and best dressed young men to sit near the front of the church, where they were likely to be ‘in shot’, and sat the fat aunts and embarrassing old men who might dribble or speak too loudly during the service in the back rows. Unfortunately, Cordelia’s rather elderly father was steered to the back near a pile of hymn books and had to be rescued by the indignant bride.
Agamemnon appeared from the back of the church looking taller, more tanned and far more handsome than when I’d last seen him. If he wasn’t my brother, I could easily have fallen in love with him. I gave a little squeak and threw myself at him.
‘Theo! You look so … different.’
‘It’s a long story.’
He put his arm as far round Cordelia as it would reach and pulled her tightly to him. I held my breath in case the pressure forced her chest completely out of the front of her dress.
‘Isn’t it supposed to be bad luck to see the bride before the wedding?’ she chided.
‘I’ll risk it,’ he grinned.
The service itself was lovely and the stately ceremony was only slightly disrupted by the director’s insistence on shouting ‘Action!’ before each of the vows, and ‘It’s a wrap!’ when Ag was granted permission to kiss the bride. The poor vicar seemed a little distracted during the proceedings.
I suspect it was partly due to the presence of the film crew, but I should think, as Cordelia knelt in front of him in her low-cut gown, it was mostly due to the sensation that he had unwittingly embarked on an aerial trip over the Grand Canyon.
I spent the service wedged between my mother and Charity, with Methuselah strapped to her chest in a kind of papoose. All three of them wept and snivelled continuously. Mum kept nudging me as if to say, ‘When will it be your turn?’ and Charity sang the hymns far too loudly with both hands raised in the air. Methuselah just wailed.
I thought about Ariadne and the baby, Declan, Kevin, Miss Chamberlain and Jeremiah. By the time we filed out for the photos, I felt thoroughly depressed. Ag and Cordelia looked so happy.
Standing among my family in Charity’s dress, with my bleached hair and false smile, I’d never felt so lonely.
The reception at a nearby hotel passed, for me, in a fog of misery and self-pity. Charity ably filled the gap left by the absence of Ariadne and Tom, and enthusiastically consumed both their shares of the French onion soup, roast lamb with rosemary sauce and raspberry Pavlova, mints and coffee.
The evening buffet was yet another form of torture to be endured, another constant reminder that everyone in the world had a partner except me. Ag and Cordelia gazed at each other like a pair of lovesick spaniels. Even Mum and Dad seemed to have found something to talk about. But I had no car, no bloke, and was stuck instead with the human equivalent of the Chelsea Flower Show. I hated to admit it, but I really missed Kevin.
Everyone else seemed engrossed in conversation so I located the bar. In addition to the kegs of beer and bottles of wine, there were two large punch bowls, each filled with lurid red liquid. I picked up the ladle and scooped a large cupful from the bowl labeled “Non-alcoholic Fruit Punch” and found a table in a corner where I could cower until Charity took me home.
After my third or fourth glass of fruit punch, I could feel myself beginning to relax. I gazed contentedly around the hall. Everything seemed to have a warm glow. Everybody seemed a little bit nicer. I waved to Mum as she Zorba’sdanced her way around the room shouting ‘Yammas!’ with unrestrained bonhomie. Dad sat in a corner gazing thoughtfully into his pint.
Two more glasses of punch. For a non-alcoholic beverage, it was pleasantly soothing and relaxing. I guessed it must have had something herbal in it.
Ag and Cordelia clung to each other on the dance floor, gazing from time to time into each other’s eyes and smooching to Status Quo’s ‘Rocking All Over the World’ which was blaring through the sound system. They seemed absorbed in each other and unaware of the occasional jostling by the other guests, who, thumbs tucked behind imaginary braces, lurched around the floor like epileptic chickens.
I approached the bar for another refill. Maybe I could enjoy the party after all. Good punch, good music and, to add further to my feeling of wellbeing, I’d managed to disentangle myself from Charity’s tendrils.
Returning to my seat, I noticed Charity, seated at a table near the door with Methuselah asleep in his carrycot. She was talking to a group of young men and women whom I assumed to be Cordelia’s friends. Charity seemed completely at ease, smiling and gesturing, her audience smiling and nodding in response, totally engrossed in her discourse. I watched as Charity stood up, arms outstretched. Her audience hung on every word. The young people sat open mouthed and winced with imagined pain as Charity pointed to the palm of each hand.
She’s doing it again, I thought. She’s telling people about Jesus in that easy, natural way of hers, and they’re interested, they’re actually interested.
My initial amazement gave way to feelings of affront. How dare she elbow her way into my social scene and convert everyone? This was my family; my brother’s wedding. If anyone was going to evangelize round here, it was going to be me. I slugged back the remains of my fruit punch and cast my eye around the room for a likely candidate. Most people were either involved in bellowed conversations or were on the dance floor, strutting their stuff to the ear-splittingly loud music.
On the far side of the room I spotted a youngish man with a pleasantish face. You couldn’t call him handsome, but he had an open, friendly face that seemed familiar, although I was sure I didn’t actually know him. Target located, I launched myself across the room towards him. To my surprise, my legs didn’t seem to wish to go in the direction my brain told them to, and I ended up staggering crablike towards the buffet table. In order to make my perambulation look more or less intentional, I seized a prawn volau-vent and stuffed it into my mouth. I took the opportunity of this pause to gain my bearings and started on my second attempt to navigate myself to the young man’s table. I succeeded and sat down, listing to starboard only slightly, on the chair facing him.
‘Good evening, my name’s Theodora,’ I said through a mouth full of vol-au-vent.
‘Mike. Pleased to meet you,’ he said, offering his hand, which I took and pumped vigorously up and down.
This was my opportunity.
‘Are you washed in the blood of the lamb?’ I blurted, still clutching his hand and staring earnestly into his eyes—of which there appeared to be three. He glanced down guiltily at his shirt, in search of gravy stains from the roast lamb dinner.
‘Are your sins washed whiter than snow?’ I was beginning to sound like a cross between Hymns Ancient and Modern and a washing powder commercial.
‘I’m not quite sure…’
‘Is there a crown and harp awaiting you in the land beyond the river?’
‘Look,’ he said, ‘would you like another drink?’
‘Yes please,’ I slurred. ‘I’m a Christian, you know.’
‘Good. That’s really … um … good.’
Mike disappeared while I racked my brain for an appropriate Bible verse to sum up my exposition of the gospel. The only verse in the wh
ole Bible that came to mind was ‘Love your neighbour as yourself.’ Mike returned with a pint of beer and a glass of lemonade, which he placed in front of me.
‘S’lemonade,’ I slurred. ‘I don’t know if you realize, but I’ve been drinking fruit punch all evening. The nonalcloholoic one.’ I winked lopsidedly.
‘Really! I would never have guessed.’
‘Do you have an anchor to hold you fast in life’s storms?’ Now I was sounding like The Onedin Line.
‘Are you a friend of the bride or groom?’ Mike asked in an overt attempt to steer the conversation towards some sort of recognizable territory.
‘Acshully, I’m the groom’s brother,’ I assured him. ‘No, tha’s not right. I’m not sure exactly who I am, but I am int’mately acquainted with a variety of people in the immediate vishinity.’ I moved my hand in a sweeping arc that encompassed most of the people in the room. The Bible verse from 1 Corinthians 13:13 about faith, hope and love and the greatest of these being love swam its way through my befuddled brain and reached the front of my mind. I paraphrased it.
‘I really love you, d’you know that? I really, really love you. Faith, forget it! Hope, no chance. But love—s’something c’mpletely different. Can I show you?’
He shuffled his chair backwards.
‘Can I show you love? Would you like to come to church with me? S’good there. You can come tomorrow if you like.’ I placed my hand reassuringly on his knee.
‘That’s inordinately kind of you, Theodora, but I’m afraid I really can’t.’ He removed my hand from his knee and placed it on my own knee.
‘Oh, go on.’ I punched him hard on the shoulder. ‘Why not? What elsh would you be doing on a Sunday morning, eh? Lying in bed reading the papers? Washing the car? Going down the pub for a little drinkie?’
‘Actually, I’ll be rather busy at my own church tomorrow.’
He reached down, opened a sports bag by his feet and produced a clerical dog collar. He placed it around his neck. ‘Look familiar?’
The realization hit me like a fly on a windscreen. That’s where I recognized him from. He was the vicar who had just married my brother.
‘So nice to meet you, Vicar. Mist go and mungle,’ I stammered hastily, struggling to my feet. ‘Look, I’m not wha’ you think I am. I’m a nice person really. I’m one of you.’ I lurched off across the room to find Charity.
I just wanted to go home. I was embarrassed, lonely, and becoming convinced there was something in that punchbowl that didn’t agree with me.
Suddenly, I felt very sick. I ran to the Ladies, getting there just in time.
As I knelt on the hard floor and rested my cheek against the cold porcelain bowl, I heard a quiet knock on the cubicle door.
‘Theo, Theodora, are you all right?’ It was Charity.
My mind screamed, ‘No, of course I’m not all right, you stupid woman! Go away and leave me to die here in peace.’
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I croaked.
‘Is there anything I can do?’
I thought, ‘Yes, you can go exploring down the nearest pothole with no rope, no torch and Dr Livingstone as a guide!’
‘No thanks,’ I replied. ‘I’ll be OK in a minute.’ I flushed the toilet and unlocked the door. Charity was still hovering like a multicoloured moth.
‘Here, sit down, I’ll clean you up.’
I didn’t protest as she steered me to a small wooden chair and sat me down. She took a packet of baby-wipes out of her handbag and started swabbing my hands and face as if I was one of her own brood. I sat there, obedient as a child, and let her clean me.
Suddenly the day’s events, my shame at getting plastered in front of everyone and my failure to live up to God’s expectations overwhelmed me, and I burst into sobs.
‘I got it all wrong, didn’t I?’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, brushing my hair from my eyes with her hand.
‘I should have realised there was something funny about that punch. I should have stopped. I should have known what was happening to me.’
‘It was a mistake,’ Charity tried to reassure me. ‘Perhaps someone switched the labels or perhaps some imbecile thought it a great prank to lace it with vile spirit.’
Nothing Charity said made me feel any better. I should have been more careful.
‘I got it all wrong. I messed it up, let everyone down.’ I stared up at the ceiling to try to stop the tears from falling.
‘Who is “everyone”?’ She pushed a tissue into my hands.
‘The church, you, me, Jesus.’ I sniffed and blinked. ‘I feel so guilty.’
‘The only thing you’re guilty of is trying too hard.’
‘It’s not fair. It’s so easy for you. I could see you tonight, talking about the crucifixion.’
Charity frowned, looking puzzled. ‘What?’
‘You had your arms outstretched like this and I saw you pointing to the nail marks on the palms. Those people you were talking to, they were hanging on every word. I just wanted to be like you.’ The tears ran freely down my face and dripped into my lap.
‘I don’t remember saying anything about…’ Suddenly the mists cleared. ‘Fishing! I was talking about fishing, you silly thing! Nigel went river fishing for the first time last week and nearly caught an enormous eel. Apparently, it was this long.’ She demonstrated by stretching her arms out wide. ‘Then he got one of the fishing hooks stuck in his hand—here.’ She pointed to her palm. ‘When he tried to get it out, it stuck into his other palm. Eventually he had to go to the doctor to have it removed.’
I howled.
Not only had I made a hash of evangelism and in the process convinced the poor vicar that I was some drunken floozy trying to seduce him, but I’d confused a tale of ‘the one that got away’ with the crucifixion.
Charity patted me kindly on the shoulder. ‘It’s an easy mistake to make.’
I couldn’t be consoled. I knew she was trying to be kind and that made it worse.
‘But the vicar, Charity. I tried to convert the vicar!’
‘By the look of him, he’s had nearly as much to drink as you’ve had. He probably won’t remember a thing about it in the morning.’ She helped me to my feet and straightened my dress. ‘Anyway,’ she sniffed, ‘just because he’s a vicar, it doesn’t necessarily mean he’s saved.’
Monday 24 May
Birth Announcement
To Ariadne and Tom, a daughter
Phoebe Ann
3.42 a.m. Sunday 23 May.
Six pounds twelve ounces.
Mother, father and baby all doing well.
June
Tuesday 1 June
Too depressed after the wedding to write diary. Charity half dragged, half carried me to the van, drove me home and put me to bed. Even the news that several other people at the reception suffered at the hands of the “non-alcoholic” punch hasn’t helped me feel any better. Work is boring, church seems deader than Lazarus second time around, and Ariadne keeps telling me to pull myself together.
Of course, I can’t possibly speak to Charity after what happened.
Or Mum.
Or Cordelia.
Or anyone else in my family.
Or anyone at church.
Only God.
Wednesday 2 June
Ariadne brought Phoebe round today. She’s very small and pink and has an amazing range of facial expressions. Ariadne is dotty about her and Tom is trotting around after the pair of them like a lackey. He hasn’t stopped smiling since she was born and fortunately seems back to full health.
As I held Phoebe, she seemed to be coming to terms with some great internal dilemma, twisting her tiny limbs and grimacing. I wish I knew what she was thinking.
Thursday 3 June
Miss Chamberlain came out of hospital today. The ambulance brought her home and she is officially under the care of the community nurse. She has meals on wheels and a commode. She can hardly move and still seems incredibly frail.
‘Could you not have stayed in the hospital a little longer?’ I enquired.
‘Oh, I think they needed the bed for someone else, dear. Probably some poor old thing who can’t look after themselves.’
‘But surely you could have stayed another week or two, just until you get back on your feet?’
‘I must just be a cutback,’ she said.
Friday 4 June
Went to get some shopping for Miss Chamberlain in my restored and now completely rejuvenated car. Tomorrow is Kevin’s birthday and I felt obliged to buy him a card to show that I’m a mature adult and can handle the break-up of our relationship in an amicable way. It was harder than I thought to find a birthday card with a suitable message. Where can you buy cards for people you don’t like? All the cards in the shop contained messages such as ‘For a wonderful friend’, or ‘You are so special’, or ‘Wishing you all happiness on this joyous occasion’. Expressions such as ‘Die in pain, you insensitive pig’ did not feature greatly. I settled for a blank card with a picture of a fisherman on it and wrote:
I hope you have a relatively tolerable birthday, reasonably free of calamity, but I’ll still never forget how you treated me and I’ll never forgive you.
Yours, Theodora
That’ll show him!
Sunday 6 June
Miss Chamberlain had set her heart on going to church today and wouldn’t be dissuaded. I loaded her wheelchair and crutches, special cushion and footstool into my car and took her to the morning service. She sat in the front pew with her foot on the stool and radiated pleasure and contentment, even though she must have been in considerable pain. Everyone came to chat to her and say how much they’d missed her and how pleased they were to see her back.
By the time we reached the hall, the coffee had nearly run out. I parked her wheelchair near a wall display so she would have something to entertain her. The Sunday School had been studying the life of Moses and had made a poster showing the stone tablets with the Ten Commandments inscribed on them. When I returned with our coffee, I found that Miss Chamberlain had climbed out of her wheelchair and was foraging in her handbag.
Theodora's Diary Page 19
