‘What are you doing?’ I said in alarm.
‘Adultery,’ she said. ‘It’s wrong!’
‘Well, of course it is.’ I shrugged. ‘But you know, the way the world is today …’
‘No, on the poster. It should be adultery and they’ve spelt it adultury. I cannot abide poor spelling.’
She found a red pen, hobbled across to the wall display and proceeded to amend the seventh commandment.
Once a schoolteacher, always a schoolteacher.
Monday 7 June
A card arrived this morning from Kevin. On the front was a picture of flowers, which was a worry for a start. Kevin and flowers do not make natural bedfellows. Inside it read:
Life without you is like a broken pencil …pointless.
Why is he comparing me to a damaged item of stationery? It’s either a very bad pun or he has totally taken leave of his senses. I thought I made it clear that I wanted nothing more to do with him. I wish I’d never sent that birthday card. Any feelings there were between us are now deader than Tutankhamen’s granny.
Tuesday 8 June
Went to see Ariadne, who was breastfeeding little Phoebe. It’s good to know that breasts have some purpose other than keeping the Wonderbra manufacturers in business and supporting sales of a certain group of newspapers.
I told her about the card from Kevin.
‘Theo,’ she said, ‘ring him.’
I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to that. ‘What do you think he means by it? Do you think he still cares about me?’
‘Well, at a guess, he’s either developed a stationery fixation and is about to commit hara-kiri with a ballpoint pen, or he wants to see you again.’
I leaned forward anxiously in my chair. ‘Which do you think?’
‘Theo! For goodness’ sake.’
She threw the phone at me. Fortunately, he wasn’t in.
Wednesday 9 June
A very puzzling fax arrived on my desk this morning. It was headed ‘Lambeth Palace’ and was apparently from the Archbishop of Canterbury’s private office. The gist of the information was that, in order to further their equal opportunities policies, the Archbishop’s office were advertising for candidates for the position of Equal Opportunities Officer, reporting directly to the Archbishop. The job will involve reviewing the liturgy and hymns in order to remove anything that could be considered sexist, racist, ageist, heightist, sizeist or otherwise politically incorrect. Applications are invited from people with suitable administrative backgrounds and a good knowledge of the workings of the Church. Apparently my name came up on a list of possible candidates.
Well, of course I’m very flattered by the invitation, but I can’t help thinking there’s something strange about the whole thing. There’s a number to ring if I’m interested. I think I’ll leave it. It must be a hoax.
Saturday 12 June
Took Charity shopping to Tranquil Lagoon this afternoon to buy her a new outfit. Decided to avoid the boutique where I bought my white suit. After the incident with Ariadne, I can’t risk inflicting Charity on them. It’s funny: although the suit cleaned up admirably, courtesy of Sketchley’s, I can’t bring myself to wear it. I just want to blot that day from my memory.
We spent longer than I’d intended in Mothercare. Charity bought a brand-new outfit for Methuselah—his first previously unworn item of clothing. I suppose that, when something has worked its way through eight siblings, it must be a little depreciated. They had some gorgeous teddy bears and I couldn’t resist buying one for Phoebe. I know she already has about 30, but I firmly believe you can never have too many cuddly animals.
We finally extracted ourselves from Mothercare and found a clothes shop. Charity browsed round the racks.
‘They’re all so plain and so expensive,’ she protested. ‘If we went to the market and bought some curtain fabric, I could run up six dresses for that price.’
That explained why Charity always looked like Laura Ashley’s furnishing department.
‘No, Charity,’ I explained firmly. ‘You’re going to have something new and something you don’t have to make yourself.’
A skirt and jacket caught my eye. ‘What about this? It’s smart and you could wear it anywhere. You could dress it up with scarves or jewellery to go out …’
‘I don’t have any jewellery, apart from my wedding ring, and we never seem to have the time to go out.’ It wasn’t a complaint, merely a statement.
‘Well, it’s about time you did. Choose a dress and, if you have a problem with babysitters, I’ll do it.’
‘Would you really?’ she asked suspiciously. I wondered if she had needed to sandblast Ezekiel to remove the encrusted grot after the last time he was left in my care.
‘Of course I would.’
We carried on browsing. ‘What about this?’ I held up a well-cut classic black dress.
‘Oh, it’s lovely. But I’m not sure Nigel would like it.’
‘Nigel won’t be wearing it. Do you like it?’
Charity nodded and went to try it on. I hate to admit it, but Charity looked stunning. Her eyes shone and she had untied her auburn hair from the restraint of its usual plait.
‘That’s the one,’ I said.
Sunday 13 June
The theme of today’s service was forgiveness. We all trotted through the prayer of confession as usual and were duly ‘pardoned and delivered from all our sins’. Then Digger preached his sermon based on Psalm 103. He said it’s sometimes easy to say sorry to people for things we’ve done wrong. (I’m not sure about that.) He said it’s sometimes just as easy to forgive people who say they’re sorry when they’ve done something to us. (Funny, I don’t find it that easy.) We can get quite a ‘warm glow’ from forgiving others, he said. (I thought that was heartburn.) Often we have little problem believing that God can forgive us if we’re truly sorry for what we’ve done to him. (To me this always feels as if I’m justifying my overdraft to the bank manager.) However, what we sometimes find nearly impossible, he said, is to forgive ourselves.
I felt as if I’d been struck by lightning. The rest of the world started rushing away from me at great speed and I felt as if I was the only person in the whole church and that Digger was speaking just to me.
He said it was much easier to go on punishing ourselves for all the times we got it wrong, for all the times we should have known better, and for all the times we knew the right thing and chose not to do it. I expected him to finish by saying, ‘If God can forgive you, then it’s all sorted,’ but he didn’t. He spoke instead about Jeremiah Wedgwood. He told of the number of times he had re-run the incident in the church hall in his mind, thinking of how he could have handled it differently. He told of the phone calls he had made and the letters he had written to try to sort it out. He told of the time he had seen Jeremiah in the street and had run after him to talk; of how he had begged Jeremiah’s forgiveness.
A voice rang out in the silence. ‘But it wasn’t all your fault.’ Heads swivelled and necks craned to try to see who had dared to speak out during the sermon.
‘No,’ replied Digger, ‘I can see that. I know, in my head, that it was as much his fault as it was mine. But I feel in my guts that if I’d said something different, or if I’d done something sooner, it wouldn’t have happened. Jeremiah feels he can’t come to church any more and, although that may not be entirely my fault, I can’t help thinking it’s my responsibility. I feel as if I’ve somehow come between him and God and that’s what I can’t forgive myself for.’
I knew how he felt. Sometimes it’s easier to be punished than forgiven. If no one else will get a big stick and beat us up with it—after all, that’s what we deserve—we grab the stick with both hands and beat ourselves with it.
‘I have an idea,’ said the same voice. ‘If somebody will push me, I think I know of something that might help.’
It was Miss Chamberlain. I leaped to my feet and seized the handles of her wheelchair. She directed us out of the church a
nd we formed a snake down the hill. A serpent of people, with Miss Chamberlain at its head, slithered along the high street and out of the village. When we reached a stile, several people helped manoeuvre Miss Chamberlain over the gate to a piece of farmland surrounding a disused chalk pit. The pit was full of water and fenced off with the aim of keeping local children away. The fence, inevitably, was broken down and the pit quite easy to access. The snake coiled to a halt.
‘How deep do you think it is?’ Miss Chamberlain asked.
‘Ooh, 100 feet at least,’ replied Digger.
‘What do you think are the chances of finding anything in there?’
‘Pretty slim.’
‘So you think, in time, that whatever went in there would be forgotten about?’
I had the horrible feeling she was about to do a ‘Miss Marple’ and reveal a long-forgotten murder in the chalk pit, but she didn’t. Instead she reached down to the ground and picked up a stone.
‘“As far as the east is from the west, so far has he removed our transgressions from us.” This stone is all my sins and all the things I can’t forgive myself for.’
She used all her strength to throw the stone, which landed with a satisfying plop a few feet into the pit.
‘What do you think is the likelihood of me ever seeing that stone again?’
‘About the same as an unopened tinny making it to the end of a barbie,’ said Digger.
‘So, it has effectively gone for ever. Like my sins. I have no reason to give either another thought.’
One by one, people began picking up stones and, like champion shot-putters, they threw them into the chalk pit. Oily Roger Lamarck selected a handful of small pebbles and threw them one by one. Mr Wilberforce found a stick and, for one horrible moment, I thought Rex was going to jump in to try to retrieve it. Digger moved away from the rest of the group and sat on the chalky ground for a long time with his eyes closed. Gregory Pasternak started to hum ‘Amazing Grace’ softly in his high, melodious voice and a few people joined in. Apart from the song and the sound of the stones splashing into the water, everything was still and quiet.
I chose the two biggest stones I could find and thought about Ag’s wedding and, of course, Kevin. Then, with all the energy I could muster, I hurled them as far as I could into the dark, engulfing water.
We didn’t go back to the church for coffee. Instead, each person drifted back to the village and to their own home. Digger was smiling. I pushed Miss Chamberlain to her cottage, settled her in and went home myself.
Then I put on my white suit and set off to see Kevin.
When I reached Kevin’s house, I hesitated before knocking on the door. What if I’d got it all wrong? What if he didn’t have any feelings for me and it was just a cruel joke? What if he refused to see me and I would have the shame of walking home, knowing that I’d been rejected for the second time? I thought of Miss Chamberlain and decided to take the chance. I tugged down my white jacket with determination and pressed my finger on the bell.
Kevin’s Mum answered the door. She looked at me, completely bemused, invited me into the hall and scuttled off upstairs to get Kevin. Kevin jogged down the stairs beaming. He looked taller and slimmer. I didn’t remember seeing that football shirt before. He had his hair cut differently, shorter and gelled, and he now sported a goatee.
‘Theo,’ he said. ‘You look lovely in white—just like a dentist.’
I let it pass.
‘It’s good to see you again,’ I grinned. ‘I like the hair, and the beard. It suits you.’
‘I’ve missed you.’
‘Missed you too.’
‘Can I take you out for a drink?’
‘Yes please.’
‘Just one thing. Can you pay? Only I’ve left my wallet round Jez’s.’
‘We could always call in for it on the way.’
‘We could, but there’s no money in it. I haven’t been to the bank.’
‘You’re incorrigible.’
‘Thanks.’
Tuesday 15 June
In my new, positive frame of mind, I decided to phone the number on the fax from the Archbishop’s office. It was an answering machine. With the number of people they must employ, you’d think they could afford a real person to take calls. I left my name and phone number. The voice on the message didn’t sound very Church of England. It had a soft Irish accent. Still, I suppose it’s further evidence of their equal opportunities policy.
Wednesday 16 June
I suppose, if you had to reword the hymns and liturgy to avoid political incorrectness, you’d end up with things like, ‘Praise to the Holiest in the vertically advanced and in the perpendicularly challenged be peace.’ The Lord’s Prayer would have to start, ‘Our Person with Parental Responsibility who art in heaven…’
Saturday 19 June
Have had little time to write in the diary this week. I’ve been out with Kevin every night—Wednesday, cinema; Thursday, bowling; Friday, shopping. Kevin even bought some new clothes. I hope he isn’t just doing it to please me.
I had a phone call from Ariadne this morning.
‘Hi, stranger,’ she said.
‘Oh, hello. Sorry I haven’t been round. I’ve been busy. Guess what? I’m going out with Kevin again.’
‘Good! Um, is it good?’
‘Yes, it’s brilliant.’
‘But I thought he was the sort of low-life, weasly scum you wouldn’t be seen dead with if he was the only living organism in the entire universe. I thought he was a maggot who had just crawled out of the cesspit of life and as far as you were concerned could crawl back there and suffocate in his own putrefaction.’
‘That was before.’
‘And now?’
‘I think I love him.’
‘Theodora, you change your mind more often than most women change their knickers!’
Sunday 20 June
Kevin came to church with me today. He even sat next to me. Next time I may be able to persuade him to sing.
Monday 21 June
Declan phoned me today. He’d sent the fax from the Archbishop, and the reason the voice on the recording machine sounded so familiar was because it was his machine.
Of course, I’d suspected all along that it was one of Declan’s jokes. Rewriting politically incorrect liturgy indeed!
‘It’s great to hear your voice again, Theo.’
‘How’s it going?’
‘Fine, fine. As we speak, I’m filling in my application for training. I think I’m just about to pass the point of no return.’
‘I only hope they’re prepared for whoopee cushions in the confessional and stink bombs in the censers.’
‘It won’t be like that. I’ve changed. I just want to fulfil my vocation. I just want to make a difference to people.’
‘I’m sure you will, Declan. I’m sure you will.’
‘Theo …’
‘What?’
‘Never mind. It doesn’t matter.’
Tuesday 22 June
Kevin has managed to get time off work and wants to take me to Italy for a long weekend. Says he’s going to take me to a ‘special place’. It’ll be so romantic. I’ve insisted on separate hotel rooms, of course.
Wednesday 23 June
Miss Chamberlain is back in hospital. Suspected pneumonia. The church has set up a prayer vigil for her. Perhaps my ministry is prayer. I must admit, I haven’t had much time to devote to thinking about my ministry recently—too busy trying to sort out other people’s. I’ve signed up to pray for an hour a day. I even persuaded Kevin to put his name on the list.
I hope she’ll be all right. I don’t know what I would do without her.
Thursday 24 June
According to the hospital, Miss Chamberlain is a little better today. As I sat praying in a front pew in the silence of St Norbert’s, I became aware of an eerie presence behind me. I swung round, and there was Jeremiah Wedgwood peering over the pew back.
‘The Reverend ra
ng me. He thought I should know—guilty conscience I shouldn’t wonder—so I came here to pray for the poor dear lady in the midst of her suffering and anguish. You see what happens when pastoral care is allowed to slip in the name of “Community Relations”.’
I leaped to Digger’s defence. ‘It’s hardly his fault Miss Chamberlain is ill.’ Then a thought dawned on me. ‘I’ve missed you, you know. We all have.’
His watery eyes started to become even waterier. ‘I could not let wickedness go unchallenged,’ he said.
‘Two of the people who sheltered from the snow that day have started coming on Sunday mornings,’ I told him. ‘One has even signed up for confirmation classes. I bet the Reverend didn’t tell you that.’
‘No, no, he didn’t.’
‘He cares very much about everyone at St Norbert’s, you know. We’re his family and, like any family, we don’t always find it easy to get on with each other. But underneath there’s something that holds us together. You really hurt him when you left.’
Jeremiah blew his nose.
‘If you ever decide to come back, I’m sure you’ll be very welcome.’
‘We’ll see. We’ll see how the Lord guides.’
Friday 25 June
Miss Chamberlain is about the same.
I was in the middle of packing for Italy—chanting, ‘I am only going for the weekend, I do not need to take the entire contents of my wardrobe,’ like a mantra—when Declan phoned again.
‘Theo, I wondered if you’d like to pop up to Manchester to see me sometime.’
‘Yes, yes, that would be good,’ I muttered absently, trying desperately to find a pair of tights without a ladder and deciding whether fluorescent pink leg-warmers were likely to be necessary.
‘You’ve always been a special friend to me.’
‘Have you been drinking?’
‘Of course not!’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, you were being serious. You’re special to me too. You know that.’ I stuck the phone under my chin and rummaged in a drawer for the sun cream and my straw hat.
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