‘The things I remember most about Miss Chamberlain were her insatiable search for knowledge—she wanted to understand everything; her love of history—I’m sure she has a few questions to ask God; and her genuine devotion to people. Underlying all those things was her love for God, whom she served willingly and faithfully for nearly 90 years. She didn’t just love the lovable people; she loved the difficult people, the unkind people, the ungrateful people, and the people like me who spend so much time wrapped up in their own petty problems that they never have the time to care genuinely for others. That love didn’t come from a sense of obligation or religious duty, but from deep inside a heart so wrapped up in Jesus that you felt you were a better person just for spending a few minutes in her company. I’ve never known her to knock on doors, give out leaflets, or even quote Scripture at anyone. She didn’t need to. People came to her, they sought her out. She never told people—they always asked. She was, in that respect, like Jesus. She had wit, wisdom and genuine compassion. I only hope God knows how lucky he is to have her with him.’
I walked back to my place and whispered a prayer of thanks to God. I didn’t have any sense of Miss Chamberlain smiling down on me—she’d be far too occupied for any of that.
At the end of the service, no one seemed to be in a hurry to leave. They sat in the pews and chatted, or admired the flowers and the stained-glass windows. I saw Digger and Jeremiah sitting together and expected to hear raised voices or to see Jeremiah sweeping to his feet and stomping out of the door. Under the pretence of collecting hymn books, I edged closer to where they sat. Jeremiah was weeping again and Digger had his hand on Jeremiah’s shoulder. To my astonishment, I could hear that they were praying quietly together. It was hard to hear the words and, of course, not being a naturally nosy person, I didn’t like to get too close, but they were actually praying together.
Perhaps at least one of Miss Chamberlain’s prayers was answered today.
Saturday 3 July
Digger phoned early this morning to check I was OK. He said he’d been asked by Miss Chamberlain’s great-niece to arrange for the cottage to be cleared as soon as possible before the niece put it up for sale.
‘I’ve contacted one of those house clearance places, but I said I’d check round the cottage first. It’s just that I don’t feel it’s appropriate, you know, a bloke going through her personal things. I’d be grateful if you’d give me a hand, Theo love, if you’re up to it.’
I said I would, dressed and hurried down to Miss Chamberlain’s cottage, where the roses and poppies in her garden were in full bloom. Digger met me at the door.
Inside, everything was meticulously tidy, just as she had left it. We checked inside cupboards and behind ornaments to check that she hadn’t tucked any money away, like old ladies sometimes do. She hadn’t. Miss Chamberlain wasn’t like that. She never seemed the hoarding type. I suspect that, if she ever had any money left over from her pension, she would promptly and cheerfully have donated it to a worthy cause.
I went up the narrow staircase to her bedroom. The white embroidered counterpane was folded neatly away from the pillow, as if waiting for her to climb into bed. I opened the heavy oak wardrobe and started removing and folding her clothes to take to the charity shop, trying all the time to convince myself that this was what she would have wanted. The smell of lavender was almost overwhelming. One by one, I pulled open the drawers of her chest and packed up her underwear. I half expected to come across a drawer crammed with lace-edged handkerchiefs—Christmas and birthday presents, all still in their packages. There were none. She had either used them or given them away.
Her silver brush, comb and mirror sparkled on her dressing table and by the triple mirror there was a small silver trinket box. I opened it to find a brooch, a string of pearls and a gold ring with a single small diamond. Miss Chamberlain’s engagement ring. She’d kept it for all those years. I sat on her bed and cried.
Digger called up to me and I brought the silver box downstairs. He had just finished throwing away the last of the food from her kitchen cupboards. I showed him the box and sat down and told him the story of Miss Chamberlain’s engagement that never was.
‘I just thought … well, the ring might be valuable. Shouldn’t we send it to her great-niece?’ I asked.
‘The niece wasn’t interested. Just wanted the place cleared ASAP. Why don’t you keep it? It’s what she would have wanted.’
If I heard those words, ‘It’s what she would have wanted,’ once more, I thought I would scream. How did he know what she would have wanted? If she’d wanted to give me those things, she could have done it at any time. I had no right to help myself to them now. I felt like a vulture.
It was as if Digger could read my mind.
‘I know it feels funny, you just coming in here and taking her things, but isn’t it better that they go to someone who knew and loved her rather than just ending up being sold in some shonky second-hand shop? Look, I’m keeping a few books, and her Bible.’
He pointed to a pile of books on the table. I picked up the Bible. It was old and very well thumbed, but I was surprised to see that there was not a mark in it. She had neither made notes in the margins, nor underlined favourite scriptures. When I thought about it, that was typical of the retired teacher. She would never, ever countenance writing in a book.
I opened the jewellery box again. Digger was right. I would keep the ring and think of her whenever I looked at it. Besides, considering the reputation of Vague Dave down at the market who sold Kevin my engagement ring, it might just come in handy.
Sunday 4 July
After church, Kevin came round for Sunday lunch and we set a date for the wedding: 30 April, Miss Chamberlain’s birthday. We’ve booked St Norbert’s for the ceremony and the church hall for the reception. I’ve started buying bridal magazines for ideas for the dress. I want something simple. I’m not keen on the ‘galleon in full sail’ look, like Cordelia. I’ve also politely declined Charity’s kind offer to make me a wedding dress from net curtain remnants.
First things first, though. Strike while the iron’s hot. I’ve decided that Kevin and I will go out on Saturday to buy him a suit for the wedding.
After all, I don’t want people to think he’s spiritually degenerate.
Read an Excerpt from the Sequel …
JULY
Monday 5 July
Well, I’ve done it.
I’ve actually done it!
Nobody thought I’d persevere, least of all me. But I have done it. I’ve kept up my diary for over a year. Ariadne sneered when I started. She actually sneered. ‘I’ll give it a fortnight,’ she said. My sister, my own flesh and blood, doubting my resolve. And now I’ve really shown her. I shall go and wave it under her nose and say, ‘See, I’m not a flash in the pan, a five-minute wonder, a here today, gone tomorrow sort of person. I have written something lasting, something that will endure. Future generations will benefit from my incisive, yet entertaining, commentary on life.’
Actually, I think I won’t. I can hear the derisive snort already and, having flicked back through last year’s diary, I can see that a lot of it could come under the category ‘neurotic ramblings’. Besides, poor Ariadne looks so exhausted, what with baby Phoebe and getting ready to go back to work, I don’t think her eyes would stay open long enough to focus. I’m sorry to say she’s also letting herself go. She looks kind of tired and crumpled somehow. And she’s rather plump. Perhaps she doesn’t realize. Perhaps I ought to tell her.
However, I think the diary has achieved its aim. I may not have grown very much spiritually, nor am I any nearer finding my ministry, nor have I been hailed as the next British supermodel, but it has been an eventful year.
I have seen friends come and go, I have a new baby niece and I have gained a fiancé, even if at times I think he is spiritually degenerate. And to cap it all, I weigh half a stone less than I did this time last year.
Tuesday 6 July
Cooki
ng! Why on earth did Charity Hubble volunteer me to do cooking? And baking cakes, at that. She knows I hate cooking. She knows I would rather bungee-jump naked from the bell tower or enter a Michael Jackson look-alike competition than bake a cake. Just because she’s the curate’s wife, is responsible for a one-woman population explosion and dresses like Laura Ashley’s furniture department, just because she was born knowing how to make six different kinds of preserves from fresh fruit, does not give Charity Hubble the right to conscript me into baking for the produce stall at the flaming summer fete.
Wednesday 7 July
Confessed to Kevin about my cake problem. As my future husband, I would expect a little support. Instead, he laughed like a drain as usual (and being a plumber, I suppose he should know how a drain laughs).
‘How do you get yourself into these situations in the first place?’ he guffawed. ‘If you didn’t want to make a cake, why did you volunteer?’
‘I didn’t … it just sort of happened.’
‘What’s it for, anyway?’
‘Oh, a good cause. The village fete. The church has got some stalls there, including a home-made produce stall. Just doing my bit,’ I declared proudly.
‘Village fete? Bit twee isn’t it? I thought your church was into preaching the gospel, fighting for justice and setting the captives free. Where do village fetes come into it?’
I couldn’t answer that one.
Thursday 8 July
I have been reading an excellent book. It’s called I’m Going to be Assertive Now, If That’s OK with You. It’s written by Hiram B. Jefferson III who’s got just loads and loads of degrees and diplomas from all sorts of universities, so he should jolly well know what he’s talking about.
‘Are you a human doormat?’ Hiram demands.
‘Yes, I am,’ I answer.
‘Do you say yes when you mean no?’ he inquires.
‘Yes I do—I mean no I don’t, I mean yes but I want to say no!’
‘Then take control. You have a right to your feelings and a right to express those feelings. Use positive statements such as “I am …”, “I will …”, to show those who would wipe their feet on you that here’s one doormat who’s gonna stand up and say “No more!”’
I decided, for once, to have it out with Charity. I’m not really a coward who shies away from confrontation; it’s just that she is impossible to argue with. An encounter with Charity Hubble always seems to end with her making me say the opposite to what I really think. How does she do it? How will she stand up to Hiram B. Jefferson III?
Friday 9 July
Found a box of stink bombs, knife-through-the-head headbands and synthetic dog poop in the bottom drawer of Declan’s old filing cabinet today. His practical jokes used to drive me up the wall when he worked here. I wondered how he had managed to become a section supervisor when he seemed to spend so little time working and so much time playing practical jokes. But since he left, work seems a lot duller. Safer, yes: there is no danger of finding the toilet covered with cling film or discovering your coat pockets are full of cold spaghetti or standing up to find that your shoelaces have been tied together—but for some perverse reason I actually miss all that. Even the extra pay and status (ha! It’s all very well being made a section supervisor but I was the only person on the section so now I’m just supervising myself) doesn’t make up for it. I wonder how Declan is getting on in Manchester. I wonder what kind of priest he will make.
Saturday 10 July
I finally tracked Charity down outside the post office, with baby Methuselah in a pram and three other hamsterfaced offspring in tow as she stuffed Nigel’s mail into the post box.
I pounced.
‘Charity, why did you put my name down for baking a cake when you know I hate cooking?’
She paused for a moment to wipe a dribbly trail of slime away from baby Methuselah’s mouth and to restrain Ahimelech, who was trying to climb the pillar box, then turned to me, beaming.
‘I thought it would be a wonderful opportunity to practise. After all, you’ll have to cook for Kevin after you’re married, unless of course you’re hiring help. One never knows with you “career women”.’
Her eyes twinkled mischievously, and I suddenly saw a side to Charity I hadn’t believed existed. If she hadn’t been so unbearably holy I would have called it ‘devilment’. She was really enjoying this.
‘Of course not,’ I retorted, much too quickly. Once again my mouth was moving faster than my brain and I realized that unless we planned to live on takeaways for our entire married life, cooking something at some point was inevitable. And Charity knew it. She just wanted to make me suffer. I panicked.
‘Kevin can cook,’ I blurted. This was a lie. Kevin can eat. In fact Kevin could eat for England. I have yet to find something Kevin won’t eat; even Kippers in Garlic Mayonnaise somehow found their way down his gullet without complaint.
But Kevin can’t cook. His mum has seen to that.
‘Super! Then I can put him down for a cake too.’
‘No! No, he’ll be far too busy, what with work and everything. B … besides, have you thought about the places plumbers have to put their hands? Yuck, even I wouldn’t eat a cake he had touched.’
‘So you can make two, one for you and one on his behalf.’
‘Charity! I know you’re doing this on purpose. I don’t do cooking. When I put my name on that list to help out, you know and I know that I didn’t put it under anything to do with baking, boiling, fricasseeing or any other kind of food preparation.’
‘Do you know where you did write it?’
My brain searched the archives. No record found.
Charity reached into her enormous handbag and pulled out a neatly folded piece of paper. She opened it and waved it under my nose. True, my name was not on the list of people volunteering to bake cakes. Nor was anyone else’s. My name appeared at the bottom under ‘anything’, a section created for people who were either so versatile that they could turn their hand to any task or so ineffectual that they had no particular talents. I definitely fell into the latter category. My indecisiveness had once again become my downfall. Charity had spotted my weakness and gone in for the kill. I bet Hiram B. Jefferson III himself would be no match for Charity Hubble.
‘Well, you did say you’d do anything,’ she said, fluttering her eyelids coyly. At that point Ahimelech made a dash for the road and Charity had to scurry off to apprehend him. Otherwise I would have told her …
Sunday 11 July
There was a correction in today’s Church Organ.
It was reported in last week’s publication that the Street Evangelism Team would be offensive in spreading the gospel around the village in the next few weeks. This item should have read that the Street Evangelism Team would be on the offensive, spreading the gospel. The editor apologizes sincerely for this error.
I have the uneasy feeling that the editor was right in the first place.
Monday 12 July
Kevin’s five-a-side team is taking part in an exchange with a French club this summer. First they’re coming over here, staying with English supporters, then the English are going to stay in France for a fortnight. Kevin has asked me (a breakthrough in itself—in our relationship so far, I’ve been lucky if he’s even informed me he’s going) if he can go with them.
He has also decided to better himself and learn the language. He has an ambition to be able to order a beer in twenty different languages.
I hope he has more luck learning French than my mother has had learning Greek. Despite having a love for the country that borders on obsession, her attempts to speak Greek have been little short of disastrous. My mother is enough to make the Linguaphone lady resign. The other day she informed us that Archimedes jumped in the bath and shouted, ‘Euthanasia!’
More of the Hilarious, Sparkling and Endearing Diaries of a Thirty-something Christian, Theodora Llewellyn
Theodora’s Wedding
Faith, Love & Chocolate<
br />
Penny Culliford
I’ve actually done it! I’ve kept up my diary for over a year.
I may not have grown very much spiritually, nor have I been hailed as the next British supermodel, but I have gained a fiancè, even if he is football mad. And to cap it all, I weigh half a stone less than I did this time last year.
Welcome back to Theodora’s world. Now a bit older but not much wiser, Theodora Llewellyn begins her second year as a diarist. And as usual, the results are endearing, hilarious and delightfully human.
In her search for life, love and a plentiful supply of chocolate, Theodora discovers that the course of true love never runs smoothly, especially when a voice from the past precipitates a crisis. But fear not—Theodora’s humor and wit are up to the challenge. In the end, just one question remains unanswered: Exactly how much vitamin C is there in a chocolate orange?
Softcover ISBN 0-310-25039-0
Pick up a copy today at your favorite bookstore!
More of the Hilarious, Sparkling and Endearing Diaries of a Thirty-something Christian, Theodora Llewellyn
Theodora’s Baby
Faith, Joy & Chocolate
Penny Culliford
I’m not sure I’m cut out for parenthood. It’s not in my plan. All right, I haven’t actually got a plan, but if I had one, this wouldn’t be in it. I don’t even like—babies-nasty, small, noisy, smelly things that take over your life. But this is a different baby. This is not just a baby; this is our baby …”
Newlywed Theodora discovers a slight oversight she and Kevin made on their honeymoon. Now she’s gained an important new subject for her famous diary—but at such a cost!
Theodora's Diary Page 22
