‘G’day, Mr Wedgwood. Sit down! You look as if you could do with a cup of hot brew.’
‘I feel I must speak to you most urgently, Reverend.’
‘Go ahead.’
Jeremiah’s rheumy eyes scanned the motley collection of villagers. ‘It’s not right. It’s just not right.’ He drew a deep, hissing breath and pointed at Digger. ‘And you, the worst of all, associating yourself with this … this devil’s brood!’
‘Oh, come on!’ Digger gave a little laugh, trying to make light of it, but Jeremiah obviously saw nothing to laugh at.
‘This place, Reverend, is supposed to be the house of God. You’ve turned it into a den of iniquity.’
Digger was no longer smiling.
‘Now look, Jeremiah, there is a time and a place for airing your views and opinions, but this is neither…’
‘Look!’ Jeremiah pointed wildly at a young woman with a child on her knee. ‘That harlot has brought shame on this place.’
‘I think we’d better make this a private chat.’ Digger attempted to take his arm and guide him towards the door. The conversation and laughter in the hall ground to a halt as all eyes turned towards the two men.
‘Unhand me, you brute! You call yourself a man of God, yet you condone sin and attempt to silence those who speak out against it.’
‘I don’t care what you think about me, but I will not stand here and listen to you insulting these people who have turned to the Church for help.’
‘They don’t want help from the Church; they haven’t turned to God.’ Jeremiah’s eyes blazed with a kind of fervour. ‘They are here to milk us, to take all they can from weak and foolish men, then continue in their sin and depravity. Do you really think for one moment that these Sabbath-breakers, these idolaters, these fornicators, will want anything to do with this place once the snow has cleared?’
I held my breath, longing for this uncomfortable scene to end.
‘I think you may be right,’ answered Digger. ‘I’m well aware that some people here may never set foot inside the building again.’
There was an embarrassingly long pause as he looked at the people in the hall.
‘I’m also aware that many people here may have done things wrong. They may very well be all those things you say. And you are certainly right when you call me weak and foolish. I’m taking a risk. But I’m taking it because I’m trying to do what I think God wants me to do. I know it sounds corny, but I’m trying to do what Jesus would have done. He would not have turned people out into the snow, whatever they believed. He came to earth to show God’s love and mercy to imperfect, sinful people and, God knows, I’m one of them.’
‘You can say that again!’ Jeremiah turned and stalked out of the door, flinging it wide and leaving it to slam closed behind him.
For a moment the room held its breath.
Then the silence shattered like ice on a pond as people coughed, looked away and resumed their conversations in guarded whispers.
‘Oh, lovely, just like the war,’ muttered Mrs McCarthy.
A child knocked over a cup of orange squash and I rushed to catch it, seizing the cup just before it hit the floor. After the cost of hiring the carpet shampooer to rectify the ‘Bert Wilberforce Coffee Fiasco’ last year, St Norbert’s regulars have rivalled the England cricket fielders for their speed and dexterity in catching cups and the like to prevent spillage.
When I looked round, Digger had gone.
I went into the kitchen to find a cloth (in my ‘Howzat!’ celebration, I had accidentally slopped some juice). He was standing at the sink, staring out of the window.
‘Well done! You certainly put old Jeremiah in his place. And you preached the gospel, too. Two birds with one stone,’ I grinned.
‘No, I didn’t do well at all,’ he replied soberly. ‘I failed completely. I’ve lost Jeremiah’s respect and friendship, and those people won’t remember the gospel. All they’ll remember is the day the vicar stood up and bawled out one of his congregation in front of the entire village.’
I didn’t know what to say. I picked up a cloth from the draining board and slunk out to try to salvage the carpet.
Sunday 31 January
Just returned from a rather subdued morning service. Digger looked preoccupied and I couldn’t help gazing at the empty pew where Jeremiah usually sat. No one mentioned the incident in the hall, but it felt as if everyone was thinking about it. I vehemently disagreed with almost everything that Jeremiah did or said, but I still felt his absence acutely and painfully. He was part of the family.
February
Monday 1 February
That woman, honestly! I’m sure she was sent to be the ‘thorn in my flesh’. Charity Hubble, the human baby factory. She’s expecting again! Eight kids and another on the way—surely that’s plain greedy. She thinks that, just because she has single-handedly (well, not quite singlehandedly; obviously Nigel had some input) doubled the population of the Home Counties, she has the right to criticize my lifestyle and relationships. I must learn to stand my ground.
She hunted me down in the post office, which doubles as a newsagent and general store, just as I was buying my copy of Cosmopolitan (I only get it for the recipes) and another tub of cottage cheese (this time with pineapple chunks to try to disguise the taste). Charity was lurking in her flowery frock on the other side of the magazine rack like a huge, prowling Laura Ashley sofa. I tried to dodge past before she spotted me and head round, via the crusty rolls, to the counter and out of the door. Unfortunately, it was ‘Granny Day’ at the post office counter and my escape route was blocked by a queue of OAPs collecting their pensions.
‘Theodora, I’m glad I ran into you again,’ she effused.
‘How are you after all that dreadful snow?’
I shuffled my Cosmo behind the Radio Times and tub of cottage cheese in an effort to appear a more solid and respectable citizen. ‘I’m fine thanks, Charity,’ I said, glancing at her pansy-covered maternity dress. ‘And you? Blooming again, so I see.’
‘Yes,’ she smiled coquettishly, patting her bulge. ‘Children bring such joy and contentment to a woman’s life. I can honestly say that I never felt complete until I had my family. When you get to our age, it’s comforting to know that you’ll never be alone with the warmth and love of a family surrounding you.’
She seemed to drift off into a Little House on the Prairie daydream and I seized the opportunity to wave a hurried little ‘Must go, bye…’ and scurried off to the checkout.
‘When you get to our age’—honestly! I’m only 29.
Tuesday 2 February
CANDLEMAS
Everybody I know is having babies!
Wednesday 3 February
Well, obviously not everybody—not the men.
Thursday 4 February
Or the old women.
Friday 5 February
Or me.
Saturday 6 February
As I finished off my tub of cottage cheese with pineapple chunks, I thought about Ariadne and my conversation with the fecund Charity in the post office last week. It’s not that I don’t want children, in fact I definitely don’t not want them. Just not when she thinks I ought to have them. The white lumpy cheese suddenly curdled in my mouth (actually cottage cheese is already curdled, isn’t it?) as I thought of my biological clock ticking away. What if, when I feel ready to have children, I find I can’t have them? What if years of sitting in draughty football grounds has had a detrimental effect on Kevin’s reproductive capabilities? Even if I decide tomorrow that I want to have children, I still need to get Kevin to propose (say two years minimum), save up for a wedding (at least another five years), buy a house (10 years at least), earn enough money to be able to afford children (at this rate at least 20 years), allow a couple of years to conceive, plus nine months’ gestation. Good grief. I’ll be about 107 before I get to change the first Pampers!
Pineapple chunks do not disguise the taste. I wonder if you can buy chocol
ate-flavour cottage cheese?
Sunday 7 February
Family Service today. It was the sort of service which, in its desire to please the entire congregation, ended up pleasing nobody. The adults felt the children’s sermon was patronizing; the children got bored during the prayers and started pinching each other and giggling. The elderly people complained about the number of choruses; the young people thought there were too many hymns. I think that God was probably the only one who enjoyed all of it.
Wednesday 10 February
Bought Kevin a Valentine’s Day card with a picture of a cute teddy bear on it. It didn’t seem very appropriate, but I couldn’t find one with a picture of a slug.
Thursday 11 February
Booked a table at Amigos, a Tex-Mex restaurant, to celebrate Valentine’s Day. Kevin wanted a curry, but I insisted he tried something different. Besides, they do some fantastic salads and they are rumoured to have cottage cheese fajitas on the menu. He spent the rest of the evening sulking.
‘Oh, come on. It’s got chilli in it. I’m sure you’ll hardly notice the difference.’
‘That’s not the point. When I go out for an Indian, I expect Gandhi, not Sitting Bull…’
Friday 12 February
Now, I know that I think children are an abomination. I know that I’d rather juggle dead hedgehogs than hold a baby. I know that all children are smelly, impertinent, germ-laden organisms which rate only slightly above bacteria on the evolutionary scale. I know that I believe they should be sent away to boarding school, preferably between the ages of 2 and 20, but that doesn’t mean I’d make a bad mother. Does it?
Saturday 13 February
It took nearly an hour to thaw Kevin out with a fan heater and a hairdryer this evening. He went to the match on the back of Jez’s motorcycle. Apparently he couldn’t bend his legs to sit down until half-time.
Sunday 14 February
ST VALENTINE’S DAY
Kevin at least had the grace to enjoy the meal at Amigos. I gave him the card with the teddy on it and he asked me if, by any chance, I’d happened to receive one. This morning a card came through my letterbox—a saucy picture of a French maid wearing black stockings, suspenders and a frilly apron. I knew it was from Kevin, even though he hadn’t signed it. The greasy fingerprints and scorch marks from his blowtorch were a giveaway. The verse inside read:
I’d love you in yellow,
I’d love you in red,
But most of all, darling,
I’d love you in …
In what? Kevin refused to explain. What’s the point of sending someone a message if they don’t understand it?
‘It rhymes with red, and it’s somewhere I’d very much like to go with you one day,’ was all the explanation he’d offer.
Monday 15 February
If, and I emphasize if, I ever have children, I will never be as inconsiderate with their names as my mother was with ours. Names become part of you and if you’re unfortunate enough to be called Wincyette Pilchard or Algernon Grope, your personality, as you grow up, must be influenced by that name. As children, my sister, my brother and I suffered quite appallingly in this department. Ariadne, Theodora and Agamemnon! Honestly, what a burden to saddle your children with! No wonder we all grew up strange. I hope Ariadne and Tom decide on a sensible name for their baby.
Tuesday 16 February
SHROVE TUESDAY
Have decided to give up chocolate for Lent.
Arrived at work to find that Declan had neatly filed cold pancakes among the papers in my pending tray and filled my paperclip holder with maple syrup. If he devoted half the time he spends on thinking up his puerile practical jokes to his work, he would be Managing Director by now.
Wednesday 17 February
ASH WEDNESDAY
There was a special Ash Wednesday service this evening, including a distribution of ashes. Kevin was particularly scathing about our Antipodean vicar performing this ancient ritual.
‘Hmm, it’s about the only time we’re likely to see the Aussies willingly handing over the ashes to the Brits!’
I advised him to stick to football.
The service itself was short and simple. I wondered if Jeremiah would come, but he didn’t. At the end of the service, we went forward and Rev. Graves dipped his finger in the ash (last year’s palm crosses burned and mixed with a little oil) and drew a cross on each person’s forehead. I looked around at the familiar faces, each tainted with a little smudge of grey. I felt vulnerable, as if I’d just stood up in front of everybody and admitted to all the things I’d ever done wrong.
It wasn’t just me, though. We all wore the mark that acknowledged our failures, our weaknesses, our sins. I looked at Charity Hubble’s smudged forehead. She had, as far as I knew, never even returned a library book late. Slimy Roger Lamarck’s leer was for once absent. Miss Chamberlain sat smiling, comfortable with her faults and content that she was forgiven. I longed to spit on my hankie and wipe the cross from her forehead. Surely she didn’t deserve it? Even Digger looked grim. We were all joined in the kinship of imperfect humanity. I know that’s always the case—it was just that today we owned up to it. Today we wore an outward sign of the side of us we usually try so hard to hide.
I cried.
Thursday 18 February
The message in the Valentine’s Day card has clicked. I never thought that Kevin saw me in that way. Don’t know whether to be flattered or affronted. Have decided on a bit of both.
Friday 19 February
Accidentally bought a cookie from the bakery with chocolate chips in it. Declan sat and watched, bemused, as I picked them out one by one and ate the remains of the cookie.
Sunday 21 February
Nigel Hubble preached the sermon today. I’ve never seen the congregation so riveted. Their eyes were practically popping out of their heads. He preached about three different Greek words for ‘love’ used in the New Testament, and illustrated each one with a slide on the overhead projector. He had a picture of a church for agape—Christian love; a picture of a family for phileo—friendship; but for eros—sexual love—he put up a picture of a naked woman. It wasn’t quite Penthouse, more Cellulite Monthly, but there was no denying that she was naked. Suddenly he had the full and undivided attention of everyone in the church. The women looked stunned, the men looked delighted, the teenagers giggled. Only Mrs McCarthy, who’s a bit short-sighted, whispered rather loudly, ‘She’s pretty, but I can’t quite make out what she’s wearing.’
Still no sign of Jeremiah.
Monday 22 February
Nearly had chocolate powder on my cappuccino today. Managed to restrain myself just in time.
Wednesday 24 February
The training course started today: Counselling in the Workplace. Eight people from assorted departments in the building gathered in the small training room on the sixth floor. The trainer was an earnest-looking woman called Jules with freckles and rimless glasses. After the ‘ice-breaker’ (or ‘creeping death’) when we had to tell the person next to us what we had for breakfast, we learned all about counselling skills.
Jules started the session by talking about body language. She told me that sitting with my arms folded was a defensive gesture and meant that I wasn’t at ease in my surroundings. She asked if I was suffering from ‘anxiety neurosis’ induced by stress in an unfamiliar interactive situation, and said I was not to worry, because the course would provide the ideal platform for addressing and dealing with it. I didn’t like to tell her that the reason I had my arms folded was that my bra-strap had just broken and I was simply trying to hold everything in place.
I confessed to having an ‘underwear insecurity syndrome’, so Jules sympathetically offered to give me space within the medium of the course to explore and come to terms with my condition. I spent nearly all lunchtime with her in a corner of the training room. That left me only two minutes to dash to the loo and fix the strap with a safety pin. I was complimented in the afternoon on my more
open, sharing posture. A victory for her counselling techniques and small, metal fastening devices.
By 4 p.m., I was getting extremely weary of Jules’s high-pitched, pseudo-American voice. I was tempted to ask her how she would interpret my body language if I were to stand in front of her with my hands around her throat.
Someone passed a note round the group arranging to go out to the pub at the end of the day. Jules eyed us suspiciously as we passed the folded paper furtively from person to person when we thought she wasn’t looking. We didn’t invite boring Jules. As we filed out of the door, she shared an ‘affirming’ thought with each of us, saying how important it was to make a person feel embraced within the wider group. As we huddled in the lobby, organizing the kitty, Jules hung her head and trailed forlornly out of the building.
Thursday 25 February
There was a different staff trainer on the course today. Apparently Jules has taken some time off due to stress. She was replaced by Charles. Charles looked about 14 years old and proceeded to develop our counselling skills further. I was beginning to feel like a real expert—just like Clement Freud. The main technique we learned was called ‘reflecting’. When the person you’re counselling tells you something, you’re supposed to ‘reflect’ it back to them, using slightly different words. Presumably the idea is to show that you’re listening and sympathetic to their problems. I think it’s to reassure them that you haven’t nodded off yet.
I drifted off into a daydream where the distressed and depressed would come to me from miles around and, through my caring and patient counselling, would be liberated from all mental oppression. At last, I thought, I’ve discovered my ministry.
We were paired off and given imaginary scenes to role-play. We had to practise ‘reflecting’ by acting out the scene in front of the other people on the course. Unfortunately, one of the other course members had dropped out, so I was paired with Charles. He assumed the role of a colleague who was worried about his work and had come to me for help. This is how the conversation went:
Theodora's Diary Page 13