Phoned Kevin anyway to tell him about the wedding.
‘Oh, great, another one bites the dust,’ he muttered and scurried off to check his fixtures list before deciding if he can come to the ceremony.
Why do I even bother going out with Kevin? Maybe Charity was right. Kevin and I have nothing in common, lead virtually separate lives and argue all the time we’re in the same room. Come to think of it, we’d make an ideal married couple!
Friday 12 March
As I can’t envisage our status as a courtship, I can only think of Kevin as a kind of ministry, a vocation. God has obviously given me Kevin for a purpose, a sort of test. Kevin is my project to prove to God that, although I may not be able to evangelize the world, I can be instrumental in frog-marching one person into the fold.
The first step in assisting Kevin in his transformation is to help him to conform, and to do that he must start to go to church regularly. He shouldn’t spend so much of his time on Sunday mornings working. On Sunday mornings he does all the little plumbing jobs for the old people in the village that he says he can’t fit in during the week, just to avoid going to church. To cap it all, he doesn’t even charge them for the work.
I can’t help feeling that Kevin is a rather major project, though—like an old car that needs to be stripped down and lovingly restored. I just hope that, like so many projects of this kind, I won’t give up halfway through and leave him half-finished with bits going rusty in the corner.
Saturday 13 March
I’m going to start the modification with Kevin’s image. I’ll need to be subtle, so that he doesn’t suspect anything. Obviously, in order to be a churchgoer, you need to look like one, which Kevin certainly doesn’t. No one would pass the inspection of the old ladies at St Norbert’s, let alone the scrutiny of the heavenly bouncer at the Pearly Gates, in a curry-stained football shirt and jeans with gaping holes in the backside. But what does a religious man look like? I’ll check tomorrow at church. If I can get him looking smart for the wedding, that will be a good place to start and the rest is bound to follow.
Overdosed on jelly babies (well, they’re not chocolate, and I didn’t say I would give up all sweets) and ended up feeling sick. There’s just no substitute for the real thing.
Sunday 14 March
Got to church early and sat in a strategic position, halfway down the aisle, in order to observe the men and their attire as they came in. First to arrive was Gregory Pasternak, the incredibly tall, thin, concave-chested organist, wearing a shirt so boldly striped in scarlet, peacock blue and sulphurous yellow that, if you laid him down and carefully arranged his long arms and legs, he could easily pass for a deckchair. Not, I decided, Kevin’s new image at all.
Next in were Maurice and Doris Johnson, wearing matching his’n’hers greyish Arran sweaters, knitted, no doubt, by Doris herself from badger fur collected from the hedgerows. They looked like a 1960’s folk duo. I expected them to burst into ‘Wild Rover’ at any minute. Haute couture? No chance!
Following a lengthy hiatus, the ‘three wise monkeys’ entered—Mrs McCarthy in a floral headscarf, Mrs Epstein in a creation which would have looked more at home at Ascot, and Miss Cranmer apparently wearing a knitted tea-cosy.
Roger Lamarck sauntered in and took his seat in the front pew. Roger has asked me out at least 10 times in the last two years. I eventually ran out of excuses and resorted to the old chestnut about washing my hair. By the time he stopped pestering me, I must have had the cleanest hair in the county.
The three old ladies, deep in conversation, sat in their customary positions at the back of the church in order to clock late arrivals and early departures, their headgear nodding apparently independently of the old ladies themselves. The pews began to fill up with other St Norbert’s regulars. Roger leaned over the back of his pew.
‘Well, well, the lovely Theodora,’ he purred.
I smiled back weakly and tried to ignore the deep brown eyes that had Velcroed themselves onto the hemline of my skirt. This man is oilier than a Greek waiter’s apron after a moussaka-juggling night at the taverna.
‘Oh, morning Roger,’ I acknowledged, giving a casual little wave with my right hand while tugging down my skirt with my left.
‘And how are you on this fine, crisp, bracing morning?’ he oozed.
‘Just fine, thank you,’ I returned sharply.
Then the thought hit me. In spite of his smug narcissism, and the fact that he has a face like a ferret, Roger actually dresses very well: classic navy trousers, a crisp, white linen shirt, understated tie and fine wool jacket. This was it—I’d found Kevin’s new image.
‘Roger, do you mind if I ask you something?’ I cooed in my most beguiling voice.
‘Not at all, my sweet. Any service I can render, just you ask away.’ His eyes this time had fastened themselves just below my neckline.
The headgear in the back row became more and more animated, as three pairs of ears homed into our conversation.
‘Where do you buy your clothes?’
Wednesday 17 March
ST PATRICK’S DAY
Declan says we have St Patrick to thank for the fact that there are no snakes in Ireland. Surely that’s a bit like saying there are no dinosaurs in Hampshire because the New Forest ponies would form a vigilante patrol and frighten them off?
Saturday 20 March
Tried to take Kevin shopping today to get him something civilized to wear, Roger Lamarck-style, to the wedding. Needless to say, he wasn’t exactly overjoyed with the idea. He believes shopping, especially clothes shopping, is some form of torture devised by women to try to control men through the twin processes of humiliation (i.e. being publicly measured by men wielding tape measures with stiff ends) and financial ruin.
I steered him towards the shop recommended by Oily Roger, a ‘Gentlemen’s Outfitters’ with Georgian windows and a sign in Gothic script. He looked around nervously as I propelled him through the brass-furnished door. The shop interior reeked of furniture polish and leather. Racks of suits, sports coats and blazers stood to attention with military precision. A rather chinless young man was browsing through a selection of cravats, finally deciding on antique gold with maroon squares.
Kevin looked desperately uncomfortable. ‘But Theo, I’d wear a new football shirt,’ he whined, ‘with a tie if you want.’
‘Not good enough,’ I snapped. ‘I don’t want you looking like a slob in front of my whole family.’
A grey-suited assistant slid up behind Kevin and cleared his throat resoundingly. Kevin jumped like a startled wallaby and spun round.
‘May I be of assistance to Sir, or is Sir just looking?’
Kevin glanced over his shoulder looking for the ‘Sir’ the assistant was addressing.
‘Can I help you, Sir, at all, in any way?’ the assistant enquired obsequiously. He appeared to be wrestling with the urge to wring his hands and tug his forelock.
‘Yes,’ I replied, taking a firm grasp of the situation and an even firmer grasp of Kevin, who looked as if he was about to make a run for it. ‘We’d like to buy a suit.’
The assistant turned his attention to me. ‘Certainly, Madam. For a special occasion perhaps?’
‘Yes, a wedding,’ I smiled, clinging desperately to a now pop-eyed Kevin.
‘And when is the happy occasion to take place?’ he asked.
‘It’s on 22 May,’ I replied, twisting Kevin’s arm behind his back in a sort of armlock, smiling through gritted teeth and trying to make it look like a loving embrace.
‘A registry office ceremony, naturally,’ stated the assistant, looking Kevin up and down as if he was something unpleasant he’d found stuck under a bus seat.
That riled me. That really riled me.
Who did that stuck-up assistant think he was, implying that Kevin only befitted a civic ceremony?
‘No, a full church wedding, actually. Organist, choirboys, bells, overweight aunts in ridiculous hats, everything,’ I established. �
��And there’ll be a professional film crew in attendance,’ I added huffily.
‘What, may I enquire, will Madam—or should I say Miss—be wearing?’
‘Well, I haven’t decided yet.’ I pondered, mentally cataloguing my wardrobe and envisaging my bank balance. ‘Does it really matter?’
‘Will it be a formal gown or a more casual, modern trousseau? It is important to co-ordinate the bride’s and groom’s outfits.’
Kevin suddenly threw back his head and roared with laughter. ‘No, not us! It’s her brother what’s getting married, not us. He thinks we’re getting married, Theo. What a laugh! Us, married? Ha! That’ll be the day! Come on, let’s get out of here. I’ve had enough. I need a drink. Married! That’s made my day, it really has.’ He shook his head and wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes.
Aware of the condescending eyes of Mr Antique Gold Cravat and the toadying shop assistant, I marched, red-faced, several paces behind the still chuckling Kevin as he wove his way past the clothes racks and out into the street.
Was getting married really such a ridiculous idea? I’d not thought about it much before. I’d just assumed that one day it would happen, a natural progression like summer following spring or indigestion following a curry. Now the bombshell had dropped. Kevin had no more intention of marrying me than Peter Stringfellow had of getting a sensible haircut.
Am I so terrible that not even Kevin, who is, after all spiritually degenerate, will have me?
I sat in silence in the pub, staring into my lemonade as Kevin chatted about his team’s new signings. I was devastated. Kevin seemed totally unaware that my whole life, my vision of the future, had just come tumbling down about my ears like an assemble-it-yourself wardrobe. He was so wrapped up in the new ‘back four’ that he was totally oblivious of the depths of misery into which he had just plunged me.
I said nothing on the way home either. I just sat there giving him loaded ‘I’m extremely upset and you haven’t even noticed’ looks. He pulled up outside my flat and I slammed the van door, intending to stomp off dramatically. The effect was only slightly spoilt by the fact that I’d shut my coat in the door and had to bang on the window to stop him driving merrily away with me still attached.
11 p.m.
Have just spent the most miserable evening of my life without even a bar of chocolate for comfort. My hopes for the future, for marriage, a family, joint membership of the leisure centre, are all shattered. My life has come to an end and he doesn’t even realize it. He’s so insensitive.
1 a.m.
Just phoned Kevin’s number and played ‘I Will Survive’ by Gloria Gaynor down the phone. That will teach him.
Sunday 21 March
Too depressed to go to church this morning. Sat in my pyjamas, ate cooking chocolate—yes, I failed there too—and watched The Morning Service. Why do they show church services on Sunday mornings when anybody who is interested in church would go to a service anyway?
I expect someone from St Norbert’s will be round later to make sure I’m all right. They have a new system of pastoral care to fill the gap since Jeremiah’s departure, ensuring that no one is left suffering or in need. Wonderful idea. It’s at times like these that you really appreciate belonging to a caring Christian community.
8 p.m.
No ‘caring pastoral visitors’. About half an hour ago someone dropped the following letter through the door on St Norbert’s headed paper:
Dear............................................... (Please insert name)
It has been brought to our attention that you (were absent from today’s service/are ill/have recently had a baby/have converted to Catholicism*). Under our ongoing system of pastoral care, we would like to offer (to collect your shopping/to include you in our regular prayer diary/refer you to the appropriate professional services/arrange an audience with the Pope*). If you would like to take advantage of any of these services, please telephone the above number and leave a message on the answering machine. This message will be conveyed to the appropriate church sub-committee within three working days (four if falling within a week containing a religious or public holiday). If the person named on this letter, or their official representative, fails to make contact within one calendar month of the date of postmark, we will assume that our pastoral assistance is no longer required and your name will be removed from our list. In the event of the decease of the recipient of this letter, the case will automatically be passed to the vicar to initiate funeral arrangements.
Yours faithfully,
Xavier F. Huxley
(On behalf of the Parish Pastoral Committee)
*Please delete where appropriate
As I said, it’s at times like these that you really appreciate belonging to a caring Christian community.
Monday 22 March
Couldn’t face work today. Rang up and said I was suffering from ‘the vapours’. I found it in an old medical dictionary. Not quite sure what it is. That should keep them guessing when it comes to filling in their staff sickness forms. I’ve neither heard from nor seen Kevin since Saturday. That proves my point. If he cared for me at all, he would at least have rung. I’m better off without him. I WILL survive.
2 p.m.
Still no word from Kevin. Men are pigs.
8 p.m.
I want him back.
11 p.m.
No I don’t. Not after the way he treated me.
1 a.m.
But I still love him.
Tuesday 23 March
8 a.m.
Couldn’t sleep last night for worrying. I know I complain about him, but think I love Kevin and I miss him now he’s not there. It’s like having an itchy verruca: profoundly irritating at the time, but you miss having something to scratch when it’s gone.
The truth is, I’m scared of being on my own, being left on the shelf. I’ll become a spinster and have to start crocheting coat hangers and give up shaving my legs. I’ll call everyone ‘dear’. I’ll grow roses, eat Rich Tea biscuits and wear lavender perfume and sensible shoes.
I phoned Ariadne because she was going into work early this morning. I know pregnant women shouldn’t become distressed, but I felt this was an emergency. Tom, who seemed even more vague than usual, answered the phone.
‘No thank you, I really don’t require a horse.’
‘Tom, what are you on about? Can I speak to Ariadne, please? It’s Theo.’
‘Oh, sorry Theo. I thought you were trying to give me a horse.’
Why on earth would he think that? There were rummaging noises and my sister’s voice sounded rather irritated. Must be the hormones. ‘What do you want, Theo? I’m late.’
‘Sorry to ring you before work, but … the thing is … I’ve split up with Kevin.’
‘Oh Theo, I am sorry. How are you?’
‘Well, a bit upset really. Look, can I meet you for lunch?’
‘Can’t, I’m afraid, business lunch. Come round for supper.’ She sounded more sympathetic. ‘How’s Kevin coping?’
‘Kevin doesn’t actually know.’
‘How can he not know? You’ve been going out for nearly 10 years!’
‘He doesn’t seem to have noticed yet.’
‘You didn’t think to tell him?’
‘It all happened so quickly on Saturday. I found out he didn’t want to marry me…’
‘You proposed and he turned you down?’
‘Well, no.’
‘But you discussed it.’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Let me get this clear. You haven’t actually bothered to ask Kevin, but you’ve got it into your head that he doesn’t want to marry you. Because of this, you’ve decided that you aren’t going out any more, but you haven’t thought to mention any of this to poor old Kevin.’
‘It wasn’t quite like that…’
‘Theo, sort yourself out. See you tonight.’
The phone clattered back into its rest. I suppose it does sound a bit daft when you say it
like that, but feelings are feelings and Kevin has trampled on mine like a muddy spaniel on a freshly hoovered Axminster.
Why should Tom think I was trying to give him a horse? I worry about that man. Is he fit to be a father?
11 p.m.
Didn’t get much further in sorting out the Kevin thing at supper tonight. Pregnancy hasn’t softened Ariadne. She seemed even more brusque than usual, telling me to pull myself together and talk to Kevin. She doesn’t understand. Kevin is the last person I can talk to.
Forgot to ask Tom about the horse. Maybe this pregnancy has started affecting his mind.
Wednesday 24 March
I suppose I really ought to think about going back to work today.
No, I can’t face it. I think I’ll have a therapeutic day at the seaside. The sea air should blow away the cobwebs, if nothing else. What a silly expression. ‘Blow away the cobwebs’ makes me sound like a dusty attic. On second thoughts, that’s exactly how I feel: neglected, full of old memories and only visited when someone wants something.
I rather optimistically packed suntan lotion, sunglasses and a book to read on the beach and set off, hoping my old car had the perseverance to make it all the way to the coast.
I’d just driven to the end of my road when I spotted Miss Chamberlain struggling with a parcel. I pulled up and wound down the window.
‘Morning, Miss Chamberlain. Would you like a lift somewhere?’
‘Thank you, my dear. I’m just on my way to the post office. That’s very kind of you.’
Theodora's Diary Page 15