In the Midst of Life

sibling in the Doherty family, Priscilla, was a successful accountant who lived in Durham with her husband and children. She maintained a good relationship with Jamie, although they did not see each other all that often. Their sister, Maggie, was a freelance journalist for women’s magazines, and a writer of romantic short stories. She had struggled to hit the big time, but had never quite managed it. She was unmarried, but had had a succession of men, each of whom she maintained she loved, and whom her mother hoped would prove to be ‘Mr Right’. But something always happened, and the relationship broke down.
    Maggie loved her mother and her brother and sister deeply. They were her anchor in life. She also loved her nephew and nieces as if they were her own and she was a great favourite with all of them, because she was fun, she was lively, and she was full of brightideas about interesting things to do and places to go to. They loved listening to her stories, and boasted to their school friends about their auntie who was a writer. When she was ‘between jobs’ she always went to stay with Jamie or Priscilla and enjoyed their family life. It reminded her of her own childhood.
    Maggie had been her father’s favourite, and she missed him dreadfully. There was an ache in her heart that would not go away, and she knew that he had been the man of her life, and that there would probably be no one to replace him. ‘But at least I’ve got my brother and sister, and Mummy.’ she thought (though she was over forty she still clung to the childhood ‘Mummy’). And when the brittle existence of a freelancer overwhelmed her, she turned to her mother for comfort. She had been deeply unhappy when the old house was sold. With it, she felt, were sold all her associations with the past.
    The Women’s Institute does not immediately conjure up pictures of fast and furious living. But it is not everyone who wants a frenetic lifestyle, and certainly not Mrs Doherty. ‘I leave that to the young,’ she would say, as she watched her sixteen-year-old granddaughter spend the entire day beautifying herself to go out with her boyfriend to a party. ‘The party doesn’t start until ten o’clock – it won’t end until the small hours of the morning. Bliss!’ sighed the girl.
    ‘You enjoy yourself, dear. I’ve got cakes to make for the WI jumble sale in the church hall this afternoon and I must get on.’
    ‘Boring,’ said her granddaughter with a pitying sigh. ‘Poor Granny!’ and she flitted off.
    ‘Boring? Not a bit of it,’ thought Mrs Doherty, as she sieved the flour and rubbed in the butter. Her life was as full and rich as the cake she was making. Each week she spent an afternoon at the local hospice helping with the mobile library; an afternoon at the hostel for battered women, listening to horrifying stories of violence and abuse; a morning at the primary school helping the slow readers group. She was the backbone of the flower arranging ladies at the church; second contralto in the local choir; a readerto the blind; a collector for Christian Aid; and a tea lady for the local cricket club, not to mention a full-time grandmother to four lively children, the eldest of whom had just informed her that her life was boring.
    The local branch of the WI went from strength to strength when Mrs Doherty took over the chair. She threw herself into the task and, with real flair, organised the members into doing things they had never imagined, such as a sponsored cycle ride for grandmothers, a visit to a shipbuilders, a trip in an air balloon. Day trips to cathedrals and stately homes are old hat, she thought, so what about an outing to a metal foundry, an RAF base, a lifeboat station? For three years the Women’s Institute fizzed under Mrs Doherty’s competent guidance.
    The ladies were enjoying a guided tour through the sewers of London. They had to wear special clothing, boots and hats. After an explanation of the safety precautions, with some trepidation they set off. The guide related the history of the sewers, how raw sewage had been dumped directly into the Thames until the mid-Victorian era, when London was awash with effluvia. The fear of cholera breeding in stagnant cesspits was very real.
    One of the ladies muttered, ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’
    The guide was unsympathetic. ‘It’s the methane gas,’ he explained. ‘It’s quite a pleasant smell when you get used to it.’
    The group continued on