The Origins of Derek - Part Two

If you're new to this blog, click here to understand the background to this post. If you don't have time to do that, the short answer is that these are extracts from the diaries of a civil servant called Derek.

25th April, 1955

'This is my first journal. I am keeping it so that I may have a durable record of my thoughts, experiences and views, to read when I am wrinkled and grey and full of years.

I am a student at a technical college, where I am studying for a General Certificate of Education. My age is twenty-two. Since 1952 I had been recovering from Pott's Disease, which is tuberculosis of the spine. Rather than that I should sit around idle, I have been encouraged to get on with my education.'

If I'd had the good sense to read Derek's diaries in chronological order, I would have realised why he was such a hypochondriac, panicking at the slightest twinge of pain or palpitation of the heart. Being struck down with such a debilitating illness at the age of 19 must have been the defining moment in Derek's life.

In a footnote written in the 1980s, Derek writes that:

'Because of ill health, I was not able to work for four years; and they were prime years; and the result was a feeling of worthlessness - as though there were no place for me.'

What sort of person would Derek have become if he hadn't contracted Pott's disease? Would he have still married Brenda? Would he have become a Mormon?

'During the dinner-hour, we (the students) sat on the lawn and talked of God. They were quite surprised to discover that I am a "Mormon". (N.B. I joined the church in July 1954) Lorraine wanted to know how many wives I had. Uninformed girl! She also stated that she believed the New Testament but not the Old. How can people worship half a God?

To accept God is peace of mind, but to accept biology only leads to wondering and the more one wonders, the more sleep one loses. Someday God will speak to all men in a voice that cannot be denied, and them the edifice of Darwinism will crumble to the ground, and become dust beneath the feet of truth. I hope I'm there to see it. My gosh - I do sound intolerant.'

But one of the most appealing things about Derek is his intellectual curiosity. He was a voracious reader and an obsessive collector of secondhand books, covering a wide spectrum of subjects. It is to Derek's credit that he didn't try to maintain his religious faith by closing his mind to other ideas.

28th April 1955

'Introspection is a dangerous habit when indulged in daily. It saps one's spiritual strength, weakens one's will and turns one into a cynic. It is the mark of a lonely man and springs from fear. The introspective man needs to be loved day by day, year by year; but first he must find someone to love and understand him. Fortunately I have Brenda, but how strong is she? How long can I expect her to bear my moods and selfishness with patience?'

Tuesday May 10th 1955

'Brenda has promised me a kiss.'

Friday May 13th, 1955

'I phoned Brenda tonight. We are passing through one of our peaceful periods when passions rest and harmony prevails. This morning, while she was ironing, she looked at the calendar and said "Ha! Ha! - Friday the thirteenth! Wonder what will happen today?" She then turned back to her ironing and found that she had scorched her best jumper.'


Saturday May 14th, 1955

'I am full of hatred: for myself, for my fellows, for everything. And why? Because there is something lacking in my make-up. I have no hope for myself. Poor Brenda! Why can't you leave me alone that I might utterly destroy myself? Why can't you realise that I am mad? Your love is wasted and it can only bring you sorrow. I know myself too well to give you any hope. All I want to do is dissolve and become nothing.'

Thursday May 26th, 1955

'I rose late and went to cast my vote at the General Election. Later, I took Brenda to a concert at the Town Hall. Horror of horrors! We were a week early. We hid our chagrin and went to the News Theatre to watch some cartoons. While we were in there, we ate a bag of bacon sandwiches; so, strangely enough, did the young couple sitting next to us.

After the show, we went and sat under a tree in the churchyard and quarelled. I was in one of my awkward moods: Brenda would not let me kiss her because she had a cold. I shouted at her. Then we were both silent. After a while I apologized and we went to "Ernies", a very ritzy restaurant. We had a mixed grill and I explained the "celestial order" to her.

We then left "Ernies" and went back to the churchyard and did a little hugging. Then we parted. We shall not be seeing each other for a week.'

Monday May 30th, 1955

'At last I have finished reading the book on flying saucers I borrowed from the chapel library. The conclusion the author arrives at is: the saucers come from Mars, they are manned by insects - possibly bees which have been found to be capable of communicating with each other - hypothetically a mark of intelligence; they come to earth beacuse they fear that we will start a chain reaction with one of our atom bombs that will blow the earth to dust and, thus, fill the atmosphere with a dense cloud of particles that will shut off the precious though small amount of sunshine that Mars receives.

By studying us, the bees hope to gauge their chances of survival by us not setting off an atom bomb.

The bees are supposed to build their machines by bending quartz crystals, which thus generate electricity and grow larger if fed upon quartz powder. The whole book is a fascinating hypothesis. I enjoyed it; and might add: "What is in the realm of imagination is within the realm of possibility."'

Thursday 23rd June, 1955

'This afternoon I met Brenda in town and we then invaded a hairdressing salon, whose entrance is situated in a dingy cellar. Brenda trotted up some well-carpeted stairs and entered an office to complain about the way her hair was done. Of course there were protests.

"But, madam, Mr Jacquis comes from London."'

"So do I," responded Brenda.

And so Cockney wit won the day and the "man from London" has promised to do Brenda's hair again..

It is a strange experience reading Derek's first diary. Many of the familiar elements are there: the irrelevant anecdotes, millenarist allusions and moments of self-doubt. But this is a young man's journal - more passionate and less Pooterish than the middle-aged Derek.

Derek is rather hazy about about what he wants from the future, but he is quite certain that he wants to marry Brenda, even if their courtship appears to have been a rocky one at times.

Two years later, Derek gets his girl and it is heartbreaking to contrast the optimism and hope of the young married couple with the diaries from the 1980s, when Derek and Brenda's relationship appears to have been ground down by ill fortune and difficult circumstances.

But it is easy to be positive and optimistic when you are 22, and aren't weighed down by the ballast of wrong decisions, squandered opportunities and plain bad luck. The real challenge comes later, when you are faced with the choice between descending into bitterness and self-pity, or making the best out of what life has dealt you.

Derek clearly picked the latter path, finding fulfillment in the simple pleasures of the home and the fellowship of his local Mormon church. When adversity struck, his saving grace was a sense of humour and, probably, a fatalistic belief that all events were part of a divine plan.

Perhaps Derek was right.

By now, his diaries should be decomposing on a landfill site. Instead, Derek now enjoys a worldwide audience.

Derek would cite divine intervention, but I want to know more about those Martian bees first.

The Origins of Derek - Part One

About a year ago, a strange consignment of books turned up at work, stored in a large cage - the type that Hannibal Lecter was incarcerated in during the opening scenes of 'Silence of the Lambs'. Within the hour, someone from the warehouse marched up to my desk and told me that I needed to sort through the stock that day or else it would be thrown away.

I don't like going down to the warehouse. My workplace is like H.G. Wells' 'Time Machine', with the Eloi working in comfortable, air conditioned offices, whilst the Morlocks occupy a noisy, dark, subterranean complex, full of large machines. I feel guilty that I have a comfortable swivel chair and can come and go as I please without clocking in, but the survival instinct is even stronger.

I promptly donned a hi-vis jacket and made sure that I was armed with a bright light (flaming torches set off the smoke alarms).

The selection of books ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous. There were many historical and literary titles in immaculate condition, but also a number of bizarre books published by small presses, most of which asserted that the Earth was only a few thousand years old. One claimed to have conclusive evidence that humans and dinosaurs co-existed.

At the time, I had no idea that I was looking at Derek's book collection.

I wish I'd had more time to peruse Derek's library, but we were under pressure to clear the space as quickly as possible and had to make snap decisions about what to keep. Towards the bottom of the cage, someone found a box full of foolscap folders and called me over to have a look. To my amazement, there were thousands of pages of typed and handwritten A4 sheets, plus a few exercise books - a diary of someone's entire adult life, spanning a period from the early 1950s through to the 1990s.

"Chuck it?" I was asked. Horrified, I shook my head and said that I needed to know more about the contents. They were sent up to a storage are in the warehouse, where I thought that the diaries would be safe, but a few hours later I noticed that a box was missing. I quickly moved the remains and took them to my office.

Later, during a quiet moment, I started to read the contents and realised that I had found something wonderful. But what should I do with Derek's diaries? Simply keeping them wasn't much better then throwing them away. These diaries were written to be read.

In my last entry, I wrote about the moral dilemmas of blogging and in the case of Derek's diaries, I have often wondered about the ethics of publishing someone's private papers. However, I feel quite certain that faced with a choice between seeing his life's work pulped or having extracts published on the internet, Derek would have chosen the latter.

But rather than speculate, let's hear from Derek himself. In 1980, he typed up his first journal from 1955, adding footnotes and this telling preface:

"My early journals, and the later one some people might declare, make me squirm when I read them now. They are full of self-pity, mawkish sentiment, selfish opinions, and abysmal writing. Were it not that I truly believe that "the child is the father of the man", in that the person I am now is a sort on omnibus composed of many pieces bought forward from that stumbling past, I would confine those journals to the fire without any compunction. But we all of us like to brood upon beginnings, seeds sown, passions formed, the foundations of character and personality, and I am no exception to that rule.

When I am going through a period of self-examination, especially my faults, I strive to trace what I find within my inner depths to original seeds. This is profitable in conveying lessons to others. Knowledge by experience is of far more value than any wisdom gained from books. So, though my journals are full of many weaknesses, perhaps there are unobserved lessons in them that will help others, particularly my posterity in the days that lie ahead."

Posterity is a word that Derek uses frequently, but it isn't a reference to a nebulous collection of people in the future. For Derek, posterity means his descendants:

"As to that posterity, I hope they will not think me the worst of their ancestors. I am arrogant; but I see my arrogance and am always quickly repentant of it. I am foolish, too. By this I mean that I have a sense of humour that often gets out of hand and manifests itself in stupid speeches and foolish remarks, many of the out of place. On occasion I also play practical jokes, many of them of a literary ilk. At the same time it is a sense of humour that has enabled me to pass through many dark places and to observe the desparate side of funny situations.

If any legend goes down to my posterity concerning the man I was, it may well be the fact that I loved to collect books, even to the detriment of the welfare of my family on occasion. At the present time I have about four thousand volumes about me; I cannot pass a bookshop without pausing to browse."

I'm glad that Derek never knew that his 'posterity' would one day consign his diaries and the beloved book collection to oblivion.

Derek at Christmas

(If you're new to this blog, click here, here, here, here, here, here and here to understand the background to this post)

My mother has now been living with us for eight weeks and the cracks are starting to appear. When she was bed-ridden things were fine. All we had to do was bring up a tray of food three times a day and stop by for the odd chat. Most of the time, she slept.

But several weeks of rest and good food has restored my mother back to health and she likes to come downstairs and sit on the sofa.

All bloody day.

It would help if we were able to talk about different subjects, but her only topic of conversation seems to be other people's illnesses. When I tried talking about my ongoing efforts to learn French, my mother replied:

"Well Janet went on a course and became fluent, but then she was diagnosed with motor neurone disease, so I don't suppose she'll need it now."

If this is what it's like after eight weeks with someone whose only fault is to have a limited repertoire of topics of conversation, what must it have been like for Derek and Brenda, who spent years living with the infamous "Nanna"?

Today's extracts come from December 1984. Sadly, Nanna does not appear to have succumbed to the Christmas spirit:


A curious Saturday, with Nanna doing her incredibly lifelike impersonation of the devil in full spate. She accused Brenda and myself of being cunning; and accused Brenda of being corrupted by the evil of my family. And all because we did her the favour of clearing furniture out of her flat, so that a new tenant could move in next Monday. My thoughts are fearful concerning her and what she does to my wife.

I lay in bed awhile this morning and talked with Brenda, mentioning my concern that we seemed to have reached a plateau in our relationship with no discernible spiritual progress. She agreed with this and then mentioned that part of the problem was that she never really felt well, plus her waning energy, and more importantly, her mother's malign daily effect on her. Though we could think of few remedies, it was good to get some thoughts out into the open that we might at least draw closer by reason of speaking of hidden and frustrating things.


It is little wonder that Derek and Brenda's relationship has lost its sparkle, when most of their spare time is taken up with looking after a mentally handicapped son and an elderly mother. It is heartbreaking to read Derek's first diaries, from the 1950s, when he and Brenda were so full of hope and optimism.

Derek maintains his sanity by keeping his diary and cherishes the moments when he can sit in his "library" and gather his thoughts:


I am in my room , listening to popped-up classics, and tapping away at these so-familiar keys. I must have written many millions of words over the years. How many of them will remain? Few, I opine. And how much of a writing style do I really have? Does my personality shine through the sentences, or do they only convey dryness and boredom, that which is learned through the roteness of pedantic learning and is made up of cliche and circumlocution?

I try to be as precise and simple as I can in what I write, but rarely compose my thoughts into a pattern of rich density that will convey in interesting fullness that which I wish to convey. My fingers fly off too quickly as is evidenced by the large number of words in this journal that suffer a transposition of letters. But which is of more importance--the message or the medium?


Many of Derek's diary entries faithfully record the minutiae of his daily life:


Last night when I arrived home, I found things rather chaotic. Brenda was busy boiling the Christmas puddings, trying to make a cornbeef hash, and coping with several acres of washing. During the day, she met with men from the mini-auction rooms who strongly rejected Nana's refrigerator and gas stove; and she took delivery of our replacement bed from Owen Owen, the other that we had having sprung a spring and caused a nasty scratch on Brenda's leg.

Later we visted Alan and Dora Burchett. They were sitting quietly at home, peace palpatating from the walls.


Occasionally, there is also a little excitement:


When I got home last night, I found Brenda surrounded by mounds of drying washing, the dinner uncooked, and her mother sitting in the front room, her first venture down in quite a while. Brenda was not too happy. Her day had gone somewhat awry.

Nanna's venture down was to the purpose of making out a list of the things she wanted from the shops, and she expected Brenda to do the traipsing about that day. So Brenda ventured forth and arrived at Tesco's and lo! as she arrived, an Arab man, accompanied by a young woman, came out of the entrance. The Arab was immediately followed by another man who seized him with the words, "I am making a citizen's arrest; you stole an old lady's bag of shopping."

The Arab tried to shake him off, telling him not to be so stupid, the bag of shopping was his, he saw it just standing there. At this point, ladies came pouring out of the shop, shouting and gesticulating, all intent on grabbing the Arab. As usual on such occasions not a policeman was to be seen. The Arab shook off the erstwhile citizen and made off with the bag of shopping. At this point Brenda got stubborn, being unwilling that the man should get away just like that, so she followed the Arab along the High Street until she found a woman policeman, who promptly called for reinforcements.


But the magic of Derek's diaries is that after writing a mundane entry about his vegetables, or Brenda's headaches, he will suddenly come out with an extraodrinary paragraph like this:


I have a most powerful testimony of pre-existence. I know that I lived with Heavenly Parents, before I came here, in celestial mansions. They gave life and progress to that existence our Father organized, an intelligence that has always existed, but which was locked in the silence and vastness of dark space without the possibility of progress until His love and law gave me spiritual life. I do not know my spiritual age. I believe it to be several thousands of years and that I stood in His presence in the Grand Council of Kolob when the Plan of Salvation was presented to us.


Meanwhile, on Planet Earth, Derek celebrates his birthday:


Upon this murky, forsaken morning I became 52 years of age and hardly look a day over twenty-five! But I suppose a mirror can lie, so too much credence ought not to be placed upon what I see reflected in my mirror each morning!


But in spite of the presence of Nanna, a succession of mysterious illnesses and constant financial worries, Derek does not feel sorry for himself. Perhaps this is because he appears to have been a man who was loved; not only by his family, but also by Derek's friends, colleagues and members of the local church.

Derek's diaries contain letters from many different people and the one consistent thread running through all of them is a sense of great affection towards him. For all his absurdities - the Pooterish prose, the Hooked-on-Classics albums and the rabbits, bounding up and down the hallway - Derek's life was not a failure.

I bet Derek's funeral was packed to the rafters.

Derek in 1980

If you're new to this blog, you will be unaware of the growing cult of Derek. Click here, here, here, here, here, here and here to understand the background to this post. If you don't have time to do that, the short answer is that these are extracts from the diaries of a civil servant called Derek.

Here he is in the 1950s:

The end of the 1970s was a turning point in Derek's life. He had been a devout Mormon since his 20s and now, in his middle years, an opportunity had arisen to become a bishop within the church. It would mean moving almost 200 miles away to a town in the West Country, but neither Derek nor Brenda seemed to have had any reservations. Their three daughters were now adults and were busy making their way in the world. Derek and Brenda's teenage son was a different story. He would never leave.

'And so our son reaches his birthday. Each year is a bonus. And what of his birthday? Well, it started with gifts, including a set of sound-affected lights so that he can have blinking lights while playing his records and thus be a real disco fanatic. Unfortuntately two of the bulbs were broken. He had also received an Abba tape and a case for his favourite cassette tapes. And as a bonus, I gave him 200 sheets of his favourite paper for copying what he refers to as "details" - items from the Radio Times. He has a marvellous memory for details concerning radio and television programmes. One only has to ask him who is reading the news for the week and out comes the answer.'

Derek's paternal pride is particularly touching, because his son is mentally handicapped.

Like every other journal of Derek's, he complains of mysterious aches and pains that blight his daily life. They are clearly largely psychosomatic, but Derek seems oblivious to this. It never occurs to him that the strain of caring for a handicapped son and a belligerent mother-in-law should have any impact on Derek's health.

Occasionally, Dereks maladies affect his performance at work:

'I was much troubled by hypertension last night, and in fact most of yesterday. I spent my lunch break in the gallery at the Registrar Office, lying on a roll of corrugated brown cardboard and a borrowed cushion, trying to relax away the stress that causes my system to creak and groan like an ancient motor engine. If the weather had been better I would have lain on the roof - an excellent place for catching the sun and avoiding the wind (external). However, this luxuriating can get me into difficulty, for on Thursday I was on the roof, ensconced between two gables, and dropped off to sleep. Since I was assinged to two marriages there was considerable panic. At last, David Hooker decided to search the roof and found me. Jeers and laughter arose from the staff as I made my humble way down the stairs; it was counted as the funiest event in some time.'

Another theme that recurs in each journal is Derek's conviction that his diaries will be an invaluable legacy for his children and grandchildren:

'I mentioned my idea to Brenda to type up my journals and give a copy to each of the girls, and she does not think it is a good idea at all! She sees it as something rather egoistical that they are not likely to thank me for at all. Actually, the passing of something of myself to future descendants had not entered my head; my chief thought was to provide a history of our life as a family. After conversing with Brenda, I am resolved to continue this undertaking, for it is something I feel deep in my bones: a compelling urge that cannot be dispelled even by the most compelling arguments.'

Derek appears to be enjoying his new role as a bishop, although he is dismayed to find that he is required to intervene in rather complicated domestic matters involving divorcees and adulterers. When a lost sheep returns to the flock, Derek's relief is palpable:

'Jennifer Griffin is very much an improved lady since she gave up receiving false revelations. She is now actively pursuing a course in hotel management.'

In the evenings, Derek loves to take his son to a wrestling match or old-time music hall show:

'On Monday evening we took Richard to the Winter Gardens to an old tyme music hall, and O! how he enjoyed singing along with the choruses, for he is an expert on pub and music hall songs. The hall was packed with senior citizens. In fact, we were the youngest people there! During the course of the evening, the call went out "Is there a doctor in the house?" and everyone laughed. But it was a serious request and eventually a lady was taken away by ambulance.

Afterwards we bought three bags of chips and walked home, chobbling as we went. This was the first time Richard has ever had the sweet joy of passing through the streets at night with a bag of chips in his hand. His delight was almost palpable.'

At Derek's workplace there is talk of taking industrial action against the policies of the new Tory government. Derek would have none of this. In a passage that could have been written today, he writes:

'No one likes the policies the Government has brought in to put the country back on its feet, and there is a suspicion that the rich are being better cared for than the poor. At the same time the alternative can only be eventual ruin for the country as a civilised society - rather like Rome as it plunged into the dark night of the closing of empire.

But as a Crown servant, I am precluded by law from embarking on industrial action; but never have I had the inclination to take such.'

1980 seems to be a good year for Derek's family. One daughter is engaged to a policeman that both Derek and Brenda thoroughly approve of. Another has just enjoyed a holiday abroad, although Derek has mixed feelings about that:

'She and Kerry went to a disco, getting back at 12.30am. I wish she would not attend such places; they are dens of iniquity and the atmosphere cannot be conducive in any way to spirituality. The local male inhabitants have this thing about breasts. But she is of age; she must do as she will do.'

Derek and Brenda appear to have successfully carved out a new life for themselves in the West Country and they enjoy exploring the local area and socialising with old and new friends. One day they receive an invitation to have dinner at a friend's new house in Taunton:

'They put on a most excellent spread - prawn cocktail, side salad, fondes of chicken, prime steak, and pork, with chips and sausage meat, and such a variety of sauces as to be inclusive of everything in any possible catalogue.

We left their home at five to eleven and had an uneventful trip until we got to Oldmixon. And then the devil tried to destroy us. As we drove along the main road, a yellow car came speeding across a junction. There was no pause in the pace of the vehicle; he must have been travelling at all of 60-miles per hour. There was no chance that he could miss us or that we could take any avoiding action. He rushed into the side of the van with a nightmare sound that I can hear even now.

There was the noise and the rain and the screaming and the helplessness of uncontrolled movement. And then there was pain as well, and Brenda sitting there in the driving seat, terribly bruised about the head, her hands dripping with blood, and crying out over and over again, "It wasn't my fault, was it? It wasn't my fault, was it?" And myself assuring her that it was not, and a terrible tightness around my stomach where the seat-belt had wedged; and our daughter thrown from the back seat amid a jumble of goods. And the screeching of cars and the shouting of men and the absence of the windscreen, and friendly hands reaching in trying to undo the seat belt. Eventually they cut it with a knife and the police came and the ambulance; and Brenda was placed bruised and bleeding on a stretcher and reached out to hold my hand. And the rain still came down, a curtain to hide the hideous wreckage of the vehicles; and it all seemed like some Goyan nightmare.'

Hours later, Derek is lying on a stretcher in the local hospital. Suddenly he hears a familiar voice.

'Frank Beaston, just admitted for a check-up, having swooned at the wheel of his omnibus again. I called and he came and he grasped my hand and the tears started to his eyes.'

Fortunately, Derek and his daughter only have superficial wounds. They are discharged in the small hours of the morning.

'Before we left the hospital, we crept into the ward where Brenda lay, and I spoke to her and laid my hands upon her head and gave her a whispered blessing. She was confused and had taken a most terrible knock to the head, but she knew me and clung to my hand.'

Later, the police describe Derek and his family's survival as nothing short of miraculous. Derek thanks God, convinced that 'had his hand not been upon us we would surely have died.'

It is a difficult time for Derek and his family. In addition to recovering from their injuries, they have to co-operate in a police investigation to establish who the guilty party is. Derek's morale is at a low ebb and at one point he writes:

'Non-day suceeds non-day; and we sit and nurse our bruises and count our losses; and still the worst part is wondering whether any good can happen to this family. When each disaster succeeds the next almost without interruption, it becomes most difficult to exercise faith; not in the sense of increasing disbelief, for that God lives and the gospel is true is a fact like breathing as far as we are concerned, but whether we as a family shall ever have a little peace and prosperity in this life is the big question.'

Luckily, Derek enjoys a brief respite from his existential gloom when he and his daughter go to see The Empire Strikes Back:

'Marvellous stuff! The complete science fiction adventure for boys young and old. We sat enthralled for over two hours at the sights and wonders on the screen and the continuous action. The effects were - in more ways than one - out of this world. The vast landscapes and monstrous machines, the curious animals all were incredible and yet believeable; but they never overshadowed the characters - Darth Vader continued to dominate the villainy like a sort of galactic Hitler; Luke Skywalker had perceptibly grown in character. Given the opportunity I shall see this sequel at least once more.

I understand from the tabloids the films planned run to nine in number. That worries me somewhat; I ponder whether it will be possible to sustain the action and the wonder and the growth of the characters for nine films. I would hate there to be a falling off.'

In December, Derek looks back at the past year comes to this conclusion:

And what of my past year? Well, certainly it has been full of curious things. My first year as a bishop, one of the greatest honours that can come to any man in this church. My eldest daughter's marriage to a fine young man. The accident, plus the loss of the van. Our first year in our new home. The opportunity of doing more reading than has been possible in a long time, one of the great blessings of commuting to and fro on the train. A room where for the first time in my life I can see almost the full extent of my library instead of having to hide books in cupboards and boxes.'

But there is one serious threat to Derek's optimism: Brenda's mother:

'A curious lethargy lay upon myself and Brenda. I put it down to a return to the eating of white bread rather than the wheatmeal we have been having. The problem is, Brenda's mother will not eat brown bread, so Brenda reverted to getting white again. Anyway, I got a loaf of granuary bread for for dinner sandwich and felt better almost immediately. The simple solution is for Nanna to have her own little loaf.'

It's an absurdly mundane anecdote, but somehow the quiet tragedy of Derek's life is more compelling than some of the greatest dramas. If you're also a fan of Derek, you'll be glad to know that there still a lot more to come.

Derek's Last Chance

If you are new to this blog, click here, here, here, here, here and here to understand the background to this post.

1986 appears to have been a watershed year for Derek. It begins on a positive note, with Brenda's cantankerous mother finally dispatched to an old people's home. Derek and Brenda had waited for this moment for years, but in spite of this the spark of passion doesn't appear to have been reignited and the procession of migraines, aches and mysterious viruses continue unabated:

'My whole system creaks and groans; aches fill me; my head faintly throbs. Yet I have been out for an hour digging the garden. I had company: a blackbird. He was obviously in search of worms in the soil I was turning over, but though he came close, he had not the courage to stay close so that he might have had a whole feast. Men are like that.

I have felt somewhat wild today, have spent much of my time making foolish remarks and generally annoying people. I think my chemical imbalance has something to do with it, for while making a fool of myself, I KNEW that I was, but seemed unable to calm my inward turbulence.'

In fairness, Derek has many worries. Now in their mid-50s, Derek and Brenda are struggling to live on his salary as a local government officer. The diaries contain several letters from Derek's bank, including this rather chatty one, which was written in response to a lengthy epistle from Derek:

'Dear Mr -,

I thank you for your letter of the 12 August and would commiserate with you insomuch as NALGO have seen fit to turn down your rise of 6% and that indeed others of your union appear to wish for a sum which must surely in this day and age be unobtainable. I feel I ought not to continue in this vein as I feel that bankers like publicans should not get involved in discussing politics or religion with their customers. Unfortunately although you have stated you have got that point out of your hair, it is something which I find I cannot as most of mine has disappeared over the last 15 years or so!

Turning now to the mundane matter of banking and its relationship to your account, it would appear that were I to mark the overdraft limit on your account of £400, the present limit, for a period of three months, it would give you time to gather the harvest and review your finances.'

Derek does his best to live frugally, selling books and turning his garden into a mini-allotment, but the sums still don't add up. Under normal circustances, Brenda might have been able to get a full-time job, but she has a son to look after:

And this innocuous drawing becomes heartbreakingly poignant once you realise that the son was 24 years old when he drew this.

But it is not all doom and gloom. In the spring, Derek and Brenda have an idyllic break in Dartmoor with their son:

'We drove on over the moors, delighting in their austere grandeur. We would have liked to climb up a tor or two, but had run out of energy. Anyway, once we got to Ashburton, our strength came back and I was able to spend a happy hour in the bookshop there, acquainting myself fully with the stock.

We had expected to meet much traffic on the motorway, but found it almost deserted. Brenda suggested that the fear of radiation fallout was keeping people indoors. Anyway, we were able to maintain a steady speed all the way home, which meant that we got in an hour earlier than we expected.

It is good to be back with books about me and music. And space as well. And it is good to have just the three of us.'

The fallout was, of course, from Chernobyl:

'Radiation fear is strong in the land, but since there is little we can do in a practical way beyond consuming iodine tablets, I take little congnizance of the fear. The leaves on the trees are still as bright as they appear; the birds still sing; the traffic thunders by; and all this shall pass. On the coach travelling to work yesterday morning I was struck by the thought that the Saints shall "inherit" the earth, which implies that it will have to be cleaned and cleared and made anew before the Owner shall give it to them.'

Around this time, a glimmer of hope appears, when Derek's boss anounces his retirement. Having worked closely with Mr Sumpter for many years, Derek is the natural candidate to replace him. Perhaps this is the answer to Derek's prayers.

Full of hope, Derek submits his application and, a few weeks later, is invited for an interview:

'Well, I had my interview for Mr Sumpter's post this morning. It was scheduled for an hour and lasted for one hour and three quarters. There were four other contenders: a man from Lancashire, a man from Gloucester and a man from Rochdale. I was first through the door; and since half past eleven this morning have been waiting for a sign, the motion of a hand, a small telephone call that will announce "Yea" or "Nay". And the longer the silence lasts, the more sure I am that the post is not to be mine.

I have torment of mind and desolation of heart, for promotion is one thing, and the feeling of worthlessness if it does not come is something else.

We are having a year of disappointments. Our debts hang round our necks like albatrosses; and I am most strongly aware of having been passed over when it comes to assisting with the history of the church in this land. If only one was sure that heaven draws closer.'

Two days later, Derek learns that he has not been appointed as Mr Sumpter's replacement:

'Well, all my worst fears have come true. So sure was I that Mr Sumpter's post would not be mine, that I tossed and turned upon my bed all Wednesday night. When I got to work, no sign came, so I phoned Bob Sanders and after a brief hesitation, he told me that the man from Lancashire had got the job. I knew it would be him. The Spirit of the Lord whispered to my spirit most powerfully, the first time his name was mentioned, that he would take the job.

Bob said that all the interviews were good, but the panel felt that he had the most to offer when it came to solving the problems rife at the office. This implies that they felt that I was part of the problem; and perhaps I am. For my defence of Mr Sumpter has not gone well with the Insprectorate.

When I told Mr Sumpter of the decision, he turned haggard and grey. I thought he would weep; he was certainly extremely angry and he cried out "They do not know you! They do not know you!" He feels that his bad management is to blame and that by putting me in a position where I felt obliged to defend him, he shattered my chances. But I do not feel this is true. I feel the Lord has something else in mind.'

I can't help feeling that Derek's feelings about Mr Sumpter are more ambivalent than he suggests in this extract. But perhaps it is also tempting to blame his failure on the positive virtues of his loyalty to Mr Sumpter, rather than dwell on any personal shortcomings?

'I have received sympathy from many of the staff. As one put it, "Better the devil we know..!". Anne Snagge was particularly upset, as was Shirley James. Kind of them.

The pain was great on Thursday. I was in torment, feeling again the terrible worthlessness, the feeling of the last chance gone. Hell it was, and just as keen. But I have got my second wind now; and we eat and have a roof over our heads; we have great friends. And I am still quite the best off of the Saints in the ward. And the Lord stands by me. The test is his.

Brenda has been much tried by this blow. She is desperately worried by our debts and the fact that they are overtaking our income.'

A few months later, Mr Sumpter officially retires and Derek attends his retirement party:

'The food was excellent. Breaded chicken legs; pizza; pate; nuts; and a cake made by Mr Sumpter's wife in the form of a crossword puzzle. The icing was excellent, but the cake itself was rather dry for my taste.

As for the entertainment, Shirley and I did several short "telephone calls" demonstrative of the variations of John's surname. I wrote the script and it seemed to be a howling success, as were the two poems I had written for the occasion.

I then made a few remarks, and we presented a set of binoculars to Mr Sumpter, the pack of Mintoes from Callard and Bowser (a total surprise to him), and a large bottle of champagne. A pot of South African violets was given to his wife.

Wine flowed freely, but Mr Sumpter had bought me a large bottle of pure grape juice, and I was surprised at the number of other people keen to try it. Shirley James had never had Shloer before. How sheltered can you be?

I was at home just before half-past-seven to an empty house. I fed the bunnies and gave one of them a half-hour run up and down the hall. The other was asleep in its bed so I did not disturb him.'

Derek is now 56 and as he wrote earlier, feels that his "last chance" to advance his career has gone and in a sense, he is right. A few years later he will seek early retirement on the grounds of ill health.

With no immediate hope of paying off their growing overdraft, Derek and Brenda sit down one Friday evening and decide to sell the house. From Derek's writings, it is clear that he loves his home, particularly his library, with its books and classical records. This must have been a very hard decision to make.

But then suddenly, out of the blue, everything changes:

Brenda has been awarded an Invalid Care Allowance in keeping with the recent decision of the European Court of Appeal. This is an allowance made to women who are prevented from working by the need to look after a handicapped member of their family. The allowance has been back-dated to December 1984, so Brenda has been sent a cheque for £2391.75. This now enables us to pay off our overdraft; and for Brenda to put a large sum in her building society book. What a blessing! She promptly went out and bought some trousers and a pair of black shoes.'

The year ends with Derek and his family watching a video of "Back to the Future":

'A good plot, plenty of laughs, and sharp dialogue. But the old problem reared its head again: pointless, grating blasphemy. Why will these producers do it. Another film ruined.'

Derek - the Paracetamol Years

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Today's extracts are from the late 1980s, when Derek's hypochondria has reached the point where he is contemplating early retirement on grounds of ill health. On every other page, Derek records that he has a cold or headache. Unfortunately, Brenda and the children don't seem to have fared much better, with of constant succession of minor ailements.

It is hardly suprising that Derek and Brenda suffered from so many largely psychosomatic illnesss. Aside from the stresses of raising a mentally handicapped child, they spent many years living with Brenda's mother, who comes across as a rather poisonous individual. Derek was clearly a frustrated man who dreamed of being a writer, but was very candid about his own mediocrity. Derek's passions were dampened down by his sense of duty, but resurfaced as minor ailments.

We begin with Derek suffering from existential angst:

Life is very ordinary at the moment. We sleep; we rise up; we work; we return again; we sit and fall asleep in front of the television; and the evenings draw in earlier by the night; and we retire to bed again.

Today I ate my tea - salad surrounding chicken nibbles, followed by banana and chocolate custard. As I did so, I watched an early Tarzan film on television: "Tarzan Triumps," a weird sort of film made to inspire patriotism in young Americans during the war years. Weismuller had great lines: "Where Boy? Boy gone? Now Tarzan make war!"

If I had my way, I would always take The Times or the Daily Telegraph. But Brenda finds them rather too heavy for her taste, hence most times I get the Daily Mail. This, of course, has some excellent articles in it, particularly those by Paul Johnson and Lynda Lee-Potter. However, some of its items are rather too frenetic, others are untrustworthy, and its blue politics too overt for my taste.

While preparing Richard's bath this morning, I was pondering on the division of the earth in the days of Shem and Peleg. It seemed to me that if one were to prepare a jigsaw of those parts of the earth that fitted together and stuck them so, the space must be left where the city of Enoch used to be. I ran downstairs to put this theory to Brenda. She assessed its faults as a workable model in about three minutes. She pointed out that some parts of the earth had glided over others; others had been thrust up as mountain chains; yet others were uplifted seabed. Ergo, fitting the parts would not be possible, only in a limited way because of techtonic plate movement. So, back to my ponderings I go. Facts are always getting in the way!

Well, the only fool about today was me. I was full of hyperenergy, kept making stupid remarks and in many respects must have appeared most childish to the members of the staff at the office. Still, I have enjoyed myself; and Shirley Jones remarked in the moment of my attempted repentance that they much preferred me foolish, since it livened up the place a bit. But still, what sort of Priesthood holder is it that spends time making a fool of himself when the solemnities of eternity ought to be resting on his mind?

Amanda Wilmington gave an excellent talk. Her clarity of voice is a delight to listen to; and her material is quite novel in a young lady of her age. She is due to have an operation on her jaw soon since it is rather too large for her face. Once that is done, she will be an attractive young lady with much to give.

I walked down to Nanna's flat to deliver some colostomy bags to her. I had picked these up earlier from the hospital, where I had asked for some "sunshine" bags, Nanna's pet term for them. They boggled somewhat, so I explained myself; and when I left, bags in hand, they were of the opinion that sunshine bags was a more descriptive term, particularly since the bags are bright yellow in colour! When I got home again, the Spirit came upon me most powerfully.

I took my route up the High Street, and at its end there was a group of lads and girls in black leather jackets and leggings, several of them drunk, singing and carousing through the crowds and shouting vile abuse at car drivers; for the group took no care of the pedestrian crossing lights. I prayed to the Lord that the day might rapidly come when such scenes would pass away from the earth, and it would be people with men and women of sobriety and peace.

I thought I would be free of needing to follow them once we reached the Centre, but they took their own way down the same road. When I got inside my gate and turned to latch it, one of them turned and bawled "What are you looking at, you f...... s......?" Not the sort of remark to stay and answer. And that is the great question: why do the sons of Satan always have a strong build? One never suffers abuse nor evil from little men whom one could flatten. Curious...

Recently my family has made me increasingly aware of the irritation caused by my tapping away at the typewriter keys when I am at home. Perhaps it is time for me to return to writing out my entries? That would be much harder, and somewhat of an intellectual grindstone since my thoughts seem to flow more freely through a keyboard...

A year or so later, Derek seems to have bowed to popular demand and gave up typing his diaries. Sadly, the last few journals - handwritten in exercise books - were thrown away by someone in the warehouse where I work, but I do remember reading about a trip to the Holy Land, which must have been a major event in Derek's life (particularly as he never seemed to travel abroad).

In spite of his relatively good health, Derek was able to retire early on grounds of ill health, thanks to a sympathetic doctor. A diary from 1989 shows that Derek appears to have enjoyed life after work, joining a creative writing course at the local adult education college.

After that, Derek's life is a mystery. I would love to know how the story ended.

Derek at 50

Derek as 007

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This week's installment begins in 1981 - the year of Charles and Diana, inner city riots and New Romantics. Apart from a brief entry about the virtues of bringing back capital punishment (presumably for rioters rather than New Romantics), Derek has very little to say about current affairs. However, he isn't completely cut-off from the cultural zeitgeist:

'I bought Brenda a record yesterday: the theme music by Vengalis (sic) from the film "Chariots of Fire". Marvellous music it is - the sort that fills one with heroic visions and deep thoughts that bring tears. We like it very much.'

Like the other volumes of Derek's diary, this one is largely a chronicle of the internecine squabbles within his local Mormon church, with frequent references to admonishments and expulsions. I had no idea that the Mormon church were so pedantic. Given the efforts that they put into converting people, I'd naively assumed that abstinence from alcohol and a liking for the Osmonds would be enough to guarantee liftetime membership of the Mormons. I was wrong.

One of the curious things about Derek's diaries is how normal and mundane they can seem until suddenly, without any warning, he'll casually mention that he is stocking up on tinned food because he is expecting the End Times. This seems to be the prism through which Derek views the world. When some local boys vandalise a playground, it is sign of Satan's growing power:

'When it comes to having an evil brood of children, Mr Supter's two adopted children must surely take the prize. They fulfill to the letter the Apostle Paul's prophecy about children in the last days being "disobedient to parents and without natural affection".'

Derek and Brenda also hold some unconventional views about the age of the Earth - one of the books I inherited from Derek's library asserts that dinosaurs and humans coexisted a few thousand years ago. When Brenda decides to do an environmental studies course, this leads to some lively exchanges with her lecturer:

'Brenda attended her class last night. Much of it is based on the theory of evolution, and that really gets up her nose; but she does not let it pass unchallenged. Her lecturers will come to dread her arrival before the course is over. One of them was expounding the theory of tectonic plates, and asserted that the British Isles were not only moving but also sinking. Brenda asked whether it was not the time to drop anchor!'

Brenda in the 1950s

I was also intrigued by this anecdote from Derek's church:

'This evening has not been an easy one. At seven o'clock I met with Jennifer Griffin at the chapel, and introduced her to the science of psycho-cybernetics. Slowly but surely she is beginning to change for the better.'

During the last few months I've been gradually building a picture of Derek's life. I now know where he grew up, how he fell in love with Brenda and left the Midlands to enjoy a new life in the West Country, but there was one thing that kept nagging. On the strength of Derek's diary entries, he enjoyed a good relationship with his son and they enjoyed many activities together, but I couldn't help feeling that something was missing. Today I found the answer:

'Richard is, despite his handicap, a witty lad who comes out with some priceless remarks on many occasions. Last Saturday morning, he came into our bedroom and had his usual preoccupation with death. As we discussed the matter, I pointed upwards and told him that he was too young to go up there. Quick as a flash he said "Up on the moon?" Later in the same discussion he said, "I want to go up where Jesus are." You and me both, son!

Sometimes we go a little mad and, hand in hand, leave the house by the back door and walk down the street to the front door and there ring the bell persistently until Brenda or her mother answers. We did this on Satuday morning in our slippers. As we were walking down the pavement, he burst out laughing, and when I queried the matter said "Look at my feet". I did, and they were slipperless. I looked back up the street; and there the slippers were sitting in the middle of the pavement like a couple of orphans.

Though he demands much patience, one cannot imagine life without him. He is a joy and delight in so many respects. We love him dearly. We have been well-blessed in that his health is not the problem that it was. Even so, his life is a precarious one. We thank the Lord for him from day to day.'

When Derek wrote this entry, Richard has just celebrated his 20th birthday.

The volume ends with fleeting references to the Falklands Conflict, before finishing with this brief paragraph:

'Today Brenda and I celebrate 25 years of married life together, which in these cynical times is a real achievement! This weekend the whole family are coming down to celebrate the event; ironically I shall not be there; I shall be at the Priesthood meeting in Manchester.

And what shall I say of those years now past? Have they been a blissful ecstacy? By no means. Each one of them has been a test and a trial. Were it not for the testimony of the Gospel and the sacred covenants made at the altar of the temple, I am sure that our marriage would have failed. I thank God that despite the difficulties of the past, we do live in peace together and enjoy many things together.'

After reading this, I picked up a volume from 1955 and was touched by this passage:

'This evening Brenda and I lay in the churchyard and muttered to each other. She has had her hair done and looks wonderful. I am not going back. I am going to set up a home - with an open door - and I am going to marry the girl. I have an eternity in which to live with Brenda.'