This Holey Life (12 page)

The doors open and we begin our shuffle inside, to wait in the foyer for the children to be matched to adults. When it is finally my turn, Olivia greets me proudly, leaping up from the carpet
and waving a trademark brightly-coloured collage. I kiss her on the head. She smells of biscuit. ‘That’s lovely, Olivia.’ I use my bright, happy, shiny voice, talking slowly,
trying to think of something positive to say. ‘What careful cutting out.’

‘I know,’ says her key worker, a young girl called Shelley. ‘She’s ever so good with scissors. We never have to worry about her.’ And then Shelley laughs in a way
that suggests they have to worry about other children and what they might be inspired to do with a pair of scissors.

I grip Olivia’s hand and shepherd my girls briskly out of there into the fresh air. I’m feeling a bit faint, fighting off the possible catastrophes leaping about in my head,
struggling to do my one woman band thing with two infants, a handbag, car keys, plus a sticky collage of what looks like Alan Sugar’s head pasted onto David Beckham’s body.

Just as I’ve bundled them all into the car, I notice her: Natasha’s mother. She’s always late, got her head down, avoids eye contact, gives off a don’t-get-too-close
vibe. But I don’t think it’s rudeness. It’s something else. Shelley told me she is
one of them Poles or summink, keeps herself to herself.
And then she added, as if
I’d be interested:
But watch her, she’s a man-eater
.

Mmm.

If I was a true Christian, a proper curate’s wife, I’d talk to her. Ask her round for a cup of tea. But something stops me. Life stops me. Rushing around and chasing my tail stops
me. I may not be a true Christian but I’m not a bad person. I’m a mother. A daughter. An auntie. A sister. A wife. A curate’s wife. Like Olivia I wear all these different pairs of
shoes but none of them fit properly. I feel as if I’ve been forced into them, like the black clumpy lace-ups Mum made me wear to school so I wouldn’t get the bunions that gave her so
much gip. I’ve been forced into these shoes and they’re pinching. I want to kick them off and run barefoot across the car park. Might be a bit chilly though. There’s a nasty wind
up out there.

As I drive away, slowly into the lunchtime traffic, I catch a glimpse of Natasha emerging from the hall with her mother. They hold hands and bow their heads to the wind, walking home, their home
from home, wherever that is, just the two of them.

I’m not getting very far with my anti-television campaign. So far my children have watched their weekly quota in one evening. If Steve were here I’d have some back-up but yet again
he’s out. I am left on my own trying to trick Imo – rigid in her bucket on the coffee table – into opening her mouth for some pureed veg. She ignores the spoon heading her way,
cunningly disguised as an aeroplane, concentrating all her efforts into staring at my overfull breasts. I’m not giving in. I’m hanging on till her bedtime.

‘Why don’t you go and play in the garden, girls?’ I suggest, once the jar is finally empty.

‘Don’t be silly, Mummy. It’s dark,’ Olivia says, lining up her Barbie shoes on the arm of the leather sofa.

Brain cells. Dead.

Rachel drags her attention away from the screen, sensing her mother is not quite on the ball and using this to her possible advantage. ‘We want to watch
Hollyoaks
,’ she
says.

Hollyoaks
hasn’t got anything to do with David Bellamy. It is full of rampant sex-crazed young northerners. Another world that is certainly unsuitable for children. That is why I
throw Imo’s blanket over the telly. That is why Rachel is sulking in the shed, Christmas lights twinkling in the window, when Jeremy turns up with his father at seven. When I explain this to
Jeremy, much to Martin’s amusement, he takes himself off, with the remains of a KFC family bucket, to join his cousin in the shed. I leave them to it.

Now is the time to pin Martin down and ask him what his intentions are. Yes, I’d really like to pin him down and stuff peanuts in his big gob.

The smell of deep fried chicken is making me queasy. Or maybe it’s the sight of Martin with grease in his beard. Will he ever shave that thing off?

Apart from a desultory ‘hello’ he has ignored me, plonked his laptop on my kitchen table and attacked it with much aggression. I don’t care if he’s not in the best of
moods. I’m not in the best of moods. Steve would say you have to choose the right time. I would say I’ve tried doing that and it leads nowhere.

‘When are you moving out?’

‘Fed up of me already, Victoria?’

‘It’s been weeks, Martin. You turn up Boxing Day, unannounced, and now we’re halfway through January. You said it would only be a few days. You need to sort yourself out and
move on.’

‘I see,’ he says, like he’s a psychiatrist and I’m his delusional patient. ‘I didn’t realise it was such a pain having me here.’

‘Stop patronising me, you idiot. I’m being serious.’

Silence while my brother processes this concept.

‘Really?’ he asks.

‘Yes, really.’

‘I see.’ This time he says the words like they’re a revelation. He looks genuinely surprised, which in turn surprises me. Is he that thick-skinned? Does he really not know
he’s getting on my nerves? I thought it was his
raison d’être
to get on my nerves, to persecute me.

‘But I’m your brother,’ he says, a slight wobble in his voice. Alright, now he just sounds pathetic. This isn’t right. He’s not playing by the rules. Our rules. Our
commandments that were set in stone long ago at the beginning of my life.

‘I’m quite aware of that. But the days when we had to share a house are long gone. Or at least they should be.’

He closes his laptop, puts his fingers together in a prayer-like gesture, gathering his strength before moving in for the kill.
Pop down to the chemist’s would you, Vicky-Love.
‘I’m not sure what Mum would’ve thought,’ he says, his voice still containing a wobble but now with an edge to it.

‘Don’t bring Mum into this.’

‘She would’ve expected you to help me in my hour of need.’

‘Probably. But you seem to have forgotten the circumstances – the One Small Incident – that brought you into my house on Boxing Day. I think it entirely probable that Mum would
have stuck up for Claudia, despite you being the golden boy.’

He ignores this, changes the subject, rubs his beard in a way he knows will wind me up. ‘And what about Steve? Does he know you want to kick me out? He doesn’t, does he? Well, well,
well, Vicky-Love. Keeping secrets from your holy husband. The vicar. Tut tut. And I thought you two had the perfect marriage.’

‘You did?’

‘You mean you don’t?’

‘We have our moments like everyone else,’ I mumble. ‘But, hang on, Martin. This isn’t about my marriage, it’s about yours. How do you explain Melanie?’

‘Melanie is... she’s... it’s none of your business who she is.’ He waves his arm at the thought of Melanie, catching a pile of his papers and sending them skidding to the
floor. My floor. Waving her away like she’s an irrelevance. An annoyance.

‘How can you say that, Martin?’

‘I just did. I opened my mouth and I said it.’

‘Oh shut up, smart arse.’

‘Now now, Vicky-Love. Language.’

‘Arse is a rude word, Mummy,’ says a third unexpected voice. Olivia has appeared in the kitchen, clutching a threadbare Tinky Winky by the aerial thing sticking out of his head.
‘Say
bottom
.’

‘What are you doing out of bed?’

‘You were making a big noise. Are you arguing with Uncle Martin?’

‘Yes, Olivia, I’m afraid I am.’

She looks at her Uncle Martin with eyes so serious I want to cry.

‘Be nice to each other,’ she says. ‘That’s what Jesus would do.’ She leaves us then and we listen to her little feet, bare for once, as they pad softly back up the
stairs, neither of us sure how to follow this up, all strong words, all regressive behaviour quietened by a three-year-old.

‘I’m going to tuck her in,’ I say eventually, to the table.

His voice follows me out of the kitchen, unexpected and detached from its owner. ‘Fancy an omelette?’ it asks.

I don’t know if my brother is making amends or if he’s manipulating the situation but I am too tired and too hungry to turn down the offer of food. ‘That would be...
good,’ I tell the door.

Bedtime and it’s only ten o’clock. In the old days I’d just be thinking about going out. Not that I went out that often. But still, in London – young
London, single London – the night is only beginning to get going.

What would Mum have thought if she’d been here? Would she have wanted me to let Martin stay longer? Or would she understand how hard it is for me? He never got on her nerves. I’m not
sure she actually had any nerves. She didn’t notice the banging and crashing because he was so like her. She didn’t notice his mess because she didn’t notice any mess.
A little
bit of mess never did anyone any harm, Vicky-Love
. She and Dad and Martin had spent the day at one of Dad’s big gardens out in Sidcup. Martin was working for pocket money because he
wanted to take Heidi out. I spent the day at home tidying and cleaning, wanting to surprise them when they got back. They trod mud all through the house, all three of them. Only Dad was contrite. I
think deep down he wanted a bit of clean and tidy but he had long since accepted that that wasn’t to be. Not with Mum as his wife.

But she was wrong. Look what happened to her. She’d still be here now if people had taken more care. If they’d been clean and tidy.

Thoughts for the Day:
Whatever happened to Heidi?

I had a go at spring cleaning today. It isn’t spring. But the house is dirty. And I want to ask Alice round for tea after school one day next week. Mum and Dad were
busy up on the allotment. Martin was out with Heidi somewhere, a bus shelter or Wimpy. So I had the house to myself.

I began with the lounge. It took an hour just to clean under the sofa and down the back of the seats. I found:

5 of Martin’s socks (none of them matched but they all stunk like Dad’s fertiliser)

2 of Martin’s school ties (both with tomato ketchup stains)

Some Lego bricks (Martin hasn’t played with Lego for at least five years)

A half-chewed Wagon Wheel

£4.61 in loose change, including some old money

A slipper (Dad’s, I think, though it is hard to tell as it has been there so long, possibly since before I was born)

A Tufty Club badge (mine, stolen from Martin years ago)

Dried-up Satsuma peel that smelt of Christmas

And a photo.

I put everything back in its proper place, apart from the money. I have kept the money as it is impossible to know who it belongs to. This is called ‘redistribution of wealth’,
according to Mr Harris, who is a commie, according to Dad.

I have kept the photo too.

It is a black and white photo of two young men, a bit older than Martin is now. One of them is Dad. He looks quite a lot like me but with shorter, straighter hair. The other, it says on the
back in Mum’s scribbly writing, is Jack. I don’t know who Jack is but I think I’ve seen him somewhere before. It’s hard to tell. He’s shielding his eyes from the sun
but you can see his big grin.

I will ask Mum about it later. See if she’s got another picture. I don’t know why but I want to get a proper look at him.

Chapter Sixteen:
Friday January 25th

Sainsbury’s. On my own while Steve watches the girls. What’s usually a dreaded chore is now a refuge, a luxury, wandering the aisles and daydreaming about being a
domestic goddess. No bored baby. No obsessive three-year-old.

Today’s a special day: Rachel’s birthday. I should feel celebratory every time one of our children becomes a year older, to know we’ve had a part in shepherding them further
along the road. They know how to be polite, how to lay a table and stack a dishwasher. Rachel has avoided getting into trouble at school. Olivia is settling into playgroup. They don’t
embarrass Steve too much at work or me when I’m taking them down the high street. They answer the phone to parishioners. Sometimes they pass on messages, occasionally with accuracy. They are
good kids. But this knowledge is tinged with loss. Panic rises up within me so my chest could burst with the pressure and an unstoppable torrent come flooding out of me. I have to keep it tucked up
safe inside.

So, what party food for a girl who’s eleven, still a child but on the cusp of adolescence (though actually, Rachel’s been poised right there since she was able to talk)?

Last year, for Rach’s birthday, we used the church hall. We hired a clown who juggled with knives whilst standing on a plank rolling back and forth over two barrels. The kids screamed with
excitement and begged him for more. Last year there were boys and girls who jumped up and down to music and we had sandwiches and crisps and fairy cakes and all the usual party food.

Rachel doesn’t want any of that this year.
I’m too old for jelly and ice cream,
she said when I suggested a repeat performance.
But you love jelly and ice cream
, I
replied, pathetically. But I knew what she was saying. She’s moved up a party level. This year it’s a few select friends for a sleepover. I preferred it when it was all over and done
within two and half hours. And not in my house. And now I have to put up with Jessica Talbot overnight. Bob was delighted when he saw the invite.
Great
, he said.
I’ll take Tamarine
for a night out
. Poor Tamarine. I hope she likes Status Quo tribute bands.

Is this the time to move from triangle sandwiches to slices of pizza? Is Rachel really that age? I can’t believe that in September she’ll be at secondary school. She’ll look
tiny again and I’ll want to protect her, to change her back into the baby she was a decade ago, when television quotas and Pot Noodles were not on the agenda. I want her to be small and warm
and attached to me the way Imo is. The way Thomas was.