This Holey Life (19 page)

I am torn between gratitude and annoyance that Pat found him when she did. I’m sure he’d have got help somehow but then you never know. I tell Pat, graciously, that
I’ll speak to him once he’s woken up and sort out a visit. She tells me, smugly, that she will keep an extra eye on him. I want to ask her where she keeps that extra eye – in her
tobacco pouch? But of course I don’t. I am good Vicky. Patient Vicky. Bad daughter Vicky.

The story according to Dad:
I was getting up to switch the channels – Pat had tidied up the remote control – when I somehow tripped over my own legs.
Don’t ask me how. It only took a second. Suddenly I was on the floor with a sore shoulder and no energy to get back up again. The floor was the only place I wanted to be. Though I
could’ve done without that Jeremy Kyle lecturing all those ill-nourished people. Where’s a gardening programme when you need one? After enduring several lie detector tests, and all the
boos and hisses like the panto at Christmas, I was beginning to wonder if I should try and crawl to the phone when I heard the door go. For a moment I thought that was it. I was being burgled. I
was going to be done-over. But then I heard the clip-clop of Pat’s shoes and I’ve never been so glad to see those legs come into view.

Dad tells me this on the phone when Pat finally lets me speak to him. I can hear her squawk with fake annoyance in the background at the reference to her legs and I do my best to swallow the
violent feelings that this generates. I inform Dad that we will be coming down on Saturday for a few days. Half term has come in the nick of time. Vicky to the rescue.

But what about Martin? When is he going to offer up some filial duty?

Thoughts for the Day:
Being shipwrecked, alone, on a desert island, with only the birds of the air, the creatures of the sea and the odd wild animal for company, has got
a bad press.

I didn’t get any Valentine cards but I don’t care. All the boys I know are dirty little youknowwots.

Martin got a card from Heidi. He was embarrassed because it was ginormous with a massive Snoopy on the front holding a bunch of roses. Mum wanted to put it on the mantelpiece but he said no
way and hid it in his stink bomb room.

Dad said Heidi is very keen and Martin said they all are, and Dad said you better be careful. Then Dad went out to sort out the compost and Martin went to rugby practice.

I tidied out the cupboard under the stairs and found 57p. Finders keepers. I am not a commie. Mrs Thatcher would be proud of me.

Alice is coming for tea tomorrow so I have to tidy the front room and remind Mum to go shopping. I will ask if she can get an Arctic Roll. Maybe Heidi will come too then Alice will know not
to go silly over Martin if she sees him with his girlfriend.

Alice is clever. She should know better. But then Heidi is clever too. She should know better than to go out with my brother. But then he’s never buried them in the sludgy sand at
Worthing and forgotten about them.

Chapter Twenty-Three:
Saturday 16th February

Half-term. Hallelujah! No packed lunches, no school uniforms. A leisurely breakfast and then down to Worthing for a few days. The car is packed, courtesy of Steve who has made
car-packing into an art form. I wish he’d take the same care over his sock drawer. What is it with cars? Martin treats his Saab better than he treats his fellow human beings, even his wife.
Especially his wife. Not that she’s in my good books, having asked if Jeremy can ‘tag along’ to Worthing. Apparently Claudia can’t take time off to look after him. I suspect
she can’t take off time from her new boyfriend, Harold Pinter.

Martin calls by with some money for Jeremy and to say sorry he can’t make it down but he’s snowed under. Surprise, surprise. As we pile in the car, fiddling with seat belts, Martin
stands watching Tamarine who is washing Bob’s woebegone Rover. He has a smile on his face as she stretches on her tiptoes to reach across the roof with her sponge.

I lower the window to pass on final instructions. ‘Thanks for feeding Socks, Tamarine.’

Tamarine waves her sponge regally and gets back to her task.

‘And Martin.’

‘Yes, Vicky-Love?’

‘Keep your phone with you in case I need to get hold of you.’

‘I can give you Bill’s number if you’re that worried.’

The empty house stands behind us. I know I could offer it to Martin in our absence. But no. He’d trash it. Let Bill (or, if Bill’s anything like Martin, his wife), clean up after my
brother.

‘Go on, then. You’d best give it to me.’

Martin scribbles on a business card of his. Since when have academics had business cards? Professor Martin Bumface. I snatch it off him and shove it in my purse. Just in case.

‘See you, Dad,’ says Jeremy, a small voice with undertones of Oliver Twist. A well-fed Oliver Twist.

‘Bye, son.’

Is he going to offer more than that? No. He’s already transferred his attention to poor Tamarine. As Steve pulls away I notice Martin speaking to her. Whatever it is Tamarine says –
and I’d love to know what – Martin quickly turns away from her and trudges back down the street to his Saab.

I look at the three girls, lined up across the back seat like Russian dolls, and try to fill the hollowness boring away inside me with thoughts of the week ahead. Of Dad, Worthing, tattoos.

I feel Steve’s hand on my knee. His plumber’s hand. His vicar’s hand. The hand that has fixed washing machines and baptised babies. That I held at our wedding, squeezing on a
ring that was too tight as it was such a hot day. I sometimes wish I could go back to the start, just me and Steve. Back to our old flat, my biscuit tin in the wardrobe, minus its hospital name
bands and scan photos. Back to a time when there were no babies, no worries. But time cannot go back or stand still though I must replay that night over and over. Time goes on and we move forward
leaving that day further and further behind though never far enough away to lose any clarity. Time goes on and I keep breathing. I go to bed at night, I get up in the morning and in between I do
all the things I’m supposed to do. And now, right now, the car wheels of our Espace turn round and round and move us on. We leave our home, travelling slowly through the streets of Penge, the
Saturday shoppers, the comings and goings, to-ings and fro-ings. It’s my home but I’m disconnecting from it. I’m being cast out into a world of fear where I have no control. And
this panicky feeling is down to Martin. He’s the one who’s made me stand outside of myself, forcing me to examine an unwelcome picture of my life.

My husband’s hand squeezes my leg and I’m pleased to report my leg is not made of wood. Blood moves through it. Pulses throb. My breath comes and goes. My heart beats. I am
alive.

‘Don’t worry, Vick,’ Steve says. He is always saying this to me, probably because I am always worrying. But then he says something unexpected. He says: ‘One day your soul
will sing.’

I don’t know what to say to this. I am trying to visualise this soul of mine, singing, when Imo starts up a whimper, a tell-tale sign that vomit is on the horizon and all visions of souls
are blotted out and obscured by the things of this life. This holey life.

The Worthing wind, as usual, is bracing. It bowls along the flat coast and knocks the London grey from us. We take the kids to see the wood slick that has washed up from the
shipwrecked Ice Prince since we were last here. It is quite a sight. Dad has told us about it but we had to see it for ourselves. Five minutes of this attack on the senses and then we’ll
regroup and grapple with whatever Dad has in store for us.

‘So, Vicky, what’s it like being married to a vicar? D’you have to watch your Ps and Qs or are you all religious?’ Pat has called round to check me out.
I am a novelty, somewhere between the Holy Mother and Meggie from
The Thorn Birds
.

Steve comes to my rescue and asks her what it’s like being a home help, telling her he’s humbled by her job. Pat is not won over this easily and switches her attention to Steve
instead.

‘So what d’you reckon to that
Da Vinci Code
? Have you read it?’

When Steve says yes, he’s read it, her eyes widen enough to show how jaundiced-looking they are, as if nicotine-stained by her constant smoking. She has already ‘nipped
outside’ twice and she’s not been here an hour, though the clock is ticking slowly and I’m hoping her curiosity will be satisfied soon and she’ll leave. Today is supposed to
be about family. I can feel Mum’s eyes on us, from her photograph on the telly. Poor old Mum. She’d hate to be missing out on this, her family here, drinking tea with a strange woman,
in her house by the sea. If only they’d stayed put in London, her and Dad, I could’ve kept an eye on them, made sure things were done properly. Who knows how things might have turned
out then?

‘How come you’ve read it?’ Pat perseveres. ‘It’s not exactly church-friendly, is it?’

‘Maybe not, but I need to know what’s out there. What everyone’s talking about. How else can I come alongside them?’

Pat is quiet. For a blink of her yellow eyes. Then she excuses herself, says she’s got to make Dad’s bed.

Dad’s bed? How can he let her touch his bed, their bed, where he lay down each night with my mother for nearly forty years? I had the party all planned but it never happened. The
anniversary came and went and Mum wasn’t there to celebrate it... and now there’s this woman.

I should be relieved, a burden lifted and all that, but I feel put out. It’s always been my job, tidying up after Dad, cleaning out the bath, wiping up mud, sweeping the floor clean of
dead leaves dragged in on his wellies, scrubbing work surfaces, sluicing out loos. That’s me, Vicky. That’s what I do, how I am Dad’s daughter. He moans and tells me to stop
fussing and I carry on regardless, like he expects me to. Only now here is Pat, teetering overhead on her heels, in Mum’s bedroom, messing with her things. And there is Dad, watching the
football, oblivious to how I feel. All my life I’ve followed him around with a dustpan and brush, ready to pick up every crumb, every speck of dust. My job. My role. And now.

‘Put the kettle on, Vicky-Love.’ Dad indicates the ceiling above. ‘Pat must be parched.’

Eight o’clock and Steve is putting the kids to bed. They are flushed from a long walk along the prom, from hide-and-seek, from baths and sitting in front of the fire.
They’ll be no trouble, they’re whacked, so I can stay put in the front room with Dad, watching Saturday night rubbish.

Dad is fidgety. More than usual.

‘What is it, Dad? You’re making me nervous.’

‘Sorry, Vicky-Love. It’s just there’s something I need to tell you.’

‘Is it Pat?’

‘Pat? Why would it be Pat?’

‘I don’t know. She seems to be here a lot, that’s all. She’s cleaned everywhere and you know... ’ I run out of steam and Dad’s anxiety has turned to
confusion.

‘Is it a problem, her being here? Don’t you like her?’ He asks this like she’s a beautiful exotic flower that everyone would love to have in their midst. How could anyone
not possibly like the tattooed lady? But this exotic flower has been transplanted into a cottage garden, sitting there amongst the foxgloves and the roses.

‘She’s fine, Dad. Salt of the earth. She’s setting things in order.’

‘I thought you’d be pleased.’

‘I am, Dad. Really,’ I lie. But it’s a white lie because I know I actually should feel pleased. ‘What is it, then? That thing you wanted to talk about?’

‘It’s you, Vicky-Love. I wanted to talk about you.’

‘Me?’

He turns down the rubbish a notch but keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the telly. ‘I’m worried about you. I don’t think you’re doing as well as you should be and if your
mum was here she’d be saying the same thing. I only wish that brother of yours would get his backside into gear and do something for you.’

‘Martin?’

‘He’s your brother. He knows you.’

‘He doesn’t know me at all. He knows nothing of people. He only cares about himself. Martin. And his big ideas.’

‘That’s not fair, Auntie Vicky.’ Jeremy has crept downstairs, somehow managing to negotiate the obstacles that usually jump out at him only to find his auntie bad-mouthing his
dad. Whatever I feel about Martin, I don’t want Jeremy to be influenced. He already has to contend with Claudia’s point of view.

‘It’s alright, son.’ Dad pats the dustbowl and Jeremy sidles over and perches on it. ‘Your Auntie Vicky’s a bit cheesed off,’ he goes on. ‘Brothers and
sisters, they’re always arguing. You know what it’s like.’

‘No,’ is Jeremy’s small powerful answer. There’s a moment’s silence that I’m unsure Jeremy will fill, but he does. ‘I don’t have a sister. And my
cousins are all girls – they don’t have any brothers. So no, I don’t know what it’s like.’

Dad finally looks at me, shifting in his seat, fiddling with his trousers.

A picture of Thomas floats into view, obscuring Dad’s worry, obscuring pretty much everything. As always, this picture threatens to floor me but I am sitting on the dustbowl and Dad is
there ready to catch me with his big earthy hands.

‘Take it from me, son,’ Dad says to Jeremy, ‘if you did – if they did – there’d be arguments galore and that’s normal. It doesn’t mean they think
any less of each other, your dad and Auntie Vicky. Why do you reckon she’s so happy to have you come and stay?’

I want to tell Dad that has nothing to do with Martin, that I think a lot less of my brother than anyone will ever know, but I realise this is faintly ridiculous. Jeremy is, after all,
Martin’s son. They are connected. We are connected. But at any moment, if I wanted, I could get out a pair of scissors and... snip.

Jeremy’s not that easily fooled. ‘But my dad upsets you, doesn’t he, Auntie Vicky? And he really upsets Mum. So it must be Dad, not you.’

This boy is astute.

‘It takes two to tango,’ Dad chips in. ‘Six of one and half a dozen of the other.’

‘Thanks, Dad, for that Cockney wisdom.’