This Holey Life (28 page)

I empty the bins and put on a wash.

I am gathering the children for lunch when I realise that Jeremy is absent. They came in from the garden, the three of them, whispering and behaving oddly, something to do with their project,
the film they’re making. Then, when Tamarine called Jessica back home, Jeremy must’ve slipped away somewhere. Probably back outside in the shed. His shelter and refuge. So it’s
back over the steeping stones, through the drizzle that has decided to cling to Penge today.

‘Jeremy?’ I knock on the door, wondering how Martin will break his news, if he will do it soon or if, like Dad, he’ll wait for it to slip out in its own time.

‘Hang on a sec, Auntie Vicky.’ He sounds breathless.

‘Lunch is ready.’

‘Alright, I’ll be there in a minute.’

I decide against going into the shed and hop back inside. In the two minutes of my absence everyone, including Martin, is sitting at the table, helping themselves to bread and cheese. They seem
quite self-sufficient all of a sudden, like they know they can manage without me. Which is ridiculous. They’re only eating bread and cheese. Who’d know how to clean a toilet around
here? Apart from Olivia.

‘You’re back,’ I say to Martin. Profound as ever.

‘So it seems.’ He heaps the Branston on a slab of Cheddar.

‘How’s Dad?’

‘With Pat.’

‘Oh yeah, Vick,’ says Steve, smacking his forehead, before I have time to consider Dad with Pat. Her tattoos and his green fingers.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing. It’s just I forgot to say.’ He looks shifty, like Rachel when she’s not done her homework. ‘Mum and Dad are coming tomorrow for a few days. They want to
take the kids out seeing as it’s the holidays.’ He smiles, the relief of confession. ‘And they have eggs. Lots of eggs.’

If Martin weren’t here I might tell Steve how I feel about eggs, but Martin most definitely is here, eating his way through my food and breathing my air so that all the sympathy of
yesterday is sucked straight back into me, cleaned up like a Dyson. So I keep quiet about the descent of the in-laws. I don’t want to be mean to Steve in front of Martin. Won’t give him
the satisfaction. And, to be honest, I don’t really care. Dorota and Roland are the least of my worries. Let them take the kids out. Let them eat eggs. Then maybe Steve and I can get to the
bottom of all this Karolina nonsense.

‘Have you heard from the Polish psycho?’ Martin says, picking up on some heavy vibes. He looks from Steve to me and back to his sarney.

Steve says it’s all gone quiet on the western front and I am about to change the subject before Olivia asks who the Polish psycho is when the door goes. We all stop eating, like in one of
those bad dramas, but there’s no need to worry. It’s not the Polish psycho or Desmond; it’s Roland and Dorota, all bouncy and full of the joys of Penge.

Great.

‘Surprise! We come early!’ Dorota beams at us, expecting a standing ovation, a round of applause at the very least. Imo obliges, banging her high chair with her beaker. Dorota spots
the beaker, her green-lidded eyes sharp as a young girl’s and with all the tact of youth asks, ‘So, tell, me, Vicky. How are your breasts?’

Martin snorts but, try as I might, my foot will not reach him under the table. If I didn’t feel sorry for him at the moment I would gladly aim the jar of Branston at his newly-shaven
face.

‘Martin,’ Dorota says, fluttering her mascara-matted lashes at him. ‘You look so young without your beard. Like a teenager.’ She giggles. ‘And with those strong
muscles you can help Roland carry the luggage. I have lots of Easter surprises for the kids. And who knows, if you behave... ?’ She winks at him. It is unbearable.

I collect up the plates and plunge them in the sink.

But I am thankful later for the early appearance of my parents-in-law because they take the girls and Jeremy off to the park, wrapped up like rolls of lagging, in jumpers, coats, hats, scarves
and gloves despite the hint of spring in the air – Dorota doesn’t take any chances with London weather because it can jump on you from nowhere. I watch them leave, from the window.
Jessica, as usual, appears from next door and trails them up the road, camcorder in hand, aiming it at anything that takes her interest, including Dorota’s big bottom.

It is then that I notice a serious-looking Desmond pull up in his dirty car. He catches my eye and smiles weakly. A smile that holds all sorts of unspoken words and feelings. I step back from
the window and go and find Steve. It takes me a while, even in our poky terrace, but I stumble across him in the downstairs loo, lying awkwardly on the floor. I try to say his name but it’s
lodged deep down and won’t come out. Has he had a heart attack?

The doorbell. Desmond. I am about to drag in the vicar to help administer CPR when Steve, alerted by the bell, sits up, spanner in hand. ‘Alright, Vick? I was just fixing that drip.
Thought you’d be pleased.’

I am of course pleased. I am in fact ecstatic that Steve hasn’t conked out. So I am smiling inanely when I answer the door and usher Desmond in.

‘What’s all the fun about?’ he asks, like he’s Oliver Cromwell.

Steve emerges from the loo, drying his hands on a towel, caught out by his boss who today is unusually smart in his dog collar and black suit, armed with a briefcase. Smart and sombre and
efficient, like a JW or the man from the Pru.

‘Can we have a chat,’ Desmond says, not asking, not smiling, going on through to the kitchen, scouting for children with flapping ears. He stands upright by the back door and motions
for us both to sit down, which we do.

‘It’s Karolina,’ he says, straight to the point. ‘The church wardens and I have had a meeting with her and she has given us her version of events. She’s going to go
away and write it all down, in a formal statement.’ He leaves a gap in case we want to say something but we are both silent, waiting for more information. ‘We need to begin the process
that investigates whether you, Steve, have engaged in conduct that is unbecoming or inappropriate to the office and work of the clergy. If Karolina wishes to pursue this accusation she must write a
formal complaint, which will be made to the Bishop. She’ll have to produce written evidence in support of the complaint, and verify the complaint by a statement of truth. The Bishop will then
refer this to the diocesan registrar for advice on whether the allegations are of sufficient substance to justify proceedings under the Measure.’

He takes a breath, scans our faces. ‘I won’t go on. I’ve printed all this off for you. Read it through and we’ll talk later when you’ve had a chance to
consider.’ He lays a bundle of officious-looking paper on the table.

Steve doesn’t move.

‘It’s difficult, Steve. I know you are a man of integrity but maybe you’ve let yourself get in a vulnerable position. It’s easily done. Spending time counselling her.
Some people can get attached and imagine all sorts of things.’

‘I haven’t spent any time counselling her,’ Steve shakes his head. ‘Only the odd conversation after church, or at Alpha, when there have been others around. And
confirmation classes... ’

‘So you’ve seen a bit of her then?’

‘Nothing beyond the call of duty.’

‘No phone calls.’

‘I don’t even have her number.’

Desmond takes out a grey hanky form his trouser pocket and coughs into it. After a moment, he says: ‘She showed us her mobile. Your mobile number came up several times in her incoming
calls box.’

I daren’t look at Steve. I don’t want to see his face. I don’t want to see his reaction to this revelation. I don’t want to know if he phoned her. Why he phoned her. Why
he said he never phoned her.

‘As for tonight’s Alpha, I’m afraid I have no option but to take over,’ Desmond goes on. ‘Have a night off and talk things through.’ He gives the slightest of
smiles and nods his head, saying he’ll see himself out.

Steve and I sit together, apart, listening to the door shut, the car pull away. The papers stay on the table, waiting to be read.

This is really happening. It won’t be resolved today, overnight. It is going to drag on, judging by the papers on the table which no doubt outline all stages of the process. It’ll
all be done by the book, as it must be. But I hate it. It’s not fair. Steve doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t. They’ll be a reason for the phone calls. And what about me? Has
the witch once thought about me?

I remember her languishing on the sofa, the table strewn with rubbish, the packet of pills. I remember her looking at Imo in the surgery telling me she was a lovely baby, making me feel better.
The conniving cow.

‘Did you phone her?’

‘Never.’

‘Right, well, okay then. We’ll work this out. But we’ve got to be smart. She’s cleverer than we think. And far more dangerous.’

Thoughts for the Day:
You will not beat me, Karolina. I am Vicky the Conqueror. Vicky the Victorious.

Chapter Thirty-Four:
Thursday 20th March Maundy Thursday

Martin, surprise, surprise, is staying with us once again. Dorota and Roland are going back later today, what with it being bingo night. So no bed issues.

Martin has toothache, man-toothache, growling at anyone who comes within range. Dorota rummages in the larder and finds a half bottle of brandy left over from Christmas. She puts a generous
snifter in his cup of tea and urges him to avoid the dentist. Martin is happy to go along with this treatment but I am not. I won’t be shouted at in my own house for cleaning windows, however
much pain he is in, physical or otherwise. I won’t be told to stop the bloody squeaking because it cuts through him, the poor diddums.

So I phone around and get him an emergency appointment at a local surgery seeing as he doesn’t have a dentist of his own in Dulwich. (Too expensive. Too tight.) I scribble the appointment
time on a post-it note and stick it on the brandy bottle dwindling in front of him on the kitchen table. My kitchen table.

‘Four pm. Can you wait that long or will you be rolling around drunk on the floor by then?’

‘What a good idea,’ he says, winking at Dorota and taking three consecutive puffs of his inhaler.

My mother-in-law giggles in a sickening manner and I harbour unchristian thoughts, which include smashing the brandy bottle over her hennaed head. Breathe deep, Vicky-Love.

And where is Steve? He has left me with his parents and our children to spend some reflective time in the church. Which is good. Which is right. So why do I begrudge him a simple thing like
that?

The last few days and Olivia is still holding her Lenten fast. She has resorted to making sculptures out of bubble gum. Chewed bubble gum that Jeremy has stuck under the
zed-bed. She was in the back room earlier, organising his stuff for his return tonight – Claudia has a date – and decided to clean under his bed. That is when she found the discarded
bubble gum. She thought it was some kind of pink Blu-tack and has made a small collection of farm animals. I try to hide the horror in my voice, suggesting she use the playdough in the kitchen
instead. At the table. On a tray. With an apron. She skips ahead of me, her animals forgotten so I can wrap them up in paper and dispose of them surreptitiously in the bin.

Martin and Dorota have disappeared to the front room to watch a DVD with Rachel and Jeremy. This is Martin’s first encounter with
High School Musical
and, when I peek around the
door, he is deeply engrossed, a discarded packet of painkillers on the table and a hot water bottle held to the side of his face. I have an hour before I have to get him to the dentist. Possibly
half an hour before Imo wakes from her nap. I catch Roland coming out of the understairs loo and urge him to hold the fort.

‘Going anywhere nice?’ he asks in the manner of one knowing the answer: that I rarely go anywhere nice.

‘To the church.’

‘Right,’ he says, enigmatically. Roland is a man of few words but much subtext.

The door of St Hilda’s is open. I stand in the porch and wipe my shoes, like all those people before me from the end of the war until now. And preceding them, when the
old church stood here, many shoes would have been wiped before entering this sacred place. (If only Desmond remembered to do likewise, it would make my job a lot easier.) I am following in the
footsteps of thousands of believers who have worshipped here, inspired by St Hilda herself who’d probably never been to London herself being a northern lass. And if she had, it’s
doubtful she would’ve ventured as far as Penge. The weight of history is upon me as I enter the nave and spot my husband seated near the front, gazing up at St Hilda herself, the stained
glass seagulls dipping their wings in honour of the lapis lazuli clad figure, her golden halo shining with Penge’s new-spring sun.

‘Steve?’

He jumps a little, so lost in thought, not hearing my approach. But he knows my voice and, when he turns to look at me, he is smiling his Steve smile. His everything’s-going-to-be-alright
smile. It is at once comforting and infuriating. ‘She must have been an awesome woman,’ he says.

‘St Hilda?’

He nods, patting the pew beside him.

I force myself to ignore the cumulus of dust powder-puffing from the cushion. Amanda’s responsibility. I ease myself into the pew, next to my husband and we both look up at her. St
Hilda.

‘Bede says she was a woman of great energy.’ Steve says this little gem after a few moments of companionable contemplation.

I try to stifle an all-encompassing yawn; this is the first time I’ve sat down all day and tiredness settles on top of me, sinking me down into the pew. ‘I wish she’d give some
of it to me.’

Steve ignores my attempt at humour, not that it was said without an element of truth. I’d happily take on some heavenly vibes from old Hilda. Instead he carries on with his theological
ruminations. ‘Bede said:
All who knew her called her mother because of her outstanding devotion and grace.
’ He sounds wistful, dreamy. ‘He also said she was a good teacher.
And very wise.’

I’m not altogether sure where he’s coming from right now. Shouldn’t he be thinking of Karolina? Of me? Even of Jesus? Why is he fixated on a nun from the Dark Ages?