This Holey Life (30 page)

Martin tells this to Steve, Claudia and me. Jeremy has disappeared with a can of Pepsi, courtesy of a nurse, to the TV room as it is time for
Eastenders
. A Maundy Thursday special.

Martin is peaky, his face dotted with patches of pink eczema and strange red bumps. Stubble is creeping back and he has a George Michael look about him. The porky middle-aged George, not the
gorgeous Adonis of the Wham! years. I have to stifle the desire to sing ‘Club Tropicana’ and focus on what my brother is telling us. About his spiritual moment. His epiphany. I am
finally about to discover what this word actually means.

As I am floating on the ceiling watching the new dentist seize control of the situation, grabbing a medical pack from the wall, the nurse shouting down the phone... ambulance... emergency...
as fast as you can... I can see that this is quite serious; I am separated from my body and there is nothing I can do about it. But it isn’t me I think about. It is Karolina. I realise that
she is actually a crazy woman. A crazy woman who is actually very clever. But not clever enough; I have found her out. And I can’t die because I have to tell Steve what I suspect. That she
stole his mobile and made those calls to herself from his phone. I have to tell Vicky that her family is safe. Her husband is a good man – not that she would ever believe the accusations to
contain a grain of truth, she’s not that stupid
(a back-handed compliment if ever there was one)
.

And I have to see my son and tell him that I love him as I can’t remember the last time I did this, possibly when he was a baby and not able to comprehend those words.

And then I think of my wife. I think of you, Claudia, and I know I have to tell you I love you and I’m sorry for not being honest and if it takes the rest of my life, which I’m
hoping is going to be longer than the few minutes it might take before my body shuts down completely, I will make sure you know I love you.

And then I think of God and the Alpha course that was supposed to help me gather evidence for the God gene... only I ended up being less sure of anything.

An epiphany.

And then I feel a prick in my leg... far off and faint... after a few more moments I see another head appear beneath me, so frizzy-haired and wild I would know it anywhere. It belongs to my
little sister, Vicky. And I remember how she used to skip along the road ahead of me, off to the newsagent’s. I remember how once she fell and had a bloody knee and I had to carry her all the
way there to get her sherbet pips and all the way home again, and her legs rubbed my eczema something chronic but I wouldn’t let on because she was my little sister and I had to take care of
her. And it doesn’t matter if we have a different dad. It doesn’t matter because the same man brought us up, the same man and the same woman and I will do anything now to help my sister
grieve properly. And there she is, Vicky, standing over me, her hand reaching out to touch my face... and then a surge of something running through me... energy. A life force. Something medical yet
supernatural. And I float back down off the ceiling and am aware of a bright light shining in my face, not heaven’s glory but the dentist’s light. The light is moved away and, once my
eyes adjust, there is Vicky, smiling at me. Vicky-Love.

Steve says: ‘Do you want me to pray for you?’

Martin says: ‘Don’t push it.’

There is a slightly awkward silence as we come to grips with Martin’s revelation and all its repercussions. Then Martin asks Steve to bring in Dorota tomorrow. He needs her help.

I suspect the help he ‘needs’ will be contained in a hip flask, but I let it pass. I pat my brother’s hand and tell his audience I need some fresh air.

I keep my head down till I get outside, following the yellow line on the floor that guides me through the warren of corridors, back to the main entrance. And there’s the
hand gel. The very thing that’s supposed to prevent what happened to Mum. It is impossible not to remember.

The last time we saw her was in hospital. The night before her knee op. Martin and I came in to visit her. He’d picked me up in his Saab and was still smarting over the expense of the car
park ticket and was huffing while I gave Mum a
People’s Friend
and a Fry’s Turkish Delight. She wittered on about everything she was going to do once her knee was repaired: the
allotment, a keep-fit class, swimming. Martin, calming down after a few soothing glances from appreciative nurses and a junior doctor, joked that she’d be bungee jumping next. Mum said, oh,
no, she didn’t think her stomach would put up with that malarkey, it wasn’t natural to be bouncing upside down on a large elastic band. We laughed and, after another half hour or so,
gave her a kiss goodnight and said we’d be in the next evening. She reached up and gave each of us a squeeze of the hand. And that was the last time we talked to her. The next day, Dad called
Steve. He was in a state. Steve had to sit me down at the kitchen table and explain to me that my mother had caught an infection. We couldn’t see her because she was in an isolation ward. It
was serious. Ferocious and quick. The germs had marched in and got hold of her. They wouldn’t let go. Two days later she was dead.

My brother could have died.

It is late and I need to see my children.

The box room. A sleeping angel, cherubic and snoring, moonlight pooling over her curled up body, her snuffles reassuring. Bunk beds, two sleeping girls, heavy breathing and
dreaming, the pink nightlight making them glow healthy and well.

Thoughts for the Day:
When will I get an epiphany?

We were out shopping, Mum and me. It was really embarrassing because it was for my first bra. Mum said it was about time. I was a bit young but I needed to look after them
(my wotsits) because when I was grown up and married and had babies I would be grateful for taking care of them. I told Mum I would never have babies. They smell. She laughed.

We went to the Army and Navy in Lewisham. The lingerie department. And there looking at the Triumphs was Heidi and her mum. They didn’t see us at first. I heard Heidi’s mum say
honestly, Heidi, you’re getting bigger by the week. And Heidi looked miserable. I would be very happy if I had wotsits the size of Shooter’s Hill. Instead of the size of Dad’s
cherry tomatoes.

Then Mum spotted Heidi and shrieked heelllooo. And she introduced us to Heidi’s mum who is called Francoise. She owns a boutique in Blackheath but they don’t sell bras. She said
it would save money if they did because they are always in here. But I don’t think she needs to worry about money because Heidi’s dad is rolling in it.

Heidi didn’t say a word. Just looked at her feet. She had new shoes. She was always getting new shoes.

Chapter Thirty-Five:
Friday 21st March Good Friday

I am re-hanging the front room nets when I see a dangerous-looking Campervan bump up onto the pavement outside. I am curious as to who will get out of it. I certainly
don’t expect it to be the tattooed lady. But it is, tottering out of the driver’s seat. In those sling-backs. And I know who’ll be getting out the passenger side.

Dad bounces up the front path like a schoolboy, while Pat empties a bag of rubbish into my wheelie bin.

I meet them at the door. ‘What a surprise.’

‘We heard about Martin’s latest adventure. Pat said we should come and see him. Thought we’d pop in here first and have a cuppa. Put the kettle on, Vicky-Love.’

Two pots of tea and a packet of Ginger Snaps later, with the kids occupied in front of
Grease
(a gift from sunny Worthing), and Imo sitting on Pat’s scrawny lap,
I’ve recounted the events of the past twenty-four hours as regards Martin, including the background to Karolina. Dad still hasn’t got over the Dulwich College incident but he softens
now. I can see it in his watery eyes – a murky depth of compassion for his son who’s not his blood-son but who’s as much a son as he could ever be, had Dad got to Mum before Uncle
Jack.

‘How is he?’ Dad asks.

‘I’ve just told you. He’s fine. They’ve sorted his heartbeat. He’ll be back later, unless... ’

‘Unless Claudia takes him back?’

‘Well, this might do it for her.’

‘And what about the other stuff?’

‘Stuff?’

Dad looks sideways at Pat and I catch a facet of their relationship, a conspiring closeness I’m not quite ready to think about. She nods at Dad, encouraging, before dunking another biscuit
in her tea.

‘I mean Jack,’ Dad says.

I know he means Uncle Jack. Uncle Jack, squinting into the sun, his blonde fringe, his easy smile. And Dad, gawky and upright, grinning like a kid on holiday. Not much older than a kid. Either
of them. And tragedy just ahead...

‘Vicky?’

‘We’ve not really had the chance to talk that through, Dad, what with one thing and another. And besides I’m not sure there’s anything I can really say. I reckon we
should give him some time to get used to the idea.’

I don’t tell him about the epiphany. I’ll leave that to Martin. It might have worn off by now anyway, washed away with the adrenaline. He might have shrunk back to his usual angry
Dawkins self. And part of me hopes that he has.

I am in the garden. A few moments of fresh air and head space. I walk across the stepping stones, dappled with pale sunshine, and stop a few paces short of the shed. Above me
are the scrubby trees, the embankment. Pigeons. Fox wee. In a few weeks the nettles will be rife, the bindweed suffocating but for now it is enough to see the bulb shoots poking up through the
heavy clay soil of my beds. It’s been a long winter.

The shed. No longer a place I can enter without knocking.

‘Who is it?’ Rachel asks. There is rustling but none of the whispering that has been going on of late.

I let myself in, without waiting for an invitation. My eldest child is sitting cross-legged on a tartan picnic rug playing solitaire. The two camping chairs are vacant, apart from an abandoned
pen and a set of stationery, what looks suspiciously like my expensive Basildon Bond stationery usually reserved for the thank you letters I have to browbeat out of my ungrateful children.
‘Where’s Jeremy?’

‘With Jessica.’

‘Next door?’

A pause.

‘Think so.’

‘What are they doing? More filming?’

‘Maybe.’ She deals the cards, carrying on with her game.

Despite the effort made by Jeremy to kit out the shed, it is draughty. There is a hole low down in the side (must get Steve to patch it up). A fierce draught blasts through, catching the back of
my legs. ‘I need the rake, Rach.’

Rachel pushes herself wearily up from the floor and reaches for the rake – one of Dad’s cast-offs – hanging from a nail behind her. ‘Here you go, Mum.’ She hands it
over, a half-smile, slightly coy, evasive even, like she’s up to something but I won’t press her now. I leave her to her game. Sometimes she needs some peace and quiet... but I do hope
Jessica isn’t leading my ‘sensitive’ nephew astray. ‘Don’t stay out here too long. Granddad will think you’re avoiding him.’

‘I am avoiding him.’

‘Ra-ch?’

‘I’ll be in soon, Mum. Don’t fuss.’

I shut the door behind me, before I get embroiled in a pointless argument, and hop back up the patio where I rake a few leaves.

My Garden of Gethsemane leaves.

Dorota and Roland are now sitting at the kitchen table with my father and Pat. An interesting foursome.

‘Vicky, I have seen your brother. I got rid of the nurses and we talked. Sit down and I tell you.’ Dorota pulls out the chair next to her. ‘How about a nice glass of sherry? It
is Good Friday. That’s near enough to Easter, isn’t it?’

‘I think technically, in the Church of England, Lent ends tomorrow. But, like you say, it’s near enough.’

I have never seen my mother-in-law move so fast. She conjures up glasses and pours them to the brim, but I try not to be distracted. I need to know what’s going on. ‘What is it,
Dorota? What’s happened now?’

She takes a sip of sherry, subverts a smile with a serious shake of the head. ‘Your brother has a job for us to do. Just you and I can sort this mess out.’

Dorota and I stand in the cold corridor outside Karolina’s flat. Rubbish skids along the concrete floor, pushed by the insistent wind. She looks at me and points to the bell, willing me to
take control and ring it. Not because she doesn’t want to but because she knows I need to. I need to do something. I am not entirely sure what it is that I am going to do but, for once, with
Dorota’s comforting bulk beside me, I will wing it.

I pull my coat tighter and ring the bell. It doesn’t seem to be working. So I knock on the door. It needs a good lick of paint. Dorota and I look at each other. It is quiet within, very
quiet. But then we hear a small child’s voice. Followed by a low urgent hush. I bang again, annoyance bubbling up within me. How dare she do this to my family? How dare she hide? I am about
to bang again, harder, when the door creaks, slowly opens, slightly, and we squint into dead space. As our eyes adjust, and we look down, we see her: Natasha. She says nothing, stares up at us with
those mournful eyes.

‘We’ve come to see your mumia, Natasza,’ says Dorota. ‘Can we come in?’

The little girl says nothing, turns her blank face away from us and walks off down the corridor. But she has left the door open so we take this as an invitation to come in, whether it was
offered or not. We follow her to the sitting room. It hasn’t been cleared up since my last visit. If anything it’s worse, a stale smell hanging thickly in the heavy air.

‘It is pig sty,’ Dorota whispers to me, as we hover on the threshold. ‘Karolina is dirty slut.’

Natasha has sat back down in front of the telly, close up as if she needs glasses. And there is her mother, lying there on the sofa, like a dead woman. Though of course she is not dead –
that’s not what the smell is. The smell is last night’s Kentucky Fried Chicken. Does she even know we are here? Should I say something?