This Holey Life (32 page)

Chapter Thirty-Six:
Saturday 22nd March Easter Saturday

It is quiet and peaceful in St Hilda’s, barely any traffic outside as it’s so early, but I can still make out the rain falling, tapping on the roof like fingers
drumming on a table. Fingers battering a laptop. In this sacred place, on your own, it can be possible to forget the world. You can leave your troubles in the porch, as you wipe your feet, and pick
them back up on your way out. For a while it’s like you have fallen through a crack in time and space and ended up somewhere... other.

But not today. Today it is all pervasive. I look at St Hilda, her blue gown exquisite, too outwardly beautiful for a nun. But it is symbolic, I suppose. The beauty on the inside reflected on the
out.

Reflection. That’s what today is supposed to be: a day of waiting and reflection. The end of Holy Week though this holey week is far from over. For Jessica and Jeremy have still not been
found.

The police have searched our houses, under beds, in attics, the garden shed, the cutting, but they are taking Jessica’s letter seriously, that she and Jeremy are trying to find her mother.
They’re searching the airports and ports, the coach stations and train stations, anywhere they can think of that Jeremy and Jessica might go. Their passports are missing but how the pair of
them thinks they’ll get to Lanzarote without adults is a mystery. And a worry. There are those out there who would gladly offer their ‘assistance’.

Poor Bob. He’s beside himself, taking the blame for everything. And Claudia, just sitting there in a trance. Martin meanwhile is surprisingly calm, even apologising to Bob for the fight.
And Tamarine’s quiet presence, making herbal tea and offering morsels of food to tempt us to eat.

I had to get out. I felt sick with tiredness, up all night with a police officer, waiting for phone calls, an echo of
The Bill,
but this is real life.

But no news yet. No CCTV images. No mobile phone tracings; Jessica doesn’t have a phone; Jeremy has left his behind. They have some money, pilfered from Tamarine’s latest car boot
takings, and two packets of Penguins, smuggled from my larder. They even thought to pack their toothbrush and pyjamas. It would be sweet if it wasn’t so heart-breaking, so... devastatingly
worrying. A whole night. I thought they’d show up as it got dark, at teatime. But no. Not a word. It’s some comfort to know they left of their own accord; they weren’t taken. But
it is awful, this not knowing. I feel sick and faint with it all. Who knows what will happen to them out there?

I never had the chance to worry over Thomas. Everything was fine, sitting in the box room with him, listening to Steve and Rach cheer on Tiger Tim. Laying him down in his cot as soft rain
started to fall. I touched a kiss to his forehead, thinking how a cooler evening would help his skin, and crept out the room. When I got downstairs, Tim Henman had come off court. Rain stopped
play, just as he was in the zone, on the verge of beating Goran Ivanisevic and getting to the final. There’d been hardly any rain that Wimbledon. So when it came, at such a moment, Ivanisevic
believed God had intervened. Henman was steaming ahead and this was the Croatian’s chance to alter the rhythm of the match. It was his destiny. He came off that court and he got himself
together. On and off they played over three days of rain stoppages. But Ivanisevic crawled his way back and finally he won. And Henman lost.

Someone has come in. The door creaks and clangs shut and I hear heavy footsteps. I turn and see Amanda, swaying up the aisle like a scary bride, sweeping aside thoughts of tennis. She sits down
and squeezes my hand. Hers is warm and I realise how cold I am.

‘Any news?’

She shakes her head. The tinkle of bangles. The waft of

Charlie. ‘I came to see if you were alright.’

I check my watch. Gone seven o’clock. ‘I must’ve been longer than I thought. I’d better get back, sort out breakfast for those who can eat.’

‘Sit a while longer,’Amanda says, though I haven’t the energy to do anything other than be surprised at how comforting her voice is. Not the tiniest bit annoying. ‘Today
is the time of weeping that lasts for the night while awaiting the joy that comes in the morning,’ she says.

‘Pardon?’

‘Psalm 30.’

‘Well... I hope you’re right.’

I hope there will be joy. But joy is so elusive, even the odd snatches of it flutter through your fingers, so hard to pin down and name as joy. So hard to recognise because once you examine it,
the joy has gone, blown away on the wind.

I look up at Hilda. The blue dress. Blue. And I think of that other blue, that pale Basildon Bond blue. And I think of Rachel, dealing cards on the picnic rug on the floor of the shed. I think
of the police gently questioning her and I wonder if she knows more than she is telling. I turn to Amanda. ‘Where’s God in all this?’

She doesn’t reply straightaway, deciding how to word such a delicate answer, or maybe praying for divine guidance.

I wait. I put my hands in my lap and wait.

‘He’s sitting here beside you,’ she says, so faint I can hardly make her out, her usual strident tones quite dissipated. ‘And He’ll go with you when you leave this
place. You simply have to trust that He is there. Always there. Especially on a day like this.’

I look next to me, I can’t help it. But all I can see is the empty pew. The dusty, empty pew. ‘Have you ever thought about trying beeswax, Amanda?’ I hear myself say, joking,
nudging Amanda in what could be seen as entirely inappropriate under the circumstances though I suppose I’m trying to find some let-up from this heavy worry.

Amanda looks surprised, briefly, but then for the first time since I have known her, she digs deep and excavates a slither of her deep-buried sense of humour. ‘It says in Ecclesiastes,
Let thy garments be always white
. But you don’t have to take this literally.’

And then she surprises me further.

‘In the Epic of Gilgamesh – do you know it? No? – well, Siduri, a woman of the vine, a wine maker, tries to stop Gilgamesh, this king, in his quest for immortality, urging him
to enjoy the life he has.’ Amanda shuts her eyes and they move behind her closed lids as she quotes:
As for you, Gilgamesh, fill your belly with good things; day and night, night and day,
dance and be merry, feast and rejoice. Let your clothes be fresh, bathe yourself in water, cherish the little child that holds your hand, and make your wife happy in your embrace; for this too is
the lot of man.’

‘In memento mori?’

‘More than that. Jesus said not to worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.’

‘But what about today?’

‘He also said
: Come to me, all you who labour and are burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am meek and humble of heart; and you will find
rest for yourselves. For my yoke is easy, and my burden light.
’

‘How do you remember all this Amanda?

‘The same way you remember to sweep under rugs.’

Rachel is lying on her bed, a plate of uneaten toast beside her, making a friendship bracelet. She doesn’t look up as I walk in, concentrating hard on her handicraft.

‘Who’s that for, darling?’

‘Jessica. When she gets back.’

‘Do you know when that might be?’

‘Why does everyone think I know where they are?’

‘Well, I’m surprised they didn’t tell you where they were going. I thought you three did everything together.’

She carries on plaiting, still on her back, knees up, holding the bracelet close to her face so I can’t make out what’s going on inside her head.

‘They did ask me if I wanted to go,’ she says casually, as if they’d asked her down to the newsagent’s to get some sweets.

‘Oh?’ I put all my effort into this one word, restraining myself, holding back all the questions.

‘I said I couldn’t leave you,’ she says. ‘You’d worry too much. You know, cos of him.’

‘Him?’

‘Thomas.’

Thomas.

A wave of anguish threatens to topple me so I sit down quickly on the bed. Is that how she sees it? That she needs to protect me? What kind of burden have I loaded on her young shoulders? She
was so young. A three-year-old. A little tot just out of nappies and starting playgroup. We were going along quite nicely...

I need to be the grown up here. Now. I need to see if there’s anything I can do to sort this mess out. ‘Martin and Claudia are worried,’ I say gently, calmly. ‘Bob and
Tamarine are worried.’

‘Bob and Tamarine don’t care about Jessica,’ she says automatically, repeating stuff she’s heard, not really thought through.

‘Is that what Jessica told you?’

‘She only wanted to see her mum. Her dad won’t let her. Because of Tamarine.’

‘Bob doesn’t want her to get hurt, that’s why. He’s not being spiteful or mean. And it’s certainly not down to Tamarine. She’s tried to get Bob to give in on
this one but he’s too scared.’ Rachel stops plaiting and lays her friendship bracelet on the bed, next to her. A woven bracelet of red and blue, Palace colours, set against a background
of pink and purple striped duvet. I wish it was still Pocahontas but she is beyond all that now. She sits herself up, untangles her legs, unbelievably long, and gets off the bed. Crouching down
beside it, she reaches underneath for something.

It is Bob’s camcorder. She holds it in her hand, gripping it tight, and then says: ‘You’d better watch this.’

Once Bob has got the camcorder connected to our TV, we all sit down to watch the film, an odd time to be seated together doing such a thing, Steve and I, Martin and Claudia,
Bob and Tamarine, Roland and Dorota, Dad and Pat, and our delegated police officer who lurks on the arm of my sofa, notepad in hand. But this film is not
High School Musical
,
Grease
or
Seven Brides for Seven Brothers
. It is the film that our children have been absorbed in making these last couple of weeks, so absorbed in creativity that we have left them to it. It is so
rare for them to get on and do things without squabbling or the constant need for adult intervention that we let them. No questions asked. So we could get on and do things ourselves, things we
thought were more important. But what can be more important than spending time with your children? Cleaning loos, polishing pews, raking leaves? Are these important? Are they?

The blank TV suddenly turns into Jessica’s face. It is such a surprise to see her that some of us actually gasp. Bob puts his hand to his head and rubs it, that way of his when he is lost
for words. I’ve seen it often enough as Jessica does something that exasperates him.

It is an extreme close-up of Jessica, jerky at times so it looks like she has hiccups. You can see her freckles, the deep brown of her eyes. The collar of her precious football shirt.

‘When did she pluck her eyebrows?’ Bob looks at Tamarine.

‘I did it for her two weeks ago, Bobby,’ Tamarine says. ‘She ask me. She want to look nice. Like young lady.’

Bob lets out a noise I have never heard him make before. His eyes are wet and he swipes at them with the back of his hand. ‘She’s ten-years-old,’ he whispers.
‘Ten.’

Then Claudia, quiet and contained for so long, starts to cry and moan and Martin puts his arm around her and she lets him, too weak to fight him off. Maybe she doesn’t even notice; she is
so focused on that screen, waiting for her son’s face to appear.

Dad keeps looking over his shoulder at the door, anticipating the return of his grandson, banging and crashing his way to join his family in this communal viewing. But no-one comes in. Those of
us here, including Olivia and Rachel cross-legged on the floor, consume the heart-stopping film, none of us more deathly quiet than Martin, whose arm remains round his wife’s shoulder, still
and limp, the way it lay on Thursday, (was it only Thursday?) hanging over the dentist’s chair.

The children have made some kind of documentary, a project for school. ‘What is family?’ It sounds like a feature you’d get in Martin’s
Observer
but this is much
more profound, much more unpredictable.

Jessica introduces the project before her face fades to black. Then there is a shot of the playground at the park, children of all sizes, from toddlers on slides to teenagers messing about on
swings and, dotted about, mums chatting, offering biscuits and shouting warnings. And the odd dad, standing around, awkward and out of place, or overly-confident, chucking their sons around like
rugby balls. A general hum of noise and activity, nothing unusual, what you see in any London park, on any day of the year.

Cut to: Jeremy sitting on a wall down our street, outside the Khans’ house. Jessica’s voice asks a question off screen and Bob flinches. ‘What is family?’ Jeremy bites
his lip and leans back on the wall, swinging his legs so he’s on the verge of falling back onto Mr Khan’s crazy paving. ‘It’s the people who look after you,’ he says.
‘That’s not always your mum and dad though they’re supposed to. Sometimes they can’t. Not all the time so someone else helps out. They are family too.’

I dare not peek at Martin or Claudia, knowing how they must feel hearing that, wondering if I could have done more to mediate but I was so wrapped up in my own stuff that I couldn’t. I
just couldn’t.

Cut to: school playground. End of the day. Parents standing around chatting, loaded down like donkeys with PE bags, reading bags, backpacks, drink bottles, letters, while their children,
unencumbered and light-headed after a day indoors, skip around and jump up and down, squawking and squealing.

Cut to: Rachel, hop-scotching over the far end of the playground, speaking breathlessly with every jump. ‘Family is the people you like live with. The ones you argue with and don’t
have to make up with cos you have to just get on with it. And family is your grandparents cos they come and treat you and spend time with you and talk to you which is good cos your parents can be
like busy with stuff, all that washing and meetings and rushing around. And family is your brothers and sisters and my sisters are a pain in the butt but I love them just the same.’