This Holey Life (7 page)

But I shouldn’t call Heidi a big fat liar because I like Heidi. She is nice to me and smiles a lot and last night she helped me with my French homework. I have no idea why I need to
learn French. Mum and Dad will never take us to France. They never take us further than Worthing or Weston-super-Mare. Heidi is going to Egypt for her next holiday. She is going to see the pyramids
and the Sphincter. I wish I was Heidi.

Chapter Nine:
Monday January 7th

Packed lunches. For Jeremy and Rachel. Not for me as I still have a few months reprieve until Imo hits her first birthday and I return to teaching. Not for Steve who no longer
has to eat his sandwiches in his van. He comes home these days. Which is nice. Usually. Though sometimes I’d like to sit down and watch
The Little Mermaid
DVD with Olivia in the hope
of twenty minutes shut-eye, instead of listening to how the diocese works and feeling guilty for not being as enthusiastic as Amanda about the new prayer books.

Guilt. Must have caught it off Claudia. I can feel it snapping at my ankles like the Jack Russell the children are always nagging us for. Guilt at the extent of my joy that Rachel and Jeremy
will be out of the house for six whole hours. No
American Idol.
No monosodium glutamate. Back to
CBeebies
and rice cakes (unsalted). And guilt because this is Olivia’s first day
at playgroup and apart from buying her a pair of shiny inappropriate shoes I haven’t prepared her for stepping out into the world without me. And now I have to step outside. Into the garden.
The shed.

‘I’m staying in here, Auntie Vicky,’ Jeremy mutters as I try to coax him out, his father having disappeared to work. Typical.

‘What’s wrong, Jeremy?’

‘I’m going to get beaten up and that cos I’m a posh kid.’

‘You’re twice the size of an average ten-year-old. They wouldn’t dare. Besides, Mrs Lake is a really good teacher. She won’t stand for any teasing. Certainly not
bullying. There’s a school policy.’

‘Dad says school policies aren’t worth the paper they’re written on.’

‘Well, your dad’s not a teacher. Now come on. There’s a bacon sandwich waiting for you.’

‘With tomato ketchup?’

‘With tomato ketchup.’

The door swings open and Jeremy steps outside. ‘At least I don’t have to wear a tie anymore.’

‘Exactly. Every cloud has a silver lining.’

Monday is Steve’s day off so he drops Jeremy and Rachel at school and leaves me to deal with Olivia. I am not actually worried for Olivia. I am more worried for the
playgroup workers who may not have previously encountered a child quite in her league. I am a little concerned they will have her down as one of those eccentric children, possibly on the autistic
spectrum as she is quite fanatical about some things – namely shoes and cleaning.

I have managed to persuade Olivia not to wear her Snow White dress and am trying to convince her that leggings and a fleecy top will be the most practical outfit for painting and going on the
trikes outdoors.

‘But I don’t like leggings, Mummy. You never wear leggings.’

She is right. I never wear leggings. What sane adult would wear leggings? Except for petite refined delicate Claudia who has neither hips nor bottom.

‘How about your corduroy skirt? That’s really pretty.’ Really hardwearing and I can wash it at sixty degrees and not turn Steve’s underpants a shade of purple.

‘How about Tinkerbell, Mummy? I could go as Tinkerbell. That’s really pretty.’

I kneel down and look her in the eye, woman to woman. ‘Olivia if you get paint on Tinkerbell it will never wash out however much Vanish or Cillit Bang I use and you will never ever be able
to dress up as Tinkerbell again and that would be very sad indeed.’

‘Okay, Mummy, I’ll wear the courgette skirt,’ Olivia says as if I have just pulled her back from the edge of a hidden precipice.

‘Good. The courgette skirt it is.’

Hallelujah.

I watch at the door of the church hall. A familiar place for Olivia but these are different kids to the ones she knows from Sunday School. These are un-churched kids. London
kids. She’s a London kid but I suspect she is a little cushioned from London life. Will she be alright? At least she knows this space. The smells. The quirks of the ladies’ toilet. She
has even cleaned the toilet when it’s been my turn on the rota. Thankfully she doesn’t have to battle with the urinals. I wouldn’t want her to share them with the boys in this
room. (Thank Heaven for little girls.)

She has already muscled in on a group having a tea party with plastic cup cakes and foam French fries and has insisted on being mother. ‘I’ll just go and put the kettle on,’ I
hear her strident voice ring out above the cacophony. While she waits for the kettle to boil (she is very realistic in her role play), she takes a doll out of a Moses basket and changes its
nappy.

Nappies. Rachel knows how to change a nappy. For real. She’ll do Imo if I’m desperate. If I’m stuck on the phone with a parishioner, for example. If I pay her. 50p a go. Olivia
would love to change Imo’s nappy but at the age of three I draw the line.

Rachel. I wonder how she’s getting on at St Hilda’s C of E. With Jeremy. She has to put up with a lot, my big girl. My too-old-for-Disney girl. It wasn’t so long ago I was
changing her nappy. Her skinny legs with the softest pearly skin. And then there was Thomas.

‘Come on, Imo,’ I say. ‘We’ve got loos to scrub and food to buy.

Imo starts crying, furious because I’m dragging her away from all the fun. Olivia looks up at me about to leave. Looks at Imo. It dawns on her that maybe she will be missing out on
something too but then one of the assistants asks who wants to do some cutting and sticking. She turns away from me, grabbing the assistant’s hand with surprising fervour. (Does she realise
messy glue is involved?) Then, throwing me a scrap of a smile, she is gone.

As I’m putting the shopping away, the door goes and I know straightaway it’s not Steve back from his Monday prayer run. ‘Martin?’

He creeps into the kitchen in a most un-Martin-like way. Imo is delighted to see her uncle, banging her highchair like a deranged member of parliament in a frenzy of adoration. ‘I’m
glad you’re here,’ he says, ignoring her.

‘Oh?’

‘I’ve had a phone call.’

‘Jeremy?’

‘No. Not Jeremy. Why would it be Jeremy?’ Martin waves his arms about, perilously close to a vase of flowers on the dresser. He can see I’m waiting, a clutch of Pot Noodles in
my hands. ‘It’s Dad.’

‘Is he alright?’

‘He’s in hospital.’

‘What?’ I hold on tighter to the Pot Noodles and feel my face grow hot.

‘Nothing serious. A fall.’

‘A fall? Where? Has he broken something?’

‘His wrist. Stop getting all worked up. We should just go and see him and then we’ll be able to assess the extent of the damage.’

‘The extent of the damage?’

I am about to launch into a rant about his legalistic choice of words when Steve comes in, all sweaty and puffed-out, looking like Steve of old back from the gym. But this is the new Steve who
combines running with praying for his neighbourhood as he paces the streets of Penge. Steve, the rock, the peace-maker. Steve who listens calmly, telling me to breathe. Who says he will collect the
kids from school and give them tea and for us to get going and not worry. It will be alright.

‘But what about Olivia?’ I think of my daughter waiting to see her mother’s face appear at the door of the church hall. ‘I have to collect Olivia. She comes out soon and
I promised her I’d be there. I can’t let her down. She might never believe anything I say to her ever again.’

‘We’ll all go,’ Steve says. ‘We’ll take both cars. You can say hello and then get straight off. Just give me five minutes to have a quick shower.’ And
he’s gone, leaving a sweaty Steve smell behind him.

Martin gets himself a glass of water and sits down, watching me pack up the changing bag with nappies, wipes, water, spare clothes. He uses his stunning scientific mind, gathering hard evidence,
to fathom what I am doing. ‘Are we taking her with us?’ He looks at his niece, sitting in her highchair, wearing her lunch of mashed banana.

‘Of course.’

‘In my car?’

‘Of course in your car. We’ve only got the Espace, remember? Steve’s going to need it.’

‘Can’t you leave her with Steve?’

‘No.’

‘He can give her a bottle, can’t he?’

‘No.’

Steve
could
give her a bottle. It’s about time he gave her a bottle. But I’ll decide when we give her a bottle. Not Martin. ‘Your precious leather seats can always be
wiped clean, can’t they?’

He looks at my daughter, doubt all over his face, the way banana clings to hers. ‘Well, bring a towel then,’ he says, grudgingly. ‘A large absorbent one. I’ve only just
had the Saab valeted.’

I resist the temptation to bash Martin repeatedly over the head with a Pot Noodle and concentrate on wiping down Imo as quickly as possible so we can get to see Dad. Poor Dad, down in Worthing
all on his own. I wish Mum were here.

‘You might want to get changed, Victoria,’ he says, offhand as he heads for the back door for a quick smoke.

‘Why, what’s wrong with this?’ My Tesco’s economy jeans and old top might not be up to Claudia’s fashion standards but Steve’s not on plumbing wages anymore.
Clothing is not a priority.

‘You look like you’re entering a wet tshirt competition,’ he says. ‘You’ve got two circles around your – ’

Martin doesn’t get the chance to describe the part of my anatomy that has the two wet circles, because a Pot Noodle leaves my hand and flies through the air, towards the back door –
to the amazement of Imo – and whacks my venomous brother in the face, wiping away his snarl and squashing his words. Ha!

Chapter Ten

After the obligatory snail-crawl out of London, we eventually make it into fifth gear, once we get beyond Coulsdon. Martin makes the most of this, as if the very hounds of hell
are on our tail. Or even the four horsemen of the Apocalypse. The A23 rushes beneath us and I’m grateful after all for the large absorbent towel on my lap. We don’t say much to each
other; it’s difficult with Jazz FM coming at you from every angle.

‘Since when have you liked jazz?’

‘I’ve always liked jazz.’ Martin starts boopity-boopitying along to prove a point. Or to wind me up.

At least the discordant notes have the benefit of lulling Imo off to sleep. I’d love to sleep but I can’t stop thinking about Dad, what sort of state we’re going to find him
in. Plus I need to keep an eye on my brother. I need to imaginary-drive the car to prevent us from crashing.

Finally, we cross the Downs and head along the A27. When we see the gothic Lancing College chapel, the end is near. Soon we are entering the windy flatness that is Worthing. We don’t even
see the sea, the prom, the pier, or any of the town’s delights, as we have to get to Dad. I’m really worried now. Feel like spewing all over Martin’s highly-polished
dashboard.

I used to like hospitals. I liked the idea of people whose job it was to take care of you. Qualified people who’d trained and studied and taken exams and were putting
their theories into practice. People who had a vocation, more than a job. Like Steve, I suppose. Would it be easier if Steve were a doctor? A doctor’s wife could have her own career without
guilt or comment. She could spend her own money without accountability or tithing. She could run her own home without the fear of parishioners dropping round in need of offloading. She could enjoy
a certain amount of anonymity.

As we walk down the corridor, following signs for Dad’s ward, it comes back to me, the memory, hard and fast like August rain, the ground under my feet unable to take the
deluge so that I have to stand still, breathe deep, stay close to the wall as the tide of people wash past me.

The memory. The bunion operation. Mum in her tired old nightie with the button missing. I’d picked her some primroses, from the garden, and tied a ribbon round them. Dad bought her some
juicy black grapes from the greengrocer’s. Martin got her a car magazine, from under his bed. She smiled when she saw us, a smile of relief, her family all together. If she could, she would
have kept us like that, close, tied up with ribbon.

It was a relief for us too. After the biscuit tins. There she was, in a scrubbed-down place, in her nightie, smiling at us. Alive.

The matrons have been replaced with hand gel. I feel sick at the thought of Dad being vulnerable to superbugs and deadly infections, though he must have a tough immune system,
living in the near-squalor that is the norm for him. It’s even worse since Mum died and it wasn’t exactly great before. Perhaps he can come back to Penge? We’d fit him in somehow.
Martin will have to leave.

Dad is propped up, looking odd in a single bed. And washed-out. But he’s alright, not nearly as bad as we thought. We can tell straightaway, by the way he nods at us, the
reserved, no-nonsense half-smile. The way he slips back into being our dad.

‘Have a chair, Vicky-Love. The kids been running you ragged, have they?’

‘Hi, Dad,’ I kiss him on the cheek. Stubbly. The familiar smell of potting sheds overlaid with hospital.

‘Alright then, Martin?’

They shake hands, awkwardly, and Martin takes the chair next to me, near Dad’s covered feet. He looks like he’d rather be on the operating table than about to embark on small talk
duty.

‘How’s the wrist?’ Martin manages to ask.

So we talk about the wrist. The X-rays. The break. The cast. The physio he’s going to need. It’s a relief. He’s alright. And at least while he’s here he’s had some
decent meals inside him. And nurses to fuss around him. He’s like Martin in that way – commands the focus of a room. A hospital ward. There’s noise and comings and goings and
colour and I imagine it’s difficult to feel lonely surrounded by all this. Though you can be surrounded by people and be lonelier than ever.

‘Grape, Vicky-Love? You’re looking peaky.’

‘No thanks, Dad. I’m fine. It’s you who’s looking peaky.’