This Holey Life (10 page)

Finally, the football over, Dad turns his attention to me. ‘I like that bath,’ he says. ‘There’s nothing wrong with it.’

So he was listening.

‘It’s very deep, Dad. And it doesn’t even have handrails. I don’t know how you manage.’

Well, I do know. Dad doesn’t exactly bathe regularly. He’s been using the bath for propagating his seeds judging by the amount of soil Olivia had to sweep out of it.

‘And where’s our Jeremy today?’ Dad deftly changes the subject.

‘With Martin.’

‘Not Claudia?’

‘She’s not home till tomorrow.’

‘And will they move back in with her?’

‘I hope so. Believe me, Dad, I hope so.’

‘Been getting on your nerves has he, your brother?’

‘What do you think?’

Dad chuckles and it’s so nice to hear him laugh that I join in though it’s not at all funny.

‘Shall I send Steve to the fish and chip shop for tea?’

‘Oh you don’t need to worry about me, Vicky-Love. I’m alright. You gave me a grand lunch. A whole field of broccoli.’

‘But you need to eat a proper tea as well. You’re anaemic.’

‘That’s all in hand.’

At that moment the doorbell rings. Steve gets up to answer it. I’m still looking at Dad, wondering what’s going on, why he’s blushing the colour of one of his ripened tomatoes,
when in walks a woman. A woman of a certain age. Older than me but quite, quite younger than Dad.

‘This is Pat,’ he says. ‘We met through the library.’

Pat doesn’t look like the sort of woman you’d meet through the library. She looks like the sort of woman you’d be accosted by down a dark alley. She has a tattoo. And an ankle
bracelet. And her skirt’s just a bit – well, a lot – on the short side. No wonder Dad is blushing. And to think of the fuss he kicked up when I got my ears pierced aged
sixteen.

‘I answered her advert.’

This gets worse.

‘She wanted to meet you so I said she should pop over. She’s my home help.’

Home help. Good. That’s good. She might not exactly look like a home help but you shouldn’t judge by appearances. And Dad’s home needs all the help it can get.

‘I’ve brought you some liquorice, Jim. Thought it might get things moving.’ She hands Dad a paper bag with black sticks poking out the top. ‘Get your laughing gear around
that.’

‘Ta very much, Pat,’ says Dad. ‘Sit yourself down.’

Pat sits herself down on the pouffe. ‘What a bonny baby,’ she says. ‘May I?’ And she hefts Imo off her blanket on the floor where she has been trying, unsuccessfully, to
roll over. While she does This Little Piggy, Olivia squats down next to Pat, mesmerised by her stilettos. Pat kicks them off. ‘You want to try them on?’

Despite the dubious appearance of Pat, Olivia tries them on and struts up and down the room like she’s at an American beauty pageant.

Even Rachel is transfixed. ‘What’s that picture on your arm?’

‘Oh, that old thing.’ Pat pushes up her sleeve for a clearer inspection; a dolphin, caught in a net of sun-damaged skin. ‘I got it done when I was a young girl. Had a bit too
much to drink,’ she shrieks with guttural laughter.

‘When I have too much to drink I wet myself,’ Olivia announces once the laughter has subsided. ‘It’s ’gusting. It goes all cold down my leg and into my shoes. But I
don’t do that anymore. I am three-years-old and I go to school.’

‘
Pre
-school,’ Rachel corrects.

‘Come on, girls,’ Steve cajoles, jumping up, all jolly, clapping his hands like a mad vicar. ‘How about a five-minute run around the garden before we get back in the
car?’

‘Mind the beds,’ Dad shouts after them.

Yes, the beds. The beautiful flowerbeds. Not a weed in the garden but dirty dishes in the sink and scum in the bath. That’s the way it’s always been. And I can’t see things
improving with the addition of Pat. Not with those nails.

On the journey back, the children sleep, three girls in a row, three peas in a pod. A tug at my heart. A quickening in my stomach. Where has he gone?

Steve is silent, not so much concentrating on the roads, as on his sermon. I can see him preaching internally, tomorrow’s expressions already across his face. That leaves me with my own
thoughts. So I turn them forwards, to the evening ahead: tea, chores, a bit of telly. A slushy film would be good; anything to stop me worrying about leaving Dad with that woman. Without me.
Without Mum. Anything to stop me thinking about my baby boy. My Thomas.

Martin and Jeremy are playing chess at the kitchen table, listening to something classical when Steve and I struggle in with our three hungry, grumpy children.

‘How’s Dad?’ Martin swipes Jeremy’s bishop, not bothering to ask if we need a hand. A cup of tea. Anything. Though I think I can detect a note of interest in there
somewhere despite the fact he doesn’t lift his eyes from the chequered board.

I tell him all about Dad, all about Pat, not sparing any detail, while I jig a grotty Imo up and down. She’s flushed and grabbing at her ear. Teething. Time for a feed and bed but Martin
has other ideas.

‘I’ve booked a table at that dodgy-looking Italian round the corner,’ he says. ‘By way of a thank you for having us,’ he adds, so quietly that perhaps I’m
imagining it.

‘You’re planning on leaving tomorrow as well then?’ I don’t bother keeping the surprise out of my voice.

‘Course,’ he says. ‘Why not?’ And he moves his queen with a flourish of his big fat hand, without noticing the quiver of his son’s lower lip. ‘Check
mate.’

There’s no way Claudia’s going to take him back that easily. She’d be mad. Still, Martin’s blind faith means we have to forgo our usual Saturday night routine. I hope we
don’t regret this. Sunday is Steve’s most important day – not that he doesn’t work hard every other day of the week, like people think. We all need an early night but I
shouldn’t throw Martin’s offer back in his face. And, I have to say, a nice bowl of spaghetti would go down a treat. And a glass of Chianti. Maybe some garlic bread. We’ll have to
skip pudding obviously; it’ll be way past the kids’ bedtime, which has already come and gone. Maybe they do take-out. If only Imo would stop crying. Where’s the Calpol? The
Bonjela? The teething ring? Anything but my nipples? The prospect of teeth makes me want to cry too.

Imo doesn’t stop crying. We have to endure the noise throughout our starters. People are beginning to stare. The waiters – astonishingly stereotypical baby-loving
Mafia types – keep coming up to her and patting her on the head which makes matters even worse. In the end it’s Martin that stops the crying. He takes a breadstick out of one of those
plastic packets and says: ‘Here, Imogen, get your laughing gear around that.’ She looks at her uncle, quiet suddenly, shocked at being noticed by him. Then she reaches out her chubby
little hand and grasps the breadstick. After a moment of examination she manages to aim the stick at her mouth. Then with an after-shudder, she begins to chew on it, grinding her gums, with a
satisfied sigh.

We finish the rest of the meal with no crying. The children love their pizzas, my spaghetti is divine. A family meal out with no fuss from the children. It should be bliss. But there is a
horrible taste in my mouth. Martin. What made him suddenly do that? He’s crap with babies. How come he’s the one that managed to stop her crying? I should love him for it. But I
don’t – Martin yet again interfering. Yet again doing better than me.

Claudia has to take him back tomorrow.

Thoughts for the Day:
Do not judge others. But how can a woman like Pat help Dad? How can a man like Martin know what’s best for my baby? Do moles blink?

Chapter Thirteen:
Sunday January 13th

Jessica Talbot, Rachel’s best friend and the girl next door, must reciprocate Jeremy’s feelings. Why else would she follow us to church? Jessica Talbot never comes
to church, being scathing of anything that doesn’t involve football. She only ever enters St Hilda’s for the school Christmas concert, despite me often asking her on a Sunday morning,
hoping Rachel might think church cool if Jessica Talbot wanted to come along too. Of course whenever I mention church to any of Rachel’s friends she gets the hump. And I understand.
It’s embarrassing for her. If Steve had always been a vicar it might be easier. But Rachel can clearly remember the day, way back in Year Two, when Steve met her at the classroom door at the
end of the day and was collared by Mrs Hughes.

Could you take a look at my boiler?
she asked.
The pilot light keeps going out.

And Steve, who would normally have fit her in, being well-acquainted with the lot of a teacher, said:
I’m sorry, Mrs Hughes but I’m not a plumber anymore
.

Have you been struck off or something?
she half-joked.

No
, he said.
The Corgi inspector has always been happy with my work.

So why the change?

I’m training to be a curate. I’ve got a calling.
And Steve scribbled out a name and number, a bloke he knew from a City and Guild’s course. (Craig was doing well out of
Steve’s calling.)
He’ll look after your boiler. But if you want help with your soul, then I’m your man.

Mrs Hughes didn’t look so sure. Rachel was left feeling subdued. Her dad had always come to her rescue. Now it was less certain what he actually did. It was that hazy area of God where
people blushed or coughed or sometimes got inexplicably angry at the mention of His name. Mrs Hughes blushed and coughed but thankfully didn’t get angry as that would have been
unprofessional.

So yes, I do sympathise with Rachel. To have to admit to your friends, to every adult that ever asks you, that your dad’s ‘got God’ and that you’re expected to go to
church every Sunday – not just to get into the school – can create a few problems. Rachel still maintains it caused less of a stir when Jessica’s dad, Bob next door, found a Thai
bride on the internet.

The Thai bride is actually a big improvement on the first Mrs Talbot, who went to Lanzarote for a friend’s hen do and did a Shirley Valentine. She sent for her stuff – her clothes,
shoes, handbags, make-up – but not for her daughter, believing dubiously that she’d be better off with Bob.

Tamarine, the Thai bride, is not as young as the stereotype would suggest. She knows exactly what she is doing, has the measure of Bob and seems to enjoy being his wife. He must have hidden
talents. Very well hidden talents. Tamarine’s talents are more obvious. She keeps the house clean and even sweeps the street outside which is something you don’t see these days. And the
smell of cooking that finds its way into our house is quite enticing. I would say Bob Talbot has landed on his feet. As has Jessica, who now has clean clothes and help with her homework.

Tamarine told me that although she herself is a Buddhist, her country is tolerant of other religions and therefore she would be happy for Jessica to come to our church anytime. Bob would be
happy for Jessica to be anywhere other than in his back garden kicking a ball against the house.

So this week, during the embarrassing song, Jessica, in her Crystal Palace away kit, joins in with the actions. ‘This is cool,’ I hear her mutter to Rachel and Jeremy.
‘Normally Sundays are
sooo
boring. I have to wait for Dad and Tamarine to get up and then we like go shopping.’

‘We don’t go shopping on a Sunday,’ sparks up Olivia. ‘Unless we run out of milk.’

‘Lucky you,’ says Jessica.

Olivia beams, Jeremy drools, and Rachel tries not to smile at the triumph of bringing a friend into her world and it not backfiring.

And there is Steve, up at the front, singing along to ‘Shine, Jesus, shine’ and I envy him. For his lack of worrying. He says there’s no point in worrying. Worrying changes
nothing. Only hope can do that. And faith. And love. But most of all love.

But it’s alright for Steve. Steve has thick skin and inner strength, a tough combination to crack. I, on the other hand, am like an egg. Knock me and I am likely to end up all over the
floor, broken, in a hideous mess.

After the usual – to-ings and fro-ings and trying to keep the children quiet and smiling and small talk and roasting parsnips and tea and hand-patting – Steve and I
are alone again in the kitchen. He used to catch up on the odd jobs. I used to do my preparation. Schemes of work and lesson plans. Not anymore.

The doorbell goes. Claudia. Steve looks at me and I’m pretty sure I catch a hint of worry as he gets up to answer. I check my list. Jeremy’s clothes are washed, ironed and packed,
waiting in the hall along with his cello (hallelujah!).

‘Darling!’

I get to the hall in time to see Claudia embracing her son. He lets his mother kiss him, both of them slightly awkward, but there is relief there too. Things may finally be getting back to
normal. Normal? Can I let myself dare to hope Martin may be welcomed back home?

Martin appears out of the shadows and smiles feebly at his wife.

‘Oh, hello,’ she says, as if she’d forgotten he’d be here which of course she hasn’t, because I can see she has put on her going-out face. Cover-girl eyes and
killer-red lips.

‘Good trip?’ he asks, impersonating someone who cares about his wife’s career. But I can tell he’s taking her in. The new shoes, the power suit. The
just-stepped-out-of-a-salon hair.

‘Very profitable yes, thank you.’ Claudia has morphed into another woman. A woman of power and strength and even more drop-dead beauty than before, all fired up, hurrying Jeremy
along. ‘Must get going. Cab’s waiting.’

Martin follows his family outside, hands in pockets in forced nonchalance but he’s fooling no-one. We troop after my brother, standing in a huddle as he watches – a pained expression
on his bearded face – the cabbie wedge the very expensive cello into the boot of a battered Astra. ‘Where’s the car?’ Martin asks his wife.

‘I was too tired to drive.’

‘It is safe around here you know. My Saab’s still got all four tyres.’

‘Of course.’ She looks unconvinced, horrified in fact, her power and strength evaporating in the toxic Penge air. As if our street was in Kabul or somewhere. She’s probably
wearing a bullet-proof vest under her Karen Millen suit.