This Holey Life (14 page)

‘That was different.’

‘How was that different?’

‘You weren’t locked to him by wedlock.’

‘I was locked to him by Mum and Dad. And it was quite clear who was the Chosen One.’

At this point, just when I have somehow managed to drive the conversation off course, in walks Martin. He stands still for a while, raspy-breathed, weighing up Claudia with her Pinot Grigio, me
with my PG Tips.

‘What about mine?’ he whines.

‘Oh, sit down and I’ll pour you some tea,’ I snap at him. He might as well stay and hear what I’ve got to say or I’ll be waiting forever to get to the bottom of
this. Eternity is a long time as Desmond likes to point out.

He does as he’s told and sits down, in relative safety, two seats away from his wife. ‘So what have you been talking about?’ He accepts the tea off me, heaping in the sugar.
‘I presume it’s me.’

‘You presume too much,’ I say, sitting back down at the other end of the table from him, still within spitting distance.

‘But I’m right though.’

‘Yes, Martin. You’re always right.’

‘Thank you for acknowledging that.’

‘Actually,’ Claudia interjects, looking from him to me and shaking her head, ‘your sister was asking me if I was going to take you back because she’s had enough of you. I
hadn’t given her my answer but I might as well tell you at the same time, kill two birds and all that.’ She sips the last of her wine. Dutch courage. ‘I’m not having you
back. I’ve found someone else. Nothing serious. A bit of fun but I realise there’s more to life than you. And if you can do it then why can’t I?’

Silence while Martin and I absorb this new information.

‘I’m sorry, did you say you’ve found someone else?’ Martin cracks the silence, his voice roller-coastering like an adolescent boy’s. ‘Where exactly did you
find someone else?’

As if that’s the most important question.

‘Well, if you want precise details, it was in LA. In the lift of the hotel. I dropped my earring and he picked it up and then we got talking and he asked me to dinner and I
accepted.’ She pours herself more wine and goes to drink it when Martin reaches over and swipes the glass from her hand, necking it back in one. Claudia leans back in her chair and folds her
arms.

Quiet. All that can be heard is the muffled cries of Olivia in the front room shouting at the TV, a reminder of what this marital breakdown has brought into my house. An obsession with the worst
of popular culture. We used to be happy with
Blue Peter
and Bill Oddie.

Martin lights up a cigarette, right there in front of me in my kitchen, at my table, seizing advantage of a situation brought about by his own doing, confident I won’t tell him where to go
at this crucial stage in negotiations. ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me he’s an actor,’ Martin says, exhaling smoke down his nostrils. His big fat nostrils.

‘No actually, you’re wrong. He’s a writer.’

Now Martin does the laugh-thing.

Claudia carries on regardless, retrieving her glass and helping herself to yet more wine. ‘He’s a very talented writer who’s all set to be the next big thing.’

‘That’s what they all say.’

‘It’s better than being a washed-up has-been who has to take his thrills from his students because he can’t cut it anymore in Academia.’ Claudia is on her feet, flinging
her glass around rather worryingly. It might not be Dartington but it is unchipped and part of a set of six.

‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ Martin says, banging my table with the palm of his fat hand, like he’s a prosecuting lawyer, though the effect is spoiled with his
B&H. ‘I’m onto something big. Research. Vicky will tell you.’

Vicky’s keeping quiet.

‘Research?’ Claudia jeers.

‘The God gene. I’m researching the God gene.’

‘Well, I can tell you now I haven’t got that gene. I can’t believe in a god that would create you in his image. And anyway, I thought that idea had run out of steam.’

‘That’s where I come in.’

‘Oh, the big I Am.’

I’m half-expecting Steve to come in and ask them both on an Alpha course at this point. But Jeremy beats him to it. There is a very loud crash. A terrible splintering of wood. A very
expensive splintering of polished wood, handcrafted in what used to be Czechoslovakia. When the three of us rush out into the hall, into the hushed quiet that follows the cacophony, we see Jeremy
standing over what used to be his precious cello. But from the dark expression on his face and the sparks in his eyes, it is clear this was no clumsy accident.

‘I hate you both,’ he says. ‘I hate you more than I hate my cello. I want you both to go. I want to stay here with Auntie Vicky and Uncle Steve. They’re a normal family.
I just want to be normal.’

He whispers this, but his audience – Claudia, Martin, me, and an inquisitive Olivia who has foregone
Bid TV
to watch her big cousin fall apart in our poky hallway – we hear
every word. Despite the significance of what Jeremy is saying, I still find time to think how nice it is to be seen as normal. But most of all, my heart is filled with a sadness that wants to
explode my body into tiny pieces against the wipe-clean walls. If I had a son – if I still had a son – I would value him above all else. More than jewels, more than temples, more than
the air I breathe. More than the sun in the sky or the moon that stands guard over his grave at night. And the wind that blows in the trees. That blows and blows but can never blow my grief
away.

Thoughts for the Day:
If any of my children express a desire to take up a musical instrument, I will suggest the penny whistle.

Chapter Eighteen:
Monday 4th February

Monday morning. A week has passed since the cello-smashing incident. Jeremy is back at St Hilda’s C of E as part of the process he believes will give him a normal life.
Despite his initial dodgy start there in January, he has found that he actually quite likes it. Being back at Dulwich for that brief period of time has shown him where he’d rather be: with
his cousin and Jessica Talbot.

This means – and Claudia is surprisingly happy about this – that Jeremy is staying with us during the week and back to Dulwich for the weekends. So somehow things didn’t work
out the way I planned. Instead of getting my house back, the poky terrace is still overflowing. Only the cello is missing.

Claudia wanted to go out and buy another one. A thousand pounds and the rest, just like that. But Martin, for once almost sensible (though probably being tight), suggested they wait. He said
that Jeremy couldn’t go round losing his temper without there being consequences. This led to Claudia losing her temper at Martin for being a hypocrite and the consequences of this are that
they are now even more at loggerheads than before. Whereas, unusually, I’m with Martin on this one; I’m all for waiting if it means my hall stays clear.

It is only eleven o’clock and already I am dreaming of bed in a way only sleep-deprived mothers can dream. I have had to dispatch two sullen children to school, one
chirpy small one to playgroup, and I still have to heave a fat baby to clinic. No help from Steve because although it’s his day off he has had to shoot off to Plumstead to see his mum
who’s got herself in a tizz over his dad. And no help from my brother, obviously, because he is at work, chairing an ‘important departmental meeting’. Hard to imagine when all he
does around here is eat, drink and slouch. Though there has been more battering of his laptop lately. Not that there’s time for me to waste imagining. Must get to the clinic where a
telling-off from the health visitor awaits.

It is bedlam in here. Naked babies everywhere you look. All shapes and sizes and colours but none quite as fat and pink as mine. Fat because apparently, according to Eileen the
health visitor, Imo is naturally this size. I shouldn’t fret, it’ll come off when she starts to crawl (must get Steve to get stair gate out of attic). And pink because she objected
fiercely to the humiliation of being made to lie down, nappy off, in cold scales with Eileen looming over her. As I squeeze Imo’s limbs back into her clothes, I feel relief that I
haven’t been told off. I’m not a bad mother.

The clinic is held in this cavernous room – for maximum sound effect – which also serves as a waiting area for patients to see their doctor. Sick people sit alongside babies, perhaps
in an effort by the NHS to keep their immune system in working order.

‘Are you alright, Vicky?’ It’s Eileen. Eileen has been doing the job forever and ever, possibly since the time of Dr Spock. She has seen thousands of mothers over the years.
Every sort: blissed-out, euphoric, lovey-dovey, confident, know-it-all, knowing-nothing, anxious, neurotic, weepy, frightened, depressed, shattered, grieving. She has seen even more babies and
toddlers and pre-schoolers, crying and gurgling and weeing and feeding. Imo is just another baby but Eileen takes time to talk to her and smile at her and I feel assured that my little girl is
alright. We’re doing alright. Despite everything. Despite Thomas.

‘We’re alright,’ I say. She hands me back my red book, the pink graph filled in. And that’s when I drop my shoulders, clutch Imo to me, and start crying. When I think of
the blue graph and the line that was following its centile beautifully. That suddenly stopped at three months.

‘It’s alright to still be feeling sad, Vicky. There’s no specific time limit on grief.’ Eileen pats my hand.

I take a deep breath and ask the question I haven’t been brave enough to ask anyone else. ‘But will it ever stop?’

She thinks about this, pausing briefly in her hand-patting as she does so. A toddler wobbles past us, aiming for the Little Tikes car that needs an MOT. He is wearing dungarees.

I had a pair of dungarees that were so cute. I’d bought them on a whim from a baby shop on Lordship Lane. I was waiting for Thomas to grow a bit more, he was nearly there... And then,
after, I hung onto them for ages, folded up in my chest of drawers along with my cardigans and jumpers. But every time I opened the drawer they stared at me. Every time I closed the drawer, they
cried out to me. So I put them in the trunk at the foot of the bed but at night, as I lay there next to Steve, listening to his sighs, his silent tears, I could feel them there, folded up carefully
in tissue paper so they wouldn’t crease, lying there, empty, in the dark. And I could feel Thomas, his hot little body lying next to mine. I could hear him breathe. I could smell his
milkyness. And my breasts filled up and my tears overflowed and my heart wanted to stop beating. In the end I could bear it no longer so I sent the dungarees to Romania with a pile of blue baby
blankets. I used to imagine a little Romanian boy toddling around in them, cosy and handsome, the pride of his mother.

The patting starts up again. Eileen has thought about her answer. ‘Not completely,’ she says. ‘It
will
get better.’ She plucks a tissue from thin air and pushes it
into my hand. ‘But you might like to think about talking to someone.’

‘I’m not depressed. I’m just tired, you know, with this one.’ I look down at Imo, who is avoiding eye contact with Eileen. ‘And Rachel and Olivia. And Steve. And
then there’s my brother.’

‘You’ve got a lot on your plate.’ She shakes her head and reminds me of Mum who always got exasperated with how much I took on. ‘You need to make sure that
you’re
okay. Phone me any time you feel it’s too much. Any time.’

I pull myself together – I Can Do This – and let Eileen return to the scales. The queue is lengthening and the noise reaching a crescendo. Despite the chill of the day, it is hot and
stuffy in here. I need to get us out into the cold air. I need to breathe. I concentrate on Olivia’s buttons so I don’t have to face any of the other mothers. Not that any of them are
aware of my pain. They are all wrapped up with their own babies. But I feel one pair of eyes on me. I look up, blinking fast to hold back any stray tears.

It is Karolina. She is clutching a prescription, gazing at Imo rigid on my lap. She smiles a quick smile in my direction when she realises she has been spotted.

‘She is lovely baby.’

‘Thank you,’ I say. These words are what I want to hear. What I need. But that’s all I can say in return. Thank you. I can’t manage anything else and before I get the
chance to offer something better like ‘do you fancy coming back for a cup of tea?’ she has gone. I watch her through the streaky double-glazing, a lone figure walking through the grey
London morning, the wind pushing back her bleached blonde hair. She makes me think of Steve’s mum. Not that to my knowledge Dorota ever had bleached blonde hair. I think hers has always been
henna red. But once, long ago, she was young and alone here too. I hope whatever this tizz was about, Steve has sorted it.

Steve’s idea of sorting it was to bring his mother back to the poky terrace. Once I’ve put Imo down for a well-deserved nap, I join them in the kitchen to find out what has
happened.

What has happened is this: Steve’s mother has had a falling out with Steve’s father. This is nothing out of the ordinary. They do it regularly, about every five years or so. Dorota
finally has enough of Roland and the only way round it is to keep them apart, separate them for a bit, like naughty children, the way Mum used to do with Martin and me. Usually this strategy works
for them. They soon start pining and are running back into each other’s arms. Well, limping what with Roland’s dodgy knee and Dorota’s weight.

Dorota’s weight seems to have increased further since she was last here – as it does with each visit. I can judge by the length of time it takes for her to get her breath back after
she has made the marathon journey from the car to the kitchen table. Each time it is a little longer, the breathing a little louder. Louder even than Martin’s after a packet of Benson and
Hedge’s. Like Martin, she foolishly blames it on her asthma.

Dorota has a cup of tea in front of her into which she deposits a cascade of sweeteners, a new departure from her standard three spoons of sugar. ‘My new friend,’ she says, rattling
her Hermesetas. ‘They come everywhere with me.’ She puts them back safely in the handbag, which never leaves her lap.