This Holey Life (15 page)

The sweeteners allow her to have a piece of Mrs Webber’s walnut and date cake without worrying. Not that she worries. It is Roland that worries. Roland has begged her to go back to
Weightwatchers, not because he doesn’t want a fat wife but because he is afraid her lungs will give out. But Dorota doesn’t like going to Weightwatchers. She says the woman, Valerie,
cheats. She is suspicious of anyone in a position of authority. Police, doctors, solicitors, vets, dentists, bank managers, teachers, priests – which means she has always been suspicious of
me and, of late, she has become suspicious of her son.

Why do you want to be a priest?
she asked when he’d first broken the news about his vocation.

It’s what God wants me to do
, Steve said with his new-found simplicity.

How do you know it is God speaking and not voices in your head?

I’ve been through a scrupulous selection process.

She tutted. She knew all about scrupulous selection processes. This had happened with Steve’s Eleven Plus. He’d failed, despite scrimping and saving to pay for tuition.

And my calling has been confirmed from the bishop to the cleaner,
Steve went on, rather corporately, it has to be said.
The decision wasn’t taken lightly or overnight. It was
taken prayerfully and over a long period of time.

Dorota scoffed at the mention of prayer. In her experience you were told what to do by the priest, not by God. The priest would intercept the channels of communication to the Almighty. So unless
you were going to pray to the Virgin Mary who might bypass the priest for you, there was no point. Of course Dorota believes Roman Catholicism is a load of superstitious nonsense but if there has
to be a church then it is the only option. As for Steve wanting to join the Church of England, she cannot understand it. Dorota is a woman of mystery. And there is as much mystery about her as
there is woman.

But there was one word she picked up on that day: cleaner. She softened a little when she heard it. In Dorota’s eyes, cleaners are good honest workers, doing a good honest job.
Well, if
it’s good enough for the cleaner
... you could hear her thinking. My being a teacher is outweighed by me keeping a clean house. Dorota is proud to have a daughter-in-law who hangs her
husband’s shirts so nicely in the wardrobe. It makes up for filling children’s heads with knowledge. Dorota is deeply suspicious of knowledge. She will not have a book or a newspaper in
the house. This ban on intellectual property does not extend to TV, which she loves. It isn’t education; it is entertainment. As are her two hobbies, bingo and dog racing.

‘Please can I have another piece of this delicious cake?’ she asks me now, ignoring Steve’s muffled tut. ‘A tiny piece.’ She indicates the size she would like
– her idea of tiny is quite different to mine – with her jumbo sausage fingers which are even fatter than Martin’s. Her wedding ring has virtually disappeared. In fact it has
disappeared. Steve notices this too.

‘Where’s your wedding ring, Mum? Things aren’t that bad between you and Dad are they?’

‘Reggie cut it off.’

‘Who’s Reggie?’

‘Madge’s husband.’

‘Who’s Madge?’

‘You know Madge,’ she looks incredulous that Steve does not know Madge. ‘Madge Madge,’ she says as if that clears up the matter and when Steve still looks blank she sighs
impatiently. ‘From the bingo.’

Too exasperated to carry on with this, Steve gives in and lets it be understood that of course he knows Madge Madge from the bingo. ‘And is Reggie qualified to cut off wedding
rings?’

‘You do not need qualifications to cut off wedding rings. Reggie is odd-jobber. Very handy. He is a good honest man.’

‘Why did you have it cut off?’

‘It was too tight.’

‘Mum.’

‘Do not look at your mother like that.’

‘I’m worried.’

‘Tell your father.’

‘He’s worried about you too.’

‘He’s worried about himself. He wants me to stay the skinny girl he married. I was skinny because we had no money for food. We have money now so we can buy food. He wants to go out
with me on his arm and show me off. I do my best for him. I do my hair nice and I put on make-up but it is not good enough. I am no girl. I am old.’

‘You’re not old, Mum.’

‘I am a pensioner. I have bus pass.’

She’s never set foot on a bus.

‘You’re only sixty-four, Mum. Sixty-four’s young. Sixty-four’s the new fifty-four. But you need to take care of yourself. You’re not well. Listen to your
breathing.’

We sit quietly, listening to her breathing. Despite a police car hurtling up the street, the crackle-and-wheeze is unmistakeable.

‘You’ve got years left on this earth and Dad wants to share them with you.’ Steve takes her hand, the one with the missing ring, and holds it still in his own. No hand-patting.
‘He doesn’t want to be alone. He wants to be with you, Mum, doing good things together.’

She huffs at this. ‘Like what?’

‘Like being a grandmother for one thing.’

Dorota clutches the locket at the mention of her grandchildren. I know what is inside the locket. A tiny, crumpled and faded black and white photo of her parents on one side. And on the other,
Thomas, in all his beautiful, glorious colour.

I make my excuses and leave, citing Imo. I shut the kitchen door behind me and stand alone in the poky hall. The walls seem closer together than ever, even without the wretched cello. Like my
mother-in-law, and my brother, I am finding it hard to breathe. It must be catching.

If only I could relieve the symptoms with an inhaler and a strictly observed calorie-controlled diet.

I suddenly want to be anywhere but here, my house, which is usually my shelter, my refuge. I want to be with new, different people who have nothing to do with my past because then they
can’t bring him up in conversation. They can’t remind me. I can forget. Just for a while I can be normal. Because Jeremy is mistaken, we are far from normal. If we could be normal, then
maybe we could even be happy. And that is the thought that makes me weep and feel sick. The thought that I could possibly be happy without him.

Thoughts for the Day:
Eggs, lemons, caster sugar, golden syrup, chocolate, frozen raspberries.

Chapter Nineteen:
Tuesday 5th February Shrove Tuesday

Dorota has stayed the night, which at least got rid of Martin who sloped off to impose on Bill, a boffin from his department. Dorota slept in our bed. I didn’t want to
risk the springs of the new sofa already knocked about and finally vacated by Martin. So Steve got the sofa. I got the bottom bunk in the girls’ room, top to toe with Olivia.

And while we play musical beds, where is Jeremy’s mother in all this? Has she made an effort at reconciliation? Not with Martin, no. Not that I blame her. And not so as you’d notice
with her son either. She’s only had him for the weekend. Half a weekend because on the Sunday, Jeremy wanted to come to church and Claudia conveniently ‘had things to do’. Apart
from that, she’s called in to see him a measly, miserly once. When she left she looked slightly forlorn but not enough to persuade him to come home with her. After she had convinced herself
he hadn’t become overly evangelical, she scurried away, dodging the bullets that are commonplace down our street.

But no time for bad thoughts. Must get down to the church hall to check up on things for tonight. The first Alpha meeting. Thankfully I’m not helping with the food, being excused due to
childcare responsibilities (children come in handy sometimes). But I need to make sure everything’s shipshape. Church halls don’t have the best image, being the sort of place you go to
for AA meetings or badminton. I don’t want our hall to be seen in that light. I don’t want it to smell of old socks and mould. I might not be a theologian but even I can see that old
socks and mould are not conducive to discussing the big questions of life and death. There aren’t many opportunities in this day and age, in our culture, to discuss these things. Apart from
Big Brother
.

I haven’t got a lot to work with, hall-wise, but I can spray round with Febreeze and put some flowers in a vase. None of those churchy crysanths. Something white and simple. Something cool
and fresh and modern. After all, that’s exactly the sort of statement Steve would want to make about St Hilda’s – to counteract the appearance of Desmond’s vestments.

‘Can I make you a cup of tea, Vicky? You look so tired from carrying the baby around all day.’ Dorota manages to make a kind offer sound like a criticism of my
child-rearing.

But I will be gracious. ‘That would be great, thank you.’ What I really want to know is when is she going back home. Like Martin, Dorota takes up too much space, physically and in
every other way too.

She must pick up on my thoughts because she asks: ‘Where is that big hunky brother of yours?’ She loves that word ‘hunky’, always says it with a giggle, making you catch
a glimpse of how she was as that lone girl in London, so far from home. When I pretend not to hear, she persists, astutely. ‘Are you hiding him from me?’

‘No, no, he’s working. He was at a friend’s last night.’

‘Oh, that is nice,’ she says. ‘A sleepover.’

A wave of nausea pours over me. A sleepover? I assumed this friend of his was male. But this friend could just as easily be female. It could be Melanie... if her parents are away... or
liberal... or completely barmy.

‘Are you alright, Vicky? Would you prefer something stronger than tea? I have my sherry. Would you like me to pour you a little one?’ She indicates the size of a little one, which
would put me over the limit straight off. Why doesn’t she drink vodka likes she’s supposed to?

I’d jump at the chance of one of those, topped up with cranberry juice. That would be cool and fresh and modern.

Teatime. We are all here, the usual suspects, though Dorota has stepped into Martin’s shoes, which she fills easily. Steve is tossing pancakes while I sort fillings. My
shoulders have relaxed and my neck un-tensed – an experience I haven’t had in a while. Even Imo joins in, entering wholeheartedly into the celebratory atmosphere, squishing the soft
batter in her hands and squealing with pleasure. It makes a change to see the world through her eyes so I can remember the potential for happiness. For joy.

The front door crashes open. My brother thunders his way down the hall and stands in the doorway taking in this scene of family life that includes his son. His son who earlier announced
he’d had no idea as to why we were having pancakes. The only time he has had pancakes was at a Little Chef.

‘Ah, Martin,’ Steve says as if it’s the return of the prodigal.

‘Come in and have a pancake. There’s plenty to go round.’

‘I’m not stopping. Just wanted to pick up some stuff. And check on Jeremy, of course.’ He looks at the munching going on around the table and his tongue is virtually dropping
out of his mouth. ‘I suppose I’ve got time for one.’ He sabotages a chair, taking over the room. ‘To be sociable.’

Dorota hands him the sugar bowl, smiling sweetly. Martin smiles back at her, charm personified, cascading sugar over the pancake Steve has presented him with. ‘I wish I could stay longer
and enjoy the party only I’ve got a meeting,’ he says, tucking in.

‘A meeting?’ Dorota makes it sound like Martin is about to do something dangerous and brave. Unbelievable. I know for a fact she thinks the British waste far too much time in
meetings. Dorota never reacts like this when Steve goes out to a meeting. She usually sighs or shakes her head. And, studying my husband, I catch a glimmer of affront in his eyes, but he quickly
blinks this away.

Martin changes the subject deftly, so as not to engage in work-related discussions with ‘Dotty Dorota’ as he refers to her. He puts us off our stride by asking what we are giving up
for Lent.

‘We-ell,’ Steve rubs his hands together for this is the sort of challenge he relishes, his earlier negative feelings wiped clean. ‘For me, it’s got to be cake.
There’s always so much of the stuff in this house and, as Vicky likes to point out, it’s not doing anything for my figure.’ He pats his stomach. The one hidden under his black
vicar shirt but not so well hidden that it can’t be seen pulling at his buttons.

‘I think you look so much better for a little fat on you. You were always too thin,’ Dorota says, refilling her sherry glass.

‘Anyway,’ Steve goes on, ‘what about you, Vicky? What are you going to give up?’

‘Breastfeeding,’ I state confidently, out-staring my brother who has taken a sudden intense interest in the cocoa content of the Fairtrade dark chocolate wrapper. ‘If Imo
agrees to do that too.’ I look at Imo then, her small plump fists full of pancake-goo, 70% cocoa Fairtrade dark chocolate smeared round her face.

‘Really?’ Steve asks. ‘Are you sure?’

He knows that I know this is not exclusively about giving up breastfeeding Imo. This is about not having any other chances to breastfeed. There’ll be no more babies. We agreed Imo would be
our last. Unless God has other ideas in the future, Steve was sure to tell me. But, at this point in time, we are both pretty sure another baby is more than either of us could handle. The strain on
the house, our finances, nerves. Brittle, fragile nerves that could snap if pulled too taut. We have produced three healthy girls and poor little Thomas. Let’s leave it at that and be
thankful. That’s what we tell ourselves. Again and again. Let’s be thankful.

‘And Rachel. What about you?’ I ask, to stop thinking, to keep going.

‘Well, seeing as you’ve both chosen like difficult stuff and that, I’m going to give up TV.’

‘Really?’ we all chorus.

Rachel looks around the table at her waiting audience, realising the import of what she has promised. ‘Well, not all TV, obviously, that would be dumb,’ she says, as if this is what
she had meant all along. ‘Just the American crud.’

‘So no more
Pimp my Ride
?’ I ask.

‘No more
Pimp my ride
.’

‘No more
Cribs?
’ Jeremy asks.