Without his backup and with the situation now so impossible, I began to wonder why I was doing it.
The end of term was always such a relief – I’d walk out of school on the last day with my heart lighter and my head, stress-headache free. David, on the other hand, would always miss school and find the holidays ‘too long’. This seemed unbelievable to me – surely most people go into teaching for the long holidays, don’t they?
This particular end of term was a two-edged sword, however. It was going to be so good to get away from David and Suzie; so good not to have to mark endless essays … but so odd to be on my own for six weeks. What would I do with myself?
That swim was the start of my new regime. To get out, to get fit … to get a life. The other part of my plan was to face the fact that I didn’t want to do it any more – teaching, I mean. Surely, I’d tried long enough? Surely … enough was enough?
My only real friend at school, Lisa Parsons, a colleague in the English department, put the idea into my head. Lisa is also single – she got divorced five years ago and lives with her two sons of twelve and fourteen. She's a good person to talk to about my current situation; she's younger than me, but her husband left her for someone else too, so she knows what I'm going through. I think we became friends originally as we could see in each other a fellow soul – neither of us found ‘Macbeth’ particularly riveting and we both regarded trips to the theatre with thirty teenagers, pretty much like torture.
We were talking in the staffroom one Tuesday afternoon, when we both had a free and should have been marking; she said, “Well, if you hate it as much as you say, why don’t you leave? What are you waiting for? Death in the classroom? Life’s too short to do this, if you really hate it. It’s a big world out there – think of all the things you could do? Why don’t you take early retirement? I’ve heard you can get a lump sum, if you want. And if you didn’t find something else to do, it wouldn’t be a disaster – they’re always crying out for supply teachers or you could find a part-time position somewhere else. You need to get away from here, Anna, you really do. You can't stay here with David and Suzie ..."
Well, it was like a light switching on in my brain. I’d never really considered it before – I thought I’d go on till I dropped; David and I would retire at the same time and go off into the sunset together, as two old pensioners.
But what’s to stop me? I’ve worked long enough to have an okay pension and it would mean that whatever I did, I could do it part-time. I could get some perspective on my life – I’d have time to think …
*
I said I wasn’t sure if Holly was coming home on Sunday or not – well, I was feeling really pathetic that Saturday after the swim and I was really praying she’d come. All this bravado about leaving work … starting a new life … boiled down to me feeling lonely, vulnerable and in desperate need of seeing my daughter. I kept checking my phone – had I got it on silent? Had I missed the sound of a message arriving?
It wasn't until 7 o’clock that night that my phone made a sound. Grabbing it, I read:
Hi Mum. Will be on the 11am train. Can you pick me up? Should be in at 12.15. Will text if a prob. xxx
I felt ridiculously pleased that I wouldn’t have to spend a Sunday on my own. What was it about Sundays? How can a day of the week have an atmosphere? To me, it did, and this would have been the second one on my own. Sundays felt as if everyone else, in the entire world, were happily ensconced with their family: having walks together; sitting round the table eating roast pork and playing games round a roaring fire. Probably an over-exaggerated view, but that’s how it felt. Not to mention the thought of him and her snuggled up together …
My first Sunday on my own (after Adam had left on the Saturday) had been awful. Staying in bed till midday and then feeling guilty for being so lazy; walking Gaz in a solitary fashion – even he chased his ball in a rather desultory way; reading the Sunday newspapers for a couple of hours and then watching ‘Countryfile’ and ‘Antiques Roadshow’ on the telly – designed to be comforting Sunday night viewing, an end to a cosy family day, which just served to show me how sad I really was.
I texted back immediately. I wanted to sound pleased, but not desperate.
That’s brill. Will be there. Can’t wait to catch up. Are you going to see Dad while you’re back? x
Another one from her:
No way. Can’t face him. Will talk tomorrow. Love you. xxx
Me:
Love you too. xxx
*
Since David left, the gap on the left-hand side of the bed seems huge. His body was always so warm – we’d cuddle up together, legs entwined, every night. In the winter particularly, I’d regard him as my human hot water bottle; my feet were permanently freezing and he was so good about letting me put my two blocks of ice, on his legs. We’d always read before turning off the light, we’d talk about the day, we’d discuss problems. All that’s gone – now, there is just me with my thoughts and a sea of space, that no one will fill again.
The night before Holly came, I slept particularly badly. I went to sleep okay and then woke about an hour later. I couldn’t believe it when I saw the time on the clock – 1.30 am. The night spread before me like a long, dark tunnel of nothing, swallowing me up in its choking darkness.
I got up several times and gazed out of the window; the amber street lights made the road look eery. A fox barked, a sound that gave me the creeps whenever I heard it and then there he was, walking down the centre of the road, like a sly old ghost. He peeled off into my neighbours’ front garden, no doubt on a mission to kill something. The scene made me shiver.
The sky was clear – the stars pulsed and glittered, even through the light pollution. Looking up made me feel totally insignificant … and I longed for David to be there in my bed when I turned. But, of course, he wasn’t.
I eventually fell asleep around four, but it was one of those sleeps full of disturbing dreams where you feel you’ll never wake up again. I was lost in a huge city. Like all dreams, it made no sense; I was trying to get somewhere and everything was stopping me: I couldn’t get out of the car; the train I was suddenly travelling on, never got to the station; when I did get to a street, my legs wouldn’t work – I was trying to walk, but my feet were stuck in some sort of mud. Holly was shouting at me, from a window high up on one of those buildings like the Gherkin – all glass and metal – and when I looked up and saw her, I tried to shout back, but nothing came out of my mouth. I woke myself up, trying to shout; my heart was beating fast, I was sweating and exhausted.
I lay back, trying to recover, feeling wrung out. The digital numbers on my alarm clock read 7.15. I got up and made myself a cup of tea, now a solitary and rather sad event that used to be David’s treat for me. Every day, he’d say, “Would you like a cup of tea?” and every day I’d say, “Oo, yes please,” as if it was the first time he’d ever asked me. He brought me one, even on school days. He was like that.
I took my tea back to bed and lay there listening to the World Service on my mobile. I’ve learned so much about the world over the years, listening to the radio in the dead of night – I’d plug in my ear phones, so as not to wake David and drift off to other countries and hear about lives that made mine seem okay.
*
I catch sight of Holly in amongst other people getting off the train. It’s like my eyes are drawn to her – I’ve always been able to pick my kids out of a crowd so easily, as if their DNA drifts through the air to me. She looks as gorgeous as ever, her hair catching the light as its blond waves flow around her shoulders. I enjoy watching her as, oblivious of me, she strides purposely along the platform. She’s wearing a floaty floral top over washed out blue jeans and, despite the warm weather, she has on a pair of clumpy boots. How does she manage to look so stylish in jeans, I think to myself?
She disappears up the steps that take her up and over the line towards the car park where I’m waiting in my car. Gaz is sitting on the floor of t
he front seat and when I say to him, “Can you see Holly? Where is she?” he starts to look interested. He stands up with his front paws on the seat and sticks his head through the window that I’ve opened for him. His whole body begins to wag, as he catches sight of her, emerging from the steps.
“Hey Gazza!” she calls as she walks towards the car, finally running the last few steps. She leans in the window and kisses his head, his whole body now trembling with excitement. Who says dogs don’t have a sense of time? If they don’t, why is he so excited to see her, after a gap?
She opens the door, saying, “Get down, old boy, let me squeeze in next to you. Hi Mum,” and she sits down, leaning over to kiss me. “Okay, Gaz, calm down … no more slobbery kisses, please.” She pushes him down so he’s now in the well of the seat, crammed in, next to her legs. He manages to get his head wedged between her right thigh and the gear stick, looking up lovingly at her.
“He’s so pleased to see you, Holly. I swear he knew you were coming – I told him where we were going and he definitely understood.”
“How are you, Mum? Are you okay?” Her voice sounded more serious now. “I’m so sorry I haven’t been down before, but it’s …”
“Don’t worry … it’s fine. You’ve been great to speak to on the phone, anyway. I can remember what it was like to have a social life, you know.”
“Yea, it’s been manic at work too and with Fiona’s hen do last weekend, there just hasn’t been a moment. Still, I’m here now,” she says with her warm smile lighting up her face. She gently squeezes my arm.
We drive back home and decide to take Gaz for a walk, before lunch. Holly misses him in London. She insists on taking his ball thrower and we set off together, Holly holding Gaz’ lead. The sun is out, there’s a light breeze – and for the first time for what feels like weeks, I begin to feel a lifting of my spirits.
We’re walking, as we often do, arm in arm, and talk about trivial things for a while – the latest developments in Albert Square, the owners of the shop down the road that’s changed hands and Fiona’s hen night. It feels like old times … as if Adam is just out with his friends and David is playing tennis at the Club and we’re going to go back to have Sunday lunch, all together. We both avoid the subject … it’s not as if anything’s changed since we last talked on the phone.
Down at the rec, we pass the bench and I can’t resist saying, “That’s where he told me, you know.”
“Oh, Mum … really?” She looks at it, as if she can visualise the scene. “How horrible. I just can’t imagine what you must have gone through. I’m so sorry …”
I look away. Her words manage to bring tears to my eyes, but I don’t want her to see.
“Mum, you don’t have to be brave on my account,” she says. She’s not dim, my daughter.
“It was awful, Holly, I have to admit. But I’ve got to somehow move on. I can’t …”
“It’s such early days, Mum … you can’t expect to move on yet. You were married for a lifetime.”
“I know … but he’s not coming back … I’ve got to accept that.”
“How do you know? Maybe he’ll realise what an idiot he’s been … she’s so much younger than him, for a start … it must be a real shock for him, her having a young child … do you really think it’ll work?”
“I don’t know … maybe I don’t want him back.”
“Really? Wouldn’t you forgive him if …”
“No, Holly, I’m not sure I can. He’s broken my heart. I know that sounds dramatic but … that’s how it feels. I feel as if I’m being punished for something I didn’t do.”
“Oh Mum,” she says, putting her arm around my back and squeezing me hard. “I wish I could say something to make it better, but I can’t … when I speak to Dad, he always asks about you, you know. Have you spoken to Mum? Is Mum okay? I think he’s worried about you.”
“And so he should be …” I say, bitterly. I really don’t want Holly to feel trapped in the middle of us, though.
I say, “Do you know what his plans are, at all? Has he said anything to you about anything?”
I know … I’m fishing for information and yes, I’m using Holly like a go-between. I must stop it, but …
“Well, I don’t think he likes living in a small flat, that’s for sure. He mentioned in passing once, that Gemma’s room is tiny and she won’t be able to be in there much longer.”
“Oh God … he’ll want us to sell the house and split the money … why should I move? I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“He didn’t say that to me, Mum … but I suppose … realistically … that may have to happen, one day.”
I know she’s right, but I can’t even bear to think about it, at the moment. I say, “Does he sound happy, when you speak to him?”
“If I’m honest, no, not really. He sounds wracked with guilt, apart from anything else. It can’t be a good way to start a relationship. Dad’s a good person really, Mum; he must really love her to put you through this. And he’s decent enough to know he’s done a bad thing. He wants me to go round there sometime soon and meet her … but you know what? I don’t want to meet her … not yet, anyhow. She’s come between you and Dad … and I hate her for it.”
“You’ll have to meet her sometime …”
“Maybe … but at the moment, I’d prefer to meet Dad on his own, on neutral territory.”
We walk back home, leave Gaz to his own devices and then I take her to our local pub for lunch.
I always notice men’s admiring glances, whenever I’m with Holly. She’s totally unaware of them, of course, but I see their eyes follow her across a room. It’s no different this day – there’s a group of guys at the bar, all about thirty, and when we walk in, they all look towards us. Some of them try to hide their interest and go back to their pints, but two of them blatantly stare at Holly, who strides across the room, with confidence. She goes up to the bar and says loudly, “What would you like, Mum? A G and T?”
I watch as the two lads try to look away and continue their conversation but, one of them in particular, looks at Holly again. He is, I have to admit, extremely good-looking. Tall, about 6’2”, dark-haired and dressed in jeans and a smart, expensive-looking leather jacket. I’m convinced he’s going to talk to her.
I don’t want to cramp Holly’s style, so I grab my G and T and wander over to a table by the window, leaving her at the bar, while she waits for her drink and the menu card.
Once seated, I look over and they are, indeed, chatting. I can’t hear what’s being said as the pub’s busy and Nat King Cole is singing loudly through some speakers, but I can see them both laughing. I can see the chemistry fizzing.
I like this pub – there’s a good atmosphere, friendly staff and good value food. In the winter, there’s usually a roaring log fire and Gaz is welcomed with dog biscuits and a water bowl. I rather wish we’d bought him now, but he was muddy and I couldn’t be bothered to clean him.
I get my phone out – like everyone else these days, I use the mobile phone more as a distraction, than for making actual phone calls. I’ve previously logged on to the pub’s wi-fi, so I check my emails to see if Adam has written. Nothing. No surprise there, then.
I go onto Facebook to while away some time, while Holly flirts at the bar. I use an alias so my pupils don’t know who I am. Being a teacher, I really don’t want my private life splattered all over social media. All my friends and family know my ‘other’ name and it’s a way of keeping up to date with people – it always adds to my conviction, though, that everyone else is having a better life than me. Status updates, ranging from Wonderful evening with friends in fab restaurant! to Off to Bali for a month! to Wow! Look at the view from my mountaintop hotel! with all the compulsory accompanying pictures of smiling, happy faces and brown bodies, adding to my conviction that I’ll never go anywhere exciting, ever again.
When I sent Adam a friend request, he came home that night and said, “Mum, what on earth’s possessed you?
Why would I want you as a ‘friend’? How uncool would I look with my mother on my friend’s list? No, the answer is definitely no – you can’t be my friend. Is there nowhere I can be, without parental supervision?”
I let it go for a while, but when he was nearly off on his adventures to Oz, I asked again and after much soul-searching, he allowed it. I expect he thought he wouldn’t be able to post drunken pictures of himself, but I persuaded him to accept me – I put a positive spin on it, by saying he wouldn’t have to send me any emails when he was in Oz, if I could just see what he was doing on Facebook.
I scroll down and – there he is – a selfie of him and Jake on a beach with the comment Oz is Awesome! He looks healthy and happy and the two of them seem remarkably sober. Well, that’s a mother’s optimistic take on a perfectly innocent photo; we clutch at straws when our children are so far away. The location information says Bondi Beach. I stare at the picture, trying to glean any information I can from it. I feel like a combination of a spy and a detective and kind of understand where he was coming from, when he objected. When we were young, there were just long distance phone calls and letters; parents had to accept long silences. Now, with the constant updates on Facebook, we expect to keep up to date, daily.
Should I comment on the post or not?
I write Looks Amazing! and hope it’s completely neutral and non-judgemental.
Another comment pops up from someone I’ve never heard of.
Cool Dude. Didn’t know you were out here. PM me and we’ll meet up.
I click on them – it’s some sexy-looking girl, who has very little on. So, the stalking commences. I now go from feeling happy he’s having fun, to worrying about predatory females, in the space of about five seconds. The joys of smartphone technology.
At that moment, Holly wanders back and sits down. “You look engrossed Mum. What is it?”
I hand her my phone with the picture of Adam displayed. “Hey, that’s cool. Jakey looks as gorgeous as ever! God, I wish he was a bit older … why do you look worried, Mum?”
Love Is a State of Mind: Nobody's Life is Perfect Page 4
