The Reinvention of Martha Ross

by Charlene Allcott

  ‘Meet the talent,’ says Marc to the table. They smile and nod. Marc turns to me and I realize I’m supposed to say something.

  ‘Have a wonderful evening,’ I say. It takes Marc a few seconds to work out that I don’t have any more. He shakes hands with the gentlemen and then leads me to the side of the stage.

  ‘Take it easy on this set,’ he says. ‘You can go on again later and bring it home.’

  ‘Definitely,’ I say. My throat feels tight, as if it’s fighting to keep hold of my voice. I know that professionals do vocal exercises and, since I’m getting paid, I’m a professional now too. I stand at the side of the stage and gently run up and down a scale.

  ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,’ I sing. The room around me goes into soft focus. I understand that it’s just a tiny club with an audience smaller than the average coffee shop line but, however low-key the event is, its symbolism is huge. It’s a gig, a real solo spot. It’s the first step in the direction of a new life.

  I’ve never even performed in public before, but there was another occasion when I was supposed to. Aged ten I was cast as Mary in Stanford Junior School’s musical version of the nativity. I don’t remember how I was given the role; I can’t imagine I put myself forward for it. Perhaps a bright-eyed teacher was hoping for her Dangerous Minds moment and tried to give the shy, awkward girl her day in the spotlight. However it came about, the decision was controversial. I was the first Mary of colour Stanford had seen and my classmates made it clear I was not the popular choice.

  The scene is tattooed on my mind, Mrs Baker playing my introductory chord over and over until it rang in my ears, and even then I think I might have been OK, but then I caught my mother’s eyes, narrowed in anticipation, and I did the unthinkable. I wet myself. The warmth of the liquid was almost comforting and Mary’s robes were concealing most of the evidence. Mrs Baker skipped to the next song and it would have been fine – my humiliation might have remained personal – if Christopher Nagle, my nativity husband, had not noticed the puddle and shouted, ‘She pissed herself!’

  There was an impromptu interval whilst I was cleaned up and bundled into our car. My mother didn’t even comment on the event; it was obvious to all that her judgement was not necessary. When I ended up attending secondary school across town, the official reason was because of the school’s excellent GCSE results, but the move was really to escape the ghosts of Christmas past.

  Standing next to the stage now, I’m taken back to that moment. I can even smell the hall – wood polish and boiled veg.

  ‘Ready?’ the drummer mouths to me. Cara was right, he is good-looking. He’s got a shaved head and two full tattoo sleeves; he looks like he might keep me safe up there. I lift a finger to indicate that he should give me a second. Then I walk slowly to the bar and ask for a glass of water. As I drink I scan the room. I can see Marc still sweet talking his golden table but his eyes are trained on me. Bile rises to my mouth – nerves with a side of hangover. I ask for a second glass and drink this one more slowly. I concentrate on the sensation of the liquid sliding down my throat and on the cold firmness of the glass. I place it on the bar and turn to face the stage. The six band members are looking at me with a variety of ‘what the fuck’ expressions. I walk over to them and as I climb the steps they seem to shake. I look at my knight on drums and he just looks bored; none of the band members speak to me. I stand at the microphone and as I adjust it I survey the crowd. There’s a handful of people either deep in conversation or smiling at me encouragingly; I should be fine.

  From behind me someone says, ‘Shall we go from the top?’ I nod and the band starts to play without even counting me in. As Marc promised, they’re tight, so tight I can’t breathe. I clear my throat and hear the sound ringing around the room. I open my mouth to sing the first words of ‘My Baby Just Cares For Me’ and nothing emerges but a croak. The band keeps repeating the intro; I try to start again and the same thing happens. One of the ladies at the front table holds out a glass of water. My bladder couldn’t take any more liquid and that thought drags me back to that terrifying school stage and a hundred tiny heads bobbing with laughter. I reach out to take it anyway but my hand is shaking so much I can’t be sure I’ll be able to hold it. I stand with the mic to my mouth and my hand outstretched, like a confused zombie. The band keeps playing. I try to smile but moving my face unleashes the tears that have been working their way to the front of my eyes. I apologize and drop the microphone. It shrieks in protest as it hits the ground. I apologize again even though no one can hear me now and walk carefully off the stage.

  I try to pack my things up quickly but I’m not quick enough. As Marc enters the dressing room his face glistens from the effort of coming to find me, or perhaps from rage. ‘What the fucking fuck was that, missus?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m so sorry, I’ve had a lot on my mind,’ I say.

  ‘You’ve lost your mind, more like,’ he says.

  I put on my coat. ‘I’m not feeling well,’ I say. ‘I’m sure I could do better a bit later or maybe tomorrow.’

  ‘There ain’t no tomorrow for you, love, you’re dead to me.’ That seems slightly dramatic.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. He seems to soften; perhaps this happens to a lot of people. ‘I won’t expect full payment.’

  Marc laughs. He actually clutches his stomach as he leans over and lets the mirth overcome his body.

  ‘Payment! Payment? You’ve got some cheek. You should be paying me!’

  ‘OK, I’m gonna go then,’ I say, and walk past him towards the door.

  ‘I thought Cara was your mate,’ he says, without turning round. ‘You’ve made her look like a dick.’

  I don’t respond. I think, no one can make Cara do anything.

  29

  THE NEXT MORNING I call in sick. I don’t even have to do the calling-in-sick voice because I feel so despondent that every word I speak sounds like I’m in pain. ‘Try an enema,’ says Bob, ‘works wonders.’ I promise to look into his recommendation.

  I manage to sleep through most of the day and my lethargy convinces Mum I have a lethal strain of flu she read about in the local paper. She leaves me to myself, save to pop into my room in the late afternoon with a bowl of chicken stew in her hand and a floral chiffon scarf wrapped around her mouth and nose. ‘I’ll go and collect Moses and keep him away from you,’ she says. I want to say no because I think that Moses is the only person who won’t judge me right now, but I don’t want to blow my cover and have to explain that I’m not physically sick, just sick of life.

  Leanne calls me shortly after seven. I can hear a car door slam and the start of the engine and I know that she’s just left the office. ‘How’s things?’ she asks. ‘Sorry we didn’t get a chance to catch up properly after the party.’

  ‘I feel shit,’ I say.

  ‘Hmmmm,’ says Leanne, ‘is it work?’

  ‘No, work is always shit, it’s a bit of everything, a smattering of shit.’ I leave a gap for Leanne to laugh but she doesn’t. ‘I don’t know. I’ve just got a lot going on.’

  ‘I know, babe,’ says Leanne, ‘but we all have.’ I hear the clicks of her indicator. ‘How’s the running going? That usually clears my head.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m not in the mood.’

  ‘You’ve got to push through that, hun,’ says Leanne. I recognize her tone. It’s warm but distracted; it’s a voice she uses with her children. ‘They have been busting my arse at work but I can’t take it home. I don’t have a choice.’ I’m not sure how supportive this is, bringing up her cosy home life when I’m clearly struggling.

  ‘You wouldn’t understand, Leanne,’ I say quietly.

  ‘I understand tough times,’ she says sharply. I feel like she’s telling me off and I don’t know why. ‘Anyway, you’ve got good stuff going on – how was the gig?’ I just can’t say it; she’s my best friend but I feel as though telling her how horribly and suddenly I watched my dream fall to pieces would break m
e.

  ‘It was fine,’ I say.

  ‘Well, practice makes perfect,’ says Leanne. The sentence makes me wince. I want to tell her that not everything has to be perfect. ‘I’d stop by but I really need to go straight home tonight.’

  ‘No, that’s OK,’ I say.

  ‘I better run, I’m at the gym now. Speak soon, yeah?’

  ‘Course,’ I say.

  Honestly, I think it was because of Leanne that I first went to Jacqueline. Motherhood was and is wonderful but it can be bloody hard. The initial fuss and excitement was so intoxicating but then everyone went back to their lives and I was left to try and understand mine. The ads for mild washing powder and unperfumed shampoo, featuring plump, laughing babies and clean-haired mothers – they lied to me. Finally, I was playing a role I had coveted for so long but I felt guilty every moment my heart wasn’t filled with gratitude, and there were a lot of those moments. What hurt the most was how untouched Alexander’s life seemed to be. He still took on new projects and went out with his friends; if anything he went out more as he always assumed I would want to stay home with Moses and go to bed early, and the fact that he was right didn’t make it any less annoying.

  One evening he had gone to a really important five-a-side meet-up, and no matter where I went in our home, I couldn’t run away from the feeling of loneliness. I called Leanne and begged her to come over and she did. She arrived twenty minutes later with fresh cream cakes and even fresher highlights and seeing her, polished and in control, contentment leaking from her invisible pores, I felt more isolated than ever. I held it together for her visit. She talked me through a list of courses and activities that she was sure Moses and I would ‘absolutely love’ and to say otherwise would have seemed like a betrayal of my boy. I clutched him to my chest because he served as a reminder of why I should bother to keep going; Leanne cooed over him and told me that he was making her think about having another. Her admission was overwhelming – how could she possibly think about having three young children; why did she believe she would cope?

  Leanne left and I couldn’t stop my grief escaping. Alexander returned, flushed and loose-limbed, and found me lying in a damp patch of tears on the sofa. He sighed. I could tell he was irritated that I was killing his vibe, but as a wife, wasn’t that my right? He sat gingerly next to me and told me about his day. I knew he was avoiding asking me what was wrong. I interrupted his chatter to say, ‘I don’t know who I am.’

  Alexander squeezed the bridge of his nose. ‘OK,’ he said.

  ‘OK, just OK? That’s all you have to say?’

  Alexander threw himself back on to the sofa. ‘What else can I say? I can’t tell you who you are.’

  ‘Who can?’

  ‘I think you need to talk to someone,’ Alexander said.

  ‘I’m talking to you!’ I cried, pulling my knees up to my chest.

  ‘Someone who can help you,’ said Alexander, gently but firmly.

  The following morning I still feel like a pile of crap that’s been put through a NutriBullet but I make the decision to go to work. At least there, I know who I am and what I’m doing, even if I don’t like it.

  When I arrive, Bob is giving the room one of his ‘motivational’ speeches.

  ‘… and some of you may not be used to winning, but let me tell you, when you get into the mindset you don’t want to stop, and that’s why I want this team to be top performing for the second year running.’ As I take a seat Bob starts to walk up and down the room, sporadically tapping the back of someone’s chair. ‘You wanna know what I do? I look at myself in the mirror every morning and say, you are amazing. Not you – you lot need to pull your socks up if you wanna get back on track before end of year. I am amazing. Try it tomorrow. “I am amazing.” It’ll put a rocket up your arse.’ No one responds, and Bob leaves us to take in his words.

  ‘Don’t know about you, but I’m feeling pumped now,’ says Greg.

  ‘What do we even get if we win?’ Tashi asks him from across the desk divider.

  ‘That,’ says Greg, pointing towards the wall behind her. Tashi turns to look at the glass plaque awarded to the team last year. She turns back to face Greg and nods her head.

  ‘I better get to work then,’ she says.

  It’s a slow morning – thankfully, because I can’t focus. A customer even manages to come through to me a second time, his voice full of indignation that he had been passed to ‘entirely the wrong person’. Even though I start each call by stating my name, I pretend to be someone else and ignore his protests.

  I plan to use my break to hide in reception and eat at least two Mars bars, and so as I see Lisa walk towards me as I end my last call, I think momentarily about ducking under the table. I know she’s going to want to engage me in some inane prattle about paper plate colours or tapas-themed music. I prepare myself to be polite but boundaried or at the very least not to tell her to piss off. Lisa doesn’t start with her usual pleasantries, though; she licks her lips before saying, ‘I need to know if you’ve done any work on the olives?’

  I look at Lisa. She’s maybe twenty-two, twenty-three, and I understand that olives are the sum of her problems.

  ‘What exactly did you want me to do with the olives?’ I ask.

  Lisa lets out a noise of complete exasperation. ‘Well, work out numbers, ask about preferred colours, think about bowls …’ She marks each item by tapping a finger of her left hand with her right forefinger. I understand I have drastically underestimated the amount of olive-based admin there is.

  ‘No, Lisa. I haven’t had time.’ Lisa glances at my desk, perhaps thinking it will reveal the source of my lack of focus. I am aware that a half-eaten packet of Jelly Babies lies there and I’m too tired to even work up the energy to feel embarrassed about it.

  ‘If this is too much for you, let me know so I can hand it over to someone else.’

  I let my eyes drop. ‘Yes, I think it’s too much.’

  Lisa doesn’t speak and when I look up I expect to see her angry, but what I see is worse: she’s staring at me sympathetically.

  ‘It’s not a problem’, says Lisa, in a tone an octave higher than her standard speaking voice. ‘I’m sure it can be reassigned.’

  Greg, who has clearly been listening, although he has given no indication of this, stands up. ‘I can help, Lisa. To be honest we can probably knock it out over break.’

  ‘God, thanks G!’ cries Lisa. She reaches out and for an awkward second I think she’s going to kiss him but she simply places her hand on his forearm. They walk away together, already deep into olive chat.

  I’m still watching them when Tashi says, ‘Do you want to try a healing mantra with me?’ And I feel so desolate, I agree.

  Tashi and I go to the multi-faith prayer room, which as far as I know has never been used in any spiritual way, although a temp once claimed she had sex there with a guy who works in the canteen, which is pretty close. Tashi opens the blinds and the light that streams in throws a spotlight on hundreds of pieces of fluff dancing through the air. She clears up a few Styrofoam cups and tosses them in an already overflowing bin.

  ‘Not the most inspiring environment,’ she says, ‘but that’s good, that will show you that it’s about using your mind to transcend your circumstances.’ I smile weakly at her. I know that the only way my mind will be able to transcend my circumstances is if I help it along with a litre or two of vodka. ‘OK,’ continues Tashi. ‘We just need to make an altar out of something.’

  ‘Like in church?’

  ‘Similar, but, like, less Goddy. Just something to focus your mind.’ Tashi pulls a chair into the centre of the room and then removes a string of beads from around her neck and places them on the seat. ‘I had this made to attract more creativity into my life.’ I make an agreeable noise but I’m thinking it looks like something gleaned from a cut-price Christmas cracker. ‘Now we need something from you.’

  ‘My cardigan?’ I suggest.

  Tashi shakes her
head. ‘It’s got to be more personal.’

  ‘This is personal, it’s on my body. You can’t get more personal than that.’

  ‘Yes, but it doesn’t really mean anything to you.’

  ‘I disagree, it means I haven’t frozen my tits off today.’

  Tashi’s face wrinkles in concentration. ‘What about that?’ she asks, and grabs my left hand.

  My engagement ring. I pull my hand away and at first I think about refusing but I can’t come up with an honest reason why. I ease it off my finger and put it on the chair next to Tashi’s beads. Tashi grabs her long, dark-blonde curls and twists them into a rope over her shoulder. We both sit on the floor in front of the chair. Tashi says, ‘Let’s do “ra ma da ma”, it’s totally cleansing.’ She then begins to chant the phrase in a low, sinister voice. She sounds possessed; perhaps this is the explanation for the fact that she is completely bonkers. After a minute she stops and looks at me.

  ‘Is it not working?’ she asks. ‘Do you not feel anything?’

  I feel my knees starting to ache. ‘It’s just the chanting. It’s a bit … ridiculous.’

  ‘It might be a bit advanced,’ says Tashi, and I know she doesn’t intend to sound offensive. ‘Just tune into what’s happening outside you. Listen to the sound of a silent room.’ Tashi closes her eyes; I do the same and for fifteen minutes I listen to the sound of my growling stomach.

  I decide to walk home from work; not for exercise, just to lengthen the amount of time between being in one place and another, to have some space to be nowhere. As I walk, I think about Tashi, how serene she looked sitting on that scratchy carpet. Perhaps I’m the one who has it all wrong. I used to describe myself as a spiritual person but what I think I meant by that was my life was kind of OK and I was content to attribute that to some unknowable force in the world. When my life began to lose the shape I was comfortable with, any affinity with the universe was lost. When I was a child my grandmother would sometimes take me along to her church. My mother would take me to her flat the day before and I would sleep alongside my grandma, staying awake as long as I could so I could listen to her snoring, loud and strong. In the morning we would take two buses to attend the service in a chapel that looked not dissimilar to three others we would pass along the way. One Sunday I asked my grandmother why she went so far. Was the word of God not the same word at the church round the corner? Grandma said she liked the pastor’s sermon, which was only more baffling because his weekly offerings were so dark – full of sin and damnation, never failing to remind us all that we were one misstep from the fiery pits of hell. ‘Remind me why I need ’im,’ she said. I guess I get it now; she wanted to be assured that she had something to protect her from all the fucked-up shit in the world. I wish I could go to her now, so she could protect me.