by Sophie Duffy
‘Do you seriously expect me to believe that you went round to retrieve your EpiPen just because I put you on peanut duty?’
Martin kicks at a bit of gravel on the patio, probably imagining it to be my head. ‘I was going to pick up a few more things. For Jeremy. He’s got Nintendo Withdrawal Syndrome. You wouldn’t appreciate that, having girls... ’ He tails off, not sure how to get out of this.
I turn away from him, like he’s slapped me in the face. Because I haven’t always just had girls. And I don’t need him reminding me of that.
‘Sorry, I mean... You know what I mean.’
I pull my cardy round me and take a very deep breath, filling my lungs with Penge’s finest morning air. ‘So girls can’t play on Nintendo wotsits? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Well, not your girls. This isn’t exactly a technologically advanced household, is it? You haven’t even got Sky.’
‘What a come-down it must be, slumming it in such a deprived house.’
‘Yes, it is,’ and he smiles. Which annoys me even more than if he didn’t smile. He’s trying to pull me off the trail of his arrest. It’s not going to work.
‘Forget Sky-Nintendo-Wotsits. Tell me why you got arrested.’
‘If you stop interrupting me I’ll get to it,’ he takes out his fag packet. More delay. It’s empty. He puts it back in his pocket. More delay. More deviation. The deviant.
I take a packet of Polos out of my cardigan pocket and offer him one. Not to be nice; to keep his concentration up.
He crushes it immediately upon entry into his mouth. No thank you or anything but at least his voice is less spiky as he goes on. ‘I went round there all prepared to be nice to Claudia and yes, before you ask, I admit there was an ulterior motive.’
‘Which was?’
‘I was hoping the dawning of a new year might make her rethink our situation.’
‘What, the One Small Incident situation?’
‘Do you want me to tell you or what?’
The less spiky voice didn’t last long so I nod in vague encouragement, trying to get Martin back to a level of calm. Calm that I don’t feel. But I really want to know what happened. And I really want to know if last evening’s events have taken Martin further away from the day he will move back in with Claudia and out of my house.
‘Are you listening, Victoria?’
‘Of course. Fire away.’
‘Right, well, I rang the doorbell. Nothing doing. I went round the back and peered through the lounge French windows and the kitchen door. Nothing. Then I came back round the front and got out my keys. Tried the lock. Tried all the locks. They’d been changed. Can you believe it?’ He snatches the packet of Polos out of my hand, shovels three into his mouth and starts crunching them aggressively.
‘Yes, Martin, I most definitely can believe it. You’ve got yourself into trouble and Claudia’s not happy.’
He ignores this and gobs instead into a nearby flower pot. Some of it remains in his beard, glistening in the weak morning sun.
I practise heavy breathing. ‘And what exactly did you do then?’
‘Nothing.’
I raise my eyebrow.
‘Well, I went round the back again and tried the utility room. There’s an old sash there. I’ve been meaning to get a lock for it. It was a bit of a squeeze – you’ve been giving me far too much fat – but I managed it.’
Breathe, Vicky, breathe.
‘Only then the alarm went and I couldn’t switch it off because she’s changed the code. I tried every sequence I could think of – even the date of our wedding anniversary, which, yes, alright, is an unlikely choice under the circumstances – and then next thing I know there’s a torch in my face and two coppers grabbing hold of me.’ He relives this moment of disbelief. Like the time the French lady won the Eurovision. Disbelief that he could lose control over the situation. His life.
‘Go on.’
‘I told them I live there and to go and ask next door for verification. Only I should’ve been more specific. I meant next door at Giles’ house. But they went the other side and got Bella. Bella hates me. Even more so since Claudia’s told her the gory details of our marriage. She denied that she knew me. Can you believe it? Surely that’s perjury.’
‘Did you tell them that?’
‘Yes, of course I did.’
‘And?’
‘They arrested me and bunged me in the car. One of them put his filthy hands on my head just like on the TV.’
‘Yes, The Bill, I’ve seen it.’
‘Really? I didn’t have you down as a Bill fan.’
‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Martin.’
At that moment the sun skulks off and a gust of wind blows up the railway track, wrapping itself around us as if to emphasise this enigmatic point I am making to my brother. He watches me pull my woolly sleeves down over my hands to try and keep warm. As if it weren’t his fault we were out here in the cold. As if I wouldn’t rather be inside in the warm with my family, breathing in the comforting smell of baking biscuits instead of a great hulk of a man who has spent the night in the cells.
‘I’ve heard that cardigans are back in fashion,’ he switches the focus, deftly, onto me. ‘Were you aware of that, Victoria? Isn’t it lucky you hung onto that one from the Wham! years?’
‘At least I don’t have a beard.’
‘Give it time, Vicky-Love. Give it time.’
If I had itching powder on me, now would be the time to throw it in his cantankerous, eczematous, beardy face. But I don’t. Instead, I turn on my heel and leave him to it. I need some of those biscuits. Even if Jeremy’s slimy fingers have been all over them.
Thoughts for the Day: Why don’t we own a house that requires an alarm? Will we ever?
January 10th 1978
Martin has a girlfriend. Yuck. She is called Heidi like on that programme where the actors’ lips move in different time to the words they are saying. It’s called ‘dubbing’ Martin told me. Know-it-all. He said Heidi was a book as well – as if I cared. I’d rather watch the telly.
Martin’s girlfriend, Heidi, has big bosoms. Bigger than any grown up I know and she’s only 14. Martin has taken her to the cinema tonight to see Star Wars . Again. I think Heidi would rather see Watership Down . I would. But Martin always gets his own way.
Heidi came for tea first. Mum gave us fish fingers (burnt), mash (lumpy) and peas (hard). Heidi ate it all up without complaining. She likes her food Dad said when they’d gone to the cinema and we were watching Tomorrow’s World (Dad is interested in technology, especially when it is Judith Hann talking about it).
Mum went to put the kettle on. Dad said Heidi must like Martin. He sounded surprised. She’ll soon learn I said. I have inside knowledge. If anyone knows, it is me. I know what it is like to be alone with Martin. He sits on your head and blows off. He is a disgusting pig.
When I am 14 and have a boyfriend and hopefully big bosoms, my boyfriend will take me to the roller disco and spin me around like he’s Robin Cousins or John Travolta. My friends will be amazed. They will be jealous of me, Vicky. Ha-ha!
Chapter Seven: Friday January 4th
Olivia sits amidst an array of shoeboxes and tissue paper, her leg up on a foot-stool, like Cinderella, waiting to try on the glass slipper. Only this is not your fairy tale ending. She is adamant she won’t have a T-bar as recommended by the haughty young assistant called Melanie.
‘She’s got narrow heels and the bar will stop the shoe slipping,’ Melanie states firmly.
‘No,’ Olivia states, even more firmly. She quite clearly isn’t having any of it; her cheeks are flushed and she is tossing her hair like a diva. She’ll be demanding her own stylist and a basket of exotic fruit next. ‘I want those shiny ones, Mummy. Femi’s got shiny ones like that. Her mummy let her. I hope you’re going to let me.’
I look at Imo for help, but Imo is busy sucking her big toe as thankfully shoes are still a way off for her. Why did I th
ink it would be a good idea coming to Dulwich to buy the wretched shoes? I should’ve stayed in Penge and gone to Shoe Zone.
Deep breath. Count to ten.
This is one of those situations when I should put my foot down. (My own feet haven’t seen new shoes in a very long time.) Martin would laugh if he saw me floundering like this, a grown woman being manipulated by a three-year-old and an uppity shoe-fitter.
Olivia is coveting the shiny shoes. Melanie is barely concealing her disapproval, looking at her watch, and tapping the shoehorn on her long skinny leg. But like Steve is always saying, you have to pick your battles. And I don’t have to live with Melanie. Thankfully. There’s something about her that sets my teeth on edge.
‘We’ll have the shiny ones.’
There. That is decisive. I think.
Olivia claps her hands and gushes you’rethebestmummyinthewholewideworld. Imo gurgles in her bucket, kicking her chubby legs like a bulbous frog. Melanie is not so appreciative; she tuts, smoothing her long blonde hair before beginning to laboriously repack the discarded shoes in the boxes.
‘You wait till you’re a mother,’ I tell her, before I can stop myself. ‘Things will seem completely different.’
Melanie looks doubtful. But then I would’ve looked doubtful at that age. In my early twenties. With my adult life in front of me and London all around me. I never for one minute thought about having children. And then, when the time eventually came, and the prospect of kids edged into our radar, I never thought about the consequences of having children. Real children. Snotty, pooey, crying, three-dimensional children. I didn’t see beyond the holding-the-baby-in-your-arms stage. I didn’t consider the fact they would keep growing. They would have their own opinions. They would voice their own opinions. Or that those opinions would be more forceful than mine. (I should’ve known though, growing up with Martin.) But what I never foresaw was that life could be so fragile. That a baby could be here one minute, and gone the next.
‘I suppose you’re going to let her wear them home,’ Melanie sighs.
I want to tug her long blonde hair. Pull out great chunks of it and scatter it over the plush red Dulwich carpet. What does she know about anything?
It takes much self-control to muster up my primmest curate’s wife voice and push out a basic response through clenched teeth: ‘Yes. Please.’
I pay for the shoes (How much?), not convinced I’m doing the right thing but Olivia is doing her very own version of Riverdance, a big smile on her face, and there’s no way I’m giving high-and-mighty Melanie the satisfaction of back-tracking.
I am a good mother. I make sure they have their five portions and a bath every day. I sew nametags on their school clothes. I read with them. Even Imo. I try to remember to tell them I love them. I teach them right from wrong, their Ps and Qs, their table manners. I even pray with them sometimes though technically that’s Steve’s department seeing as I’m still not too sure about this whole God thing.
So why does this pair of shiny shoes make me feel like such a failure?
The reason I chose to come to Dulwich – the real reason – was so that I can call round at Claudia’s. I had a text message this morning.
Back home. Sorry to land family on you at Xmas. Wot a mess. Missing J loads. Is he OK? Can u come & see me? Don’t tell Martin. Cxxx
How can I not go? I feel bad for Claudia, even worse that I couldn’t bring Jeremy as Martin had a rare moment of guilt and whisked him off to the golf course. He persuaded Steve and Rachel to accompany them. Anything to avoid being on his own with his son and having to explain his actions to him. Wimp. Wuss. Scaredy-cat stinker.
After getting over her initial disappointment that Jeremy is not with us, Claudia pulls herself together and becomes the hostess-with-the-mostest. She would make an admirable vicar’s wife. If she believed in God.
‘Nice shoes, Olivia,’ Claudia says, showing us into the vast kitchen at the back of their double-fronted Victorian villa. She clacks across the slate floor in her own expensive shoes. I think they are called kitten heels.
Olivia’s new shoes shine as she skips after her auntie, deeper in love with her than before. But, as is her nature and her age, she cuts to the chase. ‘Why is Uncle Martin living with us?’
The question bounces around the echoey kitchen like a runaway tennis ball. I can feel my arms straining to catch it and hide it away, though Olivia has a point. Why is Martin living with us?
Claudia might also be taken aback by this question but she doesn’t show it. She touches Olivia on the shoulder and says: ‘Because your mummy is a great big softie.’
‘Believe me, Claudia,’ I say. ‘If he hadn’t brought Jeremy as some kind of human shield, my brother would be confined to a Travelodge right now.’
Claudia smiles grimly and puts the kettle on the Aga as if Dulwich Village were not actually in South London but somewhere in rural Devon.
I sit at the enormous distressed pine table but leave Imo strapped firmly into her bucket, next to my chair; she’d crack her skull open on these unforgiving tiles. Olivia’s skipping is on the verge of mania and I can visualise a trip to Kings College Hospital. She needs distraction. She needs television. Martin owns the biggest set in Christendom so that should do it.
‘Olivia, why don’t you ask Auntie Claudia if you can watch the TV?’
Olivia considers this idea and asks in her sweetest voice: ‘Have you got Pimp my Ride, Auntie Claudia?’
‘Oh dear,’ says Auntie Claudia, blushing, recognising Jeremy’s hand at work. ‘How about you go up to my room and try on my shoes?’
Olivia disappears sharpish before her auntie overcomes her guilty conscience. Claudia meanwhile busies herself making coffee, grinding beans and frothing milk with gadgets I didn’t know had been invented. Finally, she joins me at the table, offering posh organic biscuits as a softener.
We talk about her mother, where she has been staying since Boxing Day until finally returning home last night. (Claudia’s mother is quite possible royalty; she lives in a palace; I have seen the photos.)
Then we talk about Jeremy.
Claudia says she misses him like crazy but she doesn’t feel she can let Martin off the hook where his son is concerned. I ask her if she wants to talk about what happened. Three cups of coffee later – boy, this family likes its caffeine – and I have all the major details:
Martin is a pain in the arse to live with (nothing I didn’t already know). He has long since broken all their wedding presents, including the Dartington champagne flutes, which didn’t even make it to their first anniversary. He is loud. Takes over any conversation whenever they have a dinner party – on the rare occasions he agrees to one. He is facetious. He is patronising. He is a pig.
Martin is having a mid-life crisis. He downloads ‘silly music’ for his iPod and has grown ‘that disgusting excuse for a beard’.
Martin worries over his job and takes it out on Claudia, belittling what she does. Claudia believes the world wants to know about Posh and Becks. She is fulfilling a need. Martin says she is vacuous and facile.
Martin moans about Jeremy going to Dulwich Prep. Claudia believes Dulwich Prep is the best place for a boy as ‘sensitive’ as Jeremy.
Jeremy saw Martin with a younger woman. A student. In Starbucks. I ask if that is really a reason to suspect him of adultery. Apparently that isn’t the only time he’s been spotted with her.
‘So I’m sorry, Vicky,’ Claudia sniffs, the tip of her pretty nose tinged pink. ‘I can’t have him back. Not after what he’s done. Not to mention the attempted break-in.’ She sits up straighter in her chair. I know her well enough to see there is something else. Something that will affect me. ‘Actually, I’ve agreed to go to LA to cover a story. A two-week trip. It’ll be great for my career. And great for me.’
Ah.
‘Do you mind?’ she asks, a little sheepish.
Yes. I mind. I mind very much. But I am the Good Auntie. ‘No, of course I don’t mind.’
‘Another coffee?’
‘Best not. I’m still feeding Imo.’
‘Gosh, Vicky. How old is she now?’
‘Only six months.’ I hoik Imo out and plonk her on my lap. She weighs a ton.
‘What a devoted mother you are,’ Claudia whispers, tears crowding her eyes. Then she actually starts crying. Really snotty, dribbly, mascara-running, shoulder-shaking crying.
I pat her hand. I do a lot of hand-patting in my new role. I may not have been on a course but hand-patting usually does the trick.
Claudia’s sobs recede and she gives her nose a good blow on the clean hanky I always have up my sleeve. ‘Maybe it’s because you have girls,’ she says, then looks horrified. ‘Oh, sorry, Vicky, I didn’t mean... well, it’s just that Jeremy’s so like his father. He’s so... big. So... bulky. He takes up too much room.’ She searches for understanding while I snatch a look around the vast kitchen – the Aga, the hulk of an American fridge, the army of cupboards and acres of granite worktops – wondering just how much room a three person family needs. Wondering why so many human beings, plus a cello, are crammed into my poky terrace. ‘Why can’t he take after me?’
I look at Claudia. Petite, refined, delicate Claudia. Jeremy can wade his way through Middle Earth on the Playstation-DS-Nintendo-Wotnot, but he will bang into door frames as he passes through. That is, when he actually manages to get himself vertical. When he’s not sitting on the new leather sofa watching Cribs – which, I have discovered, has absolutely nothing to do with the Baby Jesus.
Yes, Claudia’s right. Thank Heaven for my little girls. But it’s harder to be thankful for my little boy. How can I be?
Thoughts for the Day: I wish I lived in Middle Earth? Anywhere but here and now.
Chapter Eight: Sunday January 6th Epiphany
Sunday. Traditionally a day of rest. In our world there’s not a whole lot of rest going on. It’s a whirr of 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.
