by Sophie Duffy
Being a curate’s wife doesn’t come easily. Being a curate’s wife wasn’t what I signed up to all those years ago when I said: ‘I will’. What I meant was: I will go out to work and help pay off our mortgage. I will share the cooking and washing-up but am more than happy to do the bulk of the cleaning because that’s the way I like it and I know you, Steve, are much happier, and more proficient at, wielding a power tool. I will have your children if and when the time comes – which it did, on four occasions. That’s what I meant.
I didn’t mean this. I didn’t mean Steve to swap his copper pipes for a surplice. I didn’t mean to swap my old life for this one. I was happy being a teacher, a mother, a plumber’s wife.
But how could I say no to Steve? I promised him, didn’t I? Said I would stick with him for better, for worse. And while he believes this life is better, I still have to be convinced. And it’s going to take nothing short of a miracle to do that.
Not that it’s all bad. Sometimes I open the front door to find a package left by a good-intentioned parishioner. A marrow. A jar of chutney. Once, generously and anonymously, a voucher for a day’s pampering at The Sanctuary (which I still haven’t used, surprise, surprise). And sometimes, when I pop into the church to polish the lectern – it’s really tricky with all the engravings and twiddly bits – I feel something surround me. I’d like to say it was God’s love. His peace and understanding. But it’s probably the silence that is so elusive at home.
Jeremy has agreed to come to Sunday School. He actually agreed quite readily which surprised me as I assumed he’d be as resistant as Martin – a worshipper of Richard Dawkins – to the idea of a loving God. Or, perhaps like the rest of us, he wants some space from his father who has been acting strangely since his dealings with the long arm of the Law. He is spending a lot of time with Jeremy for one thing. Just the two of them. Playing chess. Going to the park. Golf. Even shopping for clothes. Martin hates shopping for clothes. He’s always left that to Claudia. He always left everything to Claudia. And now that he’s actually rising to the challenge, I am shocked. And I am suspicious.
St Hilda’s is like many of its regular attendees: grey and dusty, which, I know, is not a Godly thought for me to be having. But then God knows that I’m not exactly His whole-hearted follower. Unlike my husband.
I have to admit I am sort of proud watching Steve perform, at my sparkling lectern, speaking to his flock. But then I used to be proud of him when he lay with his head under the sink twiddling his ratchet. He is a good man who does a job well. It’s me that’s struggling.
Today I have to sit on my own – on a less than perfectly polished pew seeing as they are Amanda’s responsibility – trying to keep four fidgety children quiet while Desmond and Steve do their double act. We’ve sung the embarrassing children’s song with actions. Jeremy was strangely enthusiastic about it, waving his arms about like a Charismatic. It was quite infectious. Even Rachel, known for her disdain of anything infantile, joined in a little. I actually caught a glimpse of a smile hanging about her lips. Olivia was more interested in flaunting her new shoes, which haven’t been off her feet yet except for bath time. Now we just have to get through the children’s talk. This is when I always struggle to keep my lot from heckling.
Today isn’t so bad because some of the drama group are doing a sketch and at least the kids can focus on something. Like Mr Maynard’s shoes which, according to Olivia and commented on in her loudest voice, are like Jesus’ shoes. I pretend I have dropped something vital on the floor so that I can duck down behind the pew. It is warm down by the heating grill, with the comforting smell of beeswax. I’d like to stay there for the rest of Mr Maynard’s amateur dramatics, in fact for the duration of the service, possibly for the rest of the day but alas I am a grown woman and must act accordingly.
At last: relief. The children file out to Sunday school and I can lug Imo to the crèche. (She’s definitely fat. Must go to clinic and be reprimanded by health visitor.) Soon I can creep back into the rear of the church and concentrate on important matters i.e. my list of things to do for tomorrow. For tomorrow is school.
I had every reason to be suspicious. The reason Martin has been spending all this so-called ‘quality time’ with his son is so that he can toughen him up. And why? In order to send him to a new school. Martin is taking Jeremy out of Dulwich Prep and sending him down the road to St Hilda’s C of E. He’s been in to see the Head and, using his connections to Steve and his overbearing powers of persuasion, has wangled a place. And to make things worse, Claudia is clueless on the other side of the ocean. He’s had this planned for a long time, gave the correct amount of notice so he didn’t have to pay the term’s fees. That’s the money he was going to be coming into. The flow of cash. He is calculating and despicable. And very stupid. Does he really believe this will help win Claudia back? If I know Claudia, this is the very thing that will stop dead any chance of mediation.
I am telling all of this to Steve in the brief respite we have late Sunday afternoon, me at the ironing board, with a heap of white polo shirts, Steve going over his preparation for the evening service.
‘Do you think we should let Claudia know?’ he asks me, gripping his pen the way Rachel grips hers. All wrong.
‘I’ve been trying her phone on and off all day. There’s no ring tone.’
‘We could leave a message at the hotel asking her to call,’ he suggests.
‘I don’t want to worry her. She’ll think something dreadful’s happened.’
‘From her point of view something dreadful has happened.’ He shuffles his revision cards and takes off his glasses.
‘I don’t know what to do, Steve. I’m not sure I want to get involved.’
‘We are involved. They’re your family.’
‘But I didn’t choose that family. I chose this one. You and the girls.’ I look at Steve in his dog collar and try to remember what he used to be like in his overalls. I feel tears wash my eyes and I’m not entirely sure why.
‘I’ll have a word with Martin if you think that’ll help,’ Steve suggests. ‘Otherwise, you’re right, there’s not a lot we can do for now.’
‘He won’t take a blind bit of notice. I’ll speak to Rachel’s teacher though. Get her to keep an eye on him.’
‘Rachel’s teacher?’
‘They’re going to be in the same class.’
‘Well, that’s a God-incidence for you.’
‘A what?’
‘A God inspired coincidence,’ Steve beams. Life is simple for him these days. He hands over his worries to God whereas I gather mine all around me like a class of small uncontrollable children. ‘Stop fretting, Vick. It’ll work out. Trust in the Lord.’ Then he pats my hand and it is a real struggle not to let the tears fall.
Thoughts for the Day: Should I go on a counselling course? Or should I go into therapy? And just what is an epiphany exactly?
January 20th 1978
I hate school. Mr Harris, my teacher, has grease marks on his trousers. They must come from his hair, which looks like it would catch fire if you got near it with a match. Only one more year at this dump and then I will be going to another dump. Martin is at the Grammar but I didn’t get put in for the eleven plus because I am not brainy like him. It is so unfair. I work much more than the lazy slug but he always gets ‘A’s. Even when I try really, really hard, the best I get is a ‘B’.
Heidi goes to a private school because her Dad is a financier, whatever that is. Heidi met Martin at a public speaking competition. Martin’s team won of course. Heidi said his speech on the rules of cricket was inspiring. She is a big fat liar. Martin told her she looked like Olivia Newton-John. He is a big fat liar too. Heidi looks more like Dolly Parton. I wish someone would tell me I look like Olivia Newton-John. I look more like Leo Sayer. With a brace.
But I shouldn’t call Heidi a big fat liar because I like Heidi. She is nice to me and smiles a lot and last night she helped me with my French homework. I have no idea
why I need to learn French. Mum and Dad will never take us to France. They never take us further than Worthing or Weston-super-Mare. Heidi is going to Egypt for her next holiday. She is going to see the pyramids and the Sphincter. I wish I was Heidi.
Chapter Nine: Monday January 7th
Packed lunches. For Jeremy and Rachel. Not for me as I still have a few months reprieve until Imo hits her first birthday and I return to teaching. Not for Steve who no longer has to eat his sandwiches in his van. He comes home these days. Which is nice. Usually. Though sometimes I’d like to sit down and watch The Little Mermaid DVD with Olivia in the hope of twenty minutes shut-eye, instead of listening to how the diocese works and feeling guilty for not being as enthusiastic as Amanda about the new prayer books.
Guilt. Must have caught it off Claudia. I can feel it snapping at my ankles like the Jack Russell the children are always nagging us for. Guilt at the extent of my joy that Rachel and Jeremy will be out of the house for six whole hours. No American Idol. No monosodium glutamate. Back to CBeebies and rice cakes (unsalted). And guilt because this is Olivia’s first day at playgroup and apart from buying her a pair of shiny inappropriate shoes I haven’t prepared her for stepping out into the world without me. And now I have to step outside. Into the garden. The shed.
‘I’m staying in here, Auntie Vicky,’ Jeremy mutters as I try to coax him out, his father having disappeared to work. Typical.
‘What’s wrong, Jeremy?’
‘I’m going to get beaten up and that cos I’m a posh kid.’
‘You’re twice the size of an average ten-year-old. They wouldn’t dare. Besides, Mrs Lake is a really good teacher. She won’t stand for any teasing. Certainly not bullying. There’s a school policy.’
‘Dad says school policies aren’t worth the paper they’re written on.’
‘Well, your dad’s not a teacher. Now come on. There’s a bacon sandwich waiting for you.’
‘With tomato ketchup?’
‘With tomato ketchup.’
The door swings open and Jeremy steps outside. ‘At least I don’t have to wear a tie anymore.’
‘Exactly. Every cloud has a silver lining.’
Monday is Steve’s day off so he drops Jeremy and Rachel at school and leaves me to deal with Olivia. I am not actually worried for Olivia. I am more worried for the playgroup workers who may not have previously encountered a child quite in her league. I am a little concerned they will have her down as one of those eccentric children, possibly on the autistic spectrum as she is quite fanatical about some things – namely shoes and cleaning.
I have managed to persuade Olivia not to wear her Snow White dress and am trying to convince her that leggings and a fleecy top will be the most practical outfit for painting and going on the trikes outdoors.
‘But I don’t like leggings, Mummy. You never wear leggings.’
She is right. I never wear leggings. What sane adult would wear leggings? Except for petite refined delicate Claudia who has neither hips nor bottom.
‘How about your corduroy skirt? That’s really pretty.’ Really hardwearing and I can wash it at sixty degrees and not turn Steve’s underpants a shade of purple.
‘How about Tinkerbell, Mummy? I could go as Tinkerbell. That’s really pretty.’
I kneel down and look her in the eye, woman to woman. ‘Olivia if you get paint on Tinkerbell it will never wash out however much Vanish or Cillit Bang I use and you will never ever be able to dress up as Tinkerbell again and that would be very sad indeed.’
‘Okay, Mummy, I’ll wear the courgette skirt,’ Olivia says as if I have just pulled her back from the edge of a hidden precipice.
‘Good. The courgette skirt it is.’
Hallelujah.
I watch at the door of the church hall. A familiar place for Olivia but these are different kids to the ones she knows from Sunday School. These are un-churched kids. London kids. She’s a London kid but I suspect she is a little cushioned from London life. Will she be alright? At least she knows this space. The smells. The quirks of the ladies’ toilet. She has even cleaned the toilet when it’s been my turn on the rota. Thankfully she doesn’t have to battle with the urinals. I wouldn’t want her to share them with the boys in this room. (Thank Heaven for little girls.)
She has already muscled in on a group having a tea party with plastic cup cakes and foam French fries and has insisted on being mother. ‘I’ll just go and put the kettle on,’ I hear her strident voice ring out above the cacophony. While she waits for the kettle to boil (she is very realistic in her role play), she takes a doll out of a Moses basket and changes its nappy.
Nappies. Rachel knows how to change a nappy. For real. She’ll do Imo if I’m desperate. If I’m stuck on the phone with a parishioner, for example. If I pay her. 50p a go. Olivia would love to change Imo’s nappy but at the age of three I draw the line.
Rachel. I wonder how she’s getting on at St Hilda’s C of E. With Jeremy. She has to put up with a lot, my big girl. My too-old-for-Disney girl. It wasn’t so long ago I was changing her nappy. Her skinny legs with the softest pearly skin. And then there was Thomas.
‘Come on, Imo,’ I say. ‘We’ve got loos to scrub and food to buy.
Imo starts crying, furious because I’m dragging her away from all the fun. Olivia looks up at me about to leave. Looks at Imo. It dawns on her that maybe she will be missing out on something too but then one of the assistants asks who wants to do some cutting and sticking. She turns away from me, grabbing the assistant’s hand with surprising fervour. (Does she realise messy glue is involved?) Then, throwing me a scrap of a smile, she is gone.
As I’m putting the shopping away, the door goes and I know straightaway it’s not Steve back from his Monday prayer run. ‘Martin?’
He creeps into the kitchen in a most un-Martin-like way. Imo is delighted to see her uncle, banging her highchair like a deranged member of parliament in a frenzy of adoration. ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ he says, ignoring her.
‘Oh?’
‘I’ve had a phone call.’
‘Jeremy?’
‘No. Not Jeremy. Why would it be Jeremy?’ Martin waves his arms about, perilously close to a vase of flowers on the dresser. He can see I’m waiting, a clutch of Pot Noodles in my hands. ‘It’s Dad.’
‘Is he alright?’
‘He’s in hospital.’
‘What?’ I hold on tighter to the Pot Noodles and feel my face grow hot.
‘Nothing serious. A fall.’
‘A fall? Where? Has he broken something?’
‘His wrist. Stop getting all worked up. We should just go and see him and then we’ll be able to assess the extent of the damage.’
‘The extent of the damage?’
I am about to launch into a rant about his legalistic choice of words when Steve comes in, all sweaty and puffed-out, looking like Steve of old back from the gym. But this is the new Steve who combines running with praying for his neighbourhood as he paces the streets of Penge. Steve, the rock, the peace-maker. Steve who listens calmly, telling me to breathe. Who says he will collect the kids from school and give them tea and for us to get going and not worry. It will be alright.
‘But what about Olivia?’ I think of my daughter waiting to see her mother’s face appear at the door of the church hall. ‘I have to collect Olivia. She comes out soon and I promised her I’d be there. I can’t let her down. She might never believe anything I say to her ever again.’
‘We’ll all go,’ Steve says. ‘We’ll take both cars. You can say hello and then get straight off. Just give me five minutes to have a quick shower.’ And he’s gone, leaving a sweaty Steve smell behind him.
Martin gets himself a glass of water and sits down, watching me pack up the changing bag with nappies, wipes, water, spare clothes. He uses his stunning scientific mind, gathering hard evidence, to fathom what I am doing. ‘Are we taking her with us?’ He looks at his niece, sitting in her highchair, wearing her lunch of mashed banana.
‘Of course.’
‘In my car?’
‘Of course in your car. We’ve only got the Espace, remember? Steve’s going to need it.’
‘Can’t you leave her with Steve?’
‘No.’
‘He can give her a bottle, can’t he?’
‘No.’
Steve could give her a bottle. It’s about time he gave her a bottle. But I’ll decide when we give her a bottle. Not Martin. ‘Your precious leather seats can always be wiped clean, can’t they?’
He looks at my daughter, doubt all over his face, the way banana clings to hers. ‘Well, bring a towel then,’ he says, grudgingly. ‘A large absorbent one. I’ve only just had the Saab valeted.’
I resist the temptation to bash Martin repeatedly over the head with a Pot Noodle and concentrate on wiping down Imo as quickly as possible so we can get to see Dad. Poor Dad, down in Worthing all on his own. I wish Mum were here.
‘You might want to get changed, Victoria,’ he says, offhand as he heads for the back door for a quick smoke.
‘Why, what’s wrong with this?’ My Tesco’s economy jeans and old top might not be up to Claudia’s fashion standards but Steve’s not on plumbing wages anymore. Clothing is not a priority.
‘You look like you’re entering a wet tshirt competition,’ he says. ‘You’ve got two circles around your – ’
Martin doesn’t get the chance to describe the part of my anatomy that has the two wet circles, because a Pot Noodle leaves my hand and flies through the air, towards the back door – to the amazement of Imo – and whacks my venomous brother in the face, wiping away his snarl and squashing his words. Ha!
Chapter Ten
After the obligatory snail-crawl out of London, we eventually make it into fifth gear, once we get beyond Coulsdon. Martin makes the most of this, as if the very hounds of hell are on our tail. Or even the four horsemen of the Apocalypse. The A23 rushes beneath us and I’m grateful after all for the large absorbent towel on my lap. We don’t say much to each other; it’s difficult with Jazz FM coming at you from every angle.
