This Holey Life

by Sophie Duffy

  ‘Since when have you liked jazz?’

  ‘I’ve always liked jazz.’ Martin starts boopity-boopitying along to prove a point. Or to wind me up.

  At least the discordant notes have the benefit of lulling Imo off to sleep. I’d love to sleep but I can’t stop thinking about Dad, what sort of state we’re going to find him in. Plus I need to keep an eye on my brother. I need to imaginary-drive the car to prevent us from crashing.

  Finally, we cross the Downs and head along the A27. When we see the gothic Lancing College chapel, the end is near. Soon we are entering the windy flatness that is Worthing. We don’t even see the sea, the prom, the pier, or any of the town’s delights, as we have to get to Dad. I’m really worried now. Feel like spewing all over Martin’s highly-polished dashboard.

  I used to like hospitals. I liked the idea of people whose job it was to take care of you. Qualified people who’d trained and studied and taken exams and were putting their theories into practice. People who had a vocation, more than a job. Like Steve, I suppose. Would it be easier if Steve were a doctor? A doctor’s wife could have her own career without guilt or comment. She could spend her own money without accountability or tithing. She could run her own home without the fear of parishioners dropping round in need of offloading. She could enjoy a certain amount of anonymity.

  As we walk down the corridor, following signs for Dad’s ward, it comes back to me, the memory, hard and fast like August rain, the ground under my feet unable to take the deluge so that I have to stand still, breathe deep, stay close to the wall as the tide of people wash past me.

  The memory. The bunion operation. Mum in her tired old nightie with the button missing. I’d picked her some primroses, from the garden, and tied a ribbon round them. Dad bought her some juicy black grapes from the greengrocer’s. Martin got her a car magazine, from under his bed. She smiled when she saw us, a smile of relief, her family all together. If she could, she would have kept us like that, close, tied up with ribbon.

  It was a relief for us too. After the biscuit tins. There she was, in a scrubbed-down place, in her nightie, smiling at us. Alive.

  The matrons have been replaced with hand gel. I feel sick at the thought of Dad being vulnerable to superbugs and deadly infections, though he must have a tough immune system, living in the near-squalor that is the norm for him. It’s even worse since Mum died and it wasn’t exactly great before. Perhaps he can come back to Penge? We’d fit him in somehow. Martin will have to leave.

  Dad is propped up, looking odd in a single bed. And washed-out. But he’s alright, not nearly as bad as we thought. We can tell straightaway, by the way he nods at us, the reserved, no-nonsense half-smile. The way he slips back into being our dad.

  ‘Have a chair, Vicky-Love. The kids been running you ragged, have they?’

  ‘Hi, Dad,’ I kiss him on the cheek. Stubbly. The familiar smell of potting sheds overlaid with hospital.

  ‘Alright then, Martin?’

  They shake hands, awkwardly, and Martin takes the chair next to me, near Dad’s covered feet. He looks like he’d rather be on the operating table than about to embark on small talk duty.

  ‘How’s the wrist?’ Martin manages to ask.

  So we talk about the wrist. The X-rays. The break. The cast. The physio he’s going to need. It’s a relief. He’s alright. And at least while he’s here he’s had some decent meals inside him. And nurses to fuss around him. He’s like Martin in that way – commands the focus of a room. A hospital ward. There’s noise and comings and goings and colour and I imagine it’s difficult to feel lonely surrounded by all this. Though you can be surrounded by people and be lonelier than ever.

  ‘Grape, Vicky-Love? You’re looking peaky.’

  ‘No thanks, Dad. I’m fine. It’s you who’s looking peaky.’

  ‘I’m anaemic,’ Dad announces with pride, fiddling with the cuffs of his grubby pyjamas. ‘That’s why I got dizzy and fell over my spade. They’ve put me on iron tablets. Warned me I might get constipated. I’m already constipated. I’m all backed up so I can’t go. It’s hard enough in communal toilets as it is.’

  ‘The grapes should help with that, Dad. And drink plenty of water. Let me pour you some.’ I reach for the jug on the bedside cabinet, trying not to check for dust behind it whilst ignoring Martin’s sighs of discomfort. He hates all this talk of bodily functions. We’re in a hospital. What does he expect? Debate on Sharia law in Western society?

  ‘Little Imogen’s coming on nicely,’ Dad says, like she’s a ripening tomato in his greenhouse.

  I bob her up and down on my knee, good for the biceps, whilst stealing a glance at Martin, daring him to mention the breastfeeding. He won’t go there again. It makes him feel too queasy. ‘Grape, Martin?’ I ask him sweetly.

  He throws me a dirty filthy MRSA of a look. I pop a grape into my mouth, chewing it casually so he knows I don’t give a monkey’s.

  ‘And how are the other kiddies?’ Dad asks.

  I tell him about Olivia’s first day at playgroup. Hand over the collage she greeted me with when she came out at the end of this morning’s session.

  ‘That’s... er... nice and colourful,’ he says.

  ‘She got a bit carried away with the glue. But she wanted you to have it.’

  ‘Well, then, I’m honoured.’ He relinquishes it to the bedside cabinet, wiping his sticky hands across the hospital blanket. ‘And how about young Rachel?’

  ‘Young Rachel is growing up.’ I can’t help sighing when I hear myself say this.

  Dad chuckles. ‘You’ve got it all coming then.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The teenage years.’

  ‘I wasn’t that bad, was I?’

  Martin snorts.

  Dad chuckles some more.

  I bob Imo up and down slightly too hard and fast so that she starts grizzling. Martin, meanwhile, swipes Imo’s collage off the cabinet and examines it with the patronising, unattached demeanour of an art critic. ‘Are you sure you’ve looked into the educational provision at the playgroup? Are the leaders qualified?’

  ‘Yes, of course. They offer a broad curriculum. Lots of varied activities.’

  ‘So you think cutting and sticking from the Argos catalogue is going to spark Olivia’s creativity?’

  I snatch the picture back off him and examine it more closely. Under the lumps of glue I can see a montage of sovereign rings and camping equipment mixed in with Bratz dolls and dog baskets. But I won’t let him take the moral high ground. I know more about early years’ education than he ever will. ‘Cutting and sticking is excellent for developing her fine motor skills.’

  Martin ignores me, reads the Top Gear magazine he bought to go with my grapes. I can tell by the way he emits a dog-sigh every few seconds that he’s wondering why he missed the afternoon off work. He obviously believes I could have managed on my own, that reports on Dad’s fall have been greatly exaggerated. As if my maternity leave is not as important as his floundering career. Maybe he and Jeremy Clarkson were separated at birth... Before I can beat him about the head with his wretched magazine, a nurse in creaky Crocs joins our happy family group and takes Dad’s blood pressure. She should try taking mine.

  ‘What a bonny baby.’ She squishes one of Imo’s thighs. I wish people wouldn’t do that. ‘What have you been feeding her?’

  ‘Pot Noodles,’ Martin says, deadpan, sizing up the nurse’s vital statistics.

  Her eyes widen for a second then she notices Martin and goes all silly, tittering in that annoying way my school friends used to do whenever they encountered him. She finishes her job, still giggling, and then sashays off.

  ‘And how about Jeremy? You never told me about him. How’s my grandson?’ Dad blunders on.

  ‘He’s fine,’ says Martin. The liar.

  Dad doesn’t pursue this. Switches on Neighbours. Martin’s got away with it. And I’m finding it suffocating in here.

  ‘Actually Dad, we ought to be getting off now,’ I
start gathering my stuff together. ‘Leave you with your programme. I’ll try and get down at the weekend. It sounds like you’ll be home by then. I can get you some shopping. Make sure you’re settled back in alright.’

  ‘Can’t you stay a bit longer?’ He looks disappointed, older suddenly, vulnerable. Exactly what’s been worrying me: that he won’t be able to take care of himself.

  ‘Sorry, Dad. We’ve got to get back to the kids. It’s Jeremy’s first day at the new school.’

  ‘New school?’ He zaps off Neighbours and transfers his attention to Martin.

  Whoops.

  ‘Didn’t I mention that?’ Martin asks casually, studying a photo of a car even he will never be able to afford.

  ‘You mean he’s left Dulwich? Oh dear, I am sorry about that.’ Dad is on the verge of crying, which makes me feel weepy only I’m too angry for tears. Angry with my dumbo brother. So what do I do? I pat Dad’s hand.

  ‘I was so proud of my grandson going to Dulwich,’ he says, quietly.

  There’s a pause. No-one is quite sure how to respond to this. Imo lolls her head from side to side in her bucket, looking from face to face, wondering what’s going on. Then Dad pulls himself together, shuffling upright in bed, fixing Martin with his watery eyes before breaking the silence: ‘Has he been expelled?’

  ‘No, of course he hasn’t been expelled.’ Martin flaps the magazine shut. ‘Why would you think he’s been expelled?’

  ‘Well, you were nearly expelled that time. Or had you forgotten?’

  It’s funny, I had forgotten. But now it’s coming back to me: the fireworks, the park, the girls from the Grammar.

  ‘It wasn’t working.’ Martin tries to sound like this isn’t the big deal Dad’s making it out to be. ‘It wasn’t the best place for him. He was turning into a spoiled brat.’

  ‘I’m not sure you can blame that on the school,’ Dad says, watery eyes all dried up.

  Martin is bright red in the face. He’s the one who needs the blood pressure check now.

  Dad changes tack again, moves back from assertive to defenceless. ‘I thought you’d be able to stay until I had my tea. Can’t Claudia manage till you get back?’

  ‘Claudia’s in LA,’ Martin mumbles.

  ‘LA?’

  ‘Los Angeles.’

  ‘I know what LA stands for thank you, Vicky-Love. I was wondering why it is Martin hasn’t mentioned the fact his wife is in LA. Is she on holiday?’

  ‘She’s working.’ Martin says this under his breath, as if he’s swearing or talking about something embarrassing. Dad has never really understood that Claudia doesn’t just work for the money. That she needs to work the same way I need to clean and he needs to grow tomatoes.

  ‘Well, that’s a strange thing.’ Dad rubs his head, like he’s checking he’s still got some hair left. ‘Sending Jeremy to Rachel’s school. In Penge. And Claudia going to America. Is there anything else I should know?’

  Martin stares at me, willing me to keep my mouth shut. One looks says so much. Time to make myself scarce. ‘I’ll find somewhere quiet to feed Imo while you fill in Dad on what’s been happening.’ I plonk Imo in her bucket and bend down to Martin’s ear. ‘Otherwise,’ I whisper into it, ‘I will.’

  Martin staggers across the forecourt of the petrol station towards the car, loaded down with Coke, crisps, sweets and an air freshener. He chucks the junk food in my lap and proceeds to hang up the smelly-tree-thing from the mirror so his Saab looks like a minicab. And now the banana has finally worked its magic, it smells like a mini cab, after a long Saturday night.

  He leans across to retrieve some aftershave from the glove compartment. Squirts it all around so we can’t breathe at all. It’s a shame he doesn’t worry about the cleanliness of my house as much as he cares about the cleanliness of his car.

  ‘I thought aftershave aggravated your eczema?’

  ‘Jeremy gave it to me for father’s day. I couldn’t say anything. So I keep it in the car. For emergencies.’

  I’m not sure I can follow Martin’s logic. It’s been a long day. But it makes me think of Jeremy.

  ‘I hope he’s alright,’ I say.

  ‘So do I.’ Martin must be tired too. For a second there, he sounded like he cared.

  When we get home we walk into the front room to discover we were right to worry. Jeremy has been crying. There are scrunched-up damp tissues all over the new leather sofa, the TV has been muted and Steve looks exhausted, like he always does after a marathon counselling session, the twinkle absent from his eyes, his skin grey to match his hair. But it is Jeremy who is really suffering. Jeremy has had a horrible day, plunged in at the deep end of change. Too much change in one go. He is drowning.

  I gather up the tissues while Martin takes him into the back room in an attempt to get him to bed.

  Steve shrugs helplessly, lost for once, as we listen to our nephew cry. I wish I could hear what Martin has to say to his son but the only words I catch are ‘zed-bed’ and an adjective that isn’t suitable for ten-year-old ears.

  But that’s not all. Claudia has phoned and Jeremy has told her everything. She is catching the next flight home. This might work out after all.

  Thoughts for the Day: Why is Dad anaemic? Is there some underlying problem he has not told me about? What is the best way to clean a leather sofa?

  Chapter Eleven: Friday January 11th

  Claudia did not catch the next flight home. Instead I managed to speak to her and persuade her to finish the assignment. We’d sort things out at the weekend. Jeremy’s place at the prep school would still be there if he wanted to go back. Of course he’ll want to go back, she had said. He’ll never survive at that grotty school. At which point I felt myself bristling and sticking up for that grotty school which is good enough for my children and all the other children living down our street. I was beginning to feel some sympathy for Martin’s cause. Shock, horror.

  It was only when I put the phone down that I realised I could have let Claudia get on that plane and then Jeremy and his cello would have been out of my hair. Then it would only be Martin to get rid of.

  Olivia does not go to playgroup on a Friday. This is her favourite day. On a Friday she comes to St Hilda’s and helps me with the cleaning. Steve is working on this Sunday’s sermon at the kitchen table but he said he would keep an eye on Imo who is sound asleep in her cot. I make sure he can hear the baby monitor and tell him to bring her to the church if she wakes for milk.

  ‘She’ll be alright till you get back. You can normally do it in under two hours. Can’t you?’ He tries not to betray the anxiety I know he’s feeling at the prospect of lugging an inconsolable hungry baby down to the church. I know he thinks she’d be fine on the bottle but he wouldn’t tell me that. Unlike Martin.

  It’s peaceful kneeling in the nave, polishing the pew ends, the brass umbrella stands. The smell of Brasso. The ache of elbow grease. My middle daughter absorbed in wiping the floor grills with one of Steve’s old tshirts. I’ve missed her this week. She’s going out into the world. Rachel has already gone. The gap that’s been there for six years has suddenly got bigger. Blacker. He comes back to me. His small perfect face. I want to lie down on the cold stone floor and weep for him. But I can’t do that. I am still a mother. To the big girl at school. To the baby at home. To the little girl beside me who never even knew him though she has seen the photos. The handprints. The headstone in the churchyard. I reach for my hanky instead.

  ‘It’s dusty in here, isn’t it?’ Olivia is kneeling up, like a cherub, smiling at me in her simple way. ‘Not everybody cleans as good as you and me, do they Mummy?’

  ‘No, darling, they don’t all clean as well as us. You’re quite right.’ I take in her young, eager face. Her cheeks shiny from exertion. Her front tooth discoloured from an accident involving the pushchair and the front step. One day that tooth will wobble and fall out and be put to rest inside the matchbox, in the biscuit tin, in the wardrobe. She will grow up.

&nbs
p; ‘It’s all sparkly, Mummy, look,’ she indicates St Hilda’s with her little hand. She’d make a good estate agent. She’s good at spin.

  And actually it does look at its best. Light pushes its way in through the stained glass of St Hilda’s dress and spreads itself over the swept floor. The edge is rubbed off my grief and I can let myself feel the quiet contentment of a job well done. A moment shared with my daughter. This daughter, here and now.

  ‘Shall we go to the cake shop on the way home and get something for tea?’

  ‘I’d rather have a Pot Noodle, Mummy.’

  While I am slicing up the Madeira cake for Olivia and Imo, the front door bangs open and someone falls through it. Jeremy. He crashes his way down the hall to the kitchen, barges straight past me and the girls and is out the back door heading for the shed before I can ask how was school.

  Steve comes in a few seconds later, harassed, a grumpy Rachel in tow.

  ‘What’s up, Rach?’ I ask. ‘It’s Friday. You should be smiling.’

  ‘Smiling?’ she grunts, sending her bag skidding across the table so it knocks Olivia’s pencil pot over. ‘What’ve I got to smile about?’ Then she kicks off her shoes, one of them skimming the fluffy hair on Imo’s still-frighteningly fragile head.

  ‘Watchit, young lady,’ I say. ‘I think you’d better cool off in your room for a bit.’

  ‘My room?’ she huffs. ‘That’s a joke. How can it be my room when I have to share it with Little Miss Duster?’

  ‘Who’s Little Miss Duster?’ asks Olivia, busy collecting up her scattered pencils and rearranging them in the pot. ‘Is she coming to stay as well?’

  ‘Never mind, Olivia,’ says Steve. ‘It’s just Rachel trying to be funny. You get on with your colouring.’

  Olivia gets back to her book, a present from Amanda for starting playgroup. Scenes from the Bible. I’m not sure of the scriptural accuracy of a purple and pink striped ark but at least it’s keeping her amused. At least it’s not The Jeremy Kyle Show or QVC.