This Holey Life

by Sophie Duffy

  Meanwhile, Rachel spies the cake. ‘Can I have a piece?’ she asks, tentative, mellowing.

  I know what Steve would say. Steve would say, ‘Stick to your guns and send her to her room. Now is not the time for cake.’ But I beat him to it, in a shiny-shoes moment. ‘Alright, but you’d better wash your hands. They look like they’ve been dipped in oil.’

  ‘Great,’ she says, which is such a positive word I want to hug her. But I have to catch her off-guard for a hug these days.

  ‘Do I get cake as well?’ Steve asks.

  ‘Of course,’ I smile sweetly before adding: ‘If you don’t mind putting on more weight.’

  He looks at me, looks at his stomach – the one that used to be taut and lean and lovely. ‘Best not then,’ he sighs. ‘I’ve got to get round to Desmond’s anyway. There’s an Alpha meeting.’

  ‘And what about Jeremy? What was all the sulking for?’

  ‘Apparently he fancies Jessica Talbot. Rachel told him he was embarrassing.’

  ‘Fancying? At his age?’

  Steve shrugs his shoulders as if it’s quite normal. The only person I fancied at that age was Starsky. And he wasn’t real.

  I’m trying to put my thoughts into words but I’m not quick enough. Steve has kissed Olivia and Imo and dashed off again. Another call-out. Around the clock. Only he can’t charge extra these days. He does it for a pittance. He does it for love.

  Back in the shed, Jeremy is scoffing a packet of Monster Munch. He has rigged up some Christmas lights that he must have swiped before I put the decorations back up in the loft, tidied away alongside the plumbing manuals and teaching resources.

  ‘You’ve got it all nice in here,’ I say, bright and breezy.

  ‘I’ve got to have somewhere of my own.’

  ‘Of course you do. It must be hard camping out on the zed-bed. You must miss your bedroom.’

  ‘I miss my mum.’ He sounds younger than Olivia when he says this. And I’m so angry with Martin and Claudia for doing this to their child. Their son.

  ‘Oh, Jeremy. She’ll be back in a couple of days.’

  ‘I want to go home now.’ Tears slide down his cheeks – cheeks like Imo’s, hamster-like – and I want to hug him too but I’ve never done that before. He’s never been a huggable boy. At least Rachel was huggable when she was little and still is, in weak moments. Martin and Claudia should have spent more time with him. Nurtured him. Hugged him. And I feel bad, guilty, that I can’t just do it for them. I pat his hand instead. I even manage to leave my hand on top of his for a bit without too much awkwardness. He is my nephew after all. But I can’t shake away the knowledge that he is Martin’s son. I have never hugged Martin in my life.

  ‘Come back in the house when you’re ready. There’s cake.’

  ‘Could you bring me out a piece, Auntie Vicky?’

  I am about to tell him to come and get it himself when I stop. The least I can do is bring the poor boy a piece of cake.

  But I’m not happy about the situation. I shall have strong words with Martin tonight. He must take Jeremy back to his mother on her return on Sunday. And as for Martin, he’s going to have to make it up to Claudia or find somewhere else to live. Ha!

  Several hours later, when the kids are fed and bathed and pyjamaed and absorbed in Coronation Street, Martin finally returns home. He enters the living room with a banana box full of papers and his laptop, which he dumps in the middle of the room, the children moaning at him to move away from the telly. I’m not going to ask him what’s taken him so long, or what the papers are for.

  ‘Research,’ he says, anyway, moving reluctantly to one side. As if I care about his research. He thinks he’s someone important. We’re all someone important according to Steve. Each one of us unique and special to God. I don’t feel particularly special or unique with tea tree hairspray in one hand and a nit comb in the other, knowing there are mothers all over South London in a very similar position.

  ‘Have you got nits, Vicky-Love?’

  ‘No-one has in this house, I make sure of that... though I haven’t checked your fine head of hair. Or that beard.’

  Martin starts scratching his head. Then, realising what he’s doing, he stoops to pick up his ‘research’ and crashes out of the room. I listen to him pinball down the hall to the kitchen, to the echo of his loaded box as he dumps it on the kitchen table, recently cleared and wiped down ready for breakfast tomorrow. Then the fridge door. The familiar clank and fizz that announces Martin’s return home. Martin making himself at home. My home.

  I need to talk to him.

  But first Imo needs her bedtime feed. She’s holding up her Popeye arms to me from her place on Rachel’s lap and grizzling in that way of hers that I can’t ignore. I wish Steve were here to help out but he’s got a confirmation class.

  ‘Rach, can you keep an eye on Olivia, while I sort out the baby?’

  Rachel nods, happy to get her lap back.

  Jeremy sings along to the adverts.

  Olivia says: ‘I don’t need looking after, Mummy. I’m three-years-old and I go to school now.’

  ‘No, Olivia, you go to pre-school,’ says Rachel.

  Olivia starts to cry. Then so does Imo. I have to choose Imo. I know how to stop her crying. Olivia will pull herself together in a minute. Once Coronation Street comes back on.

  Half an hour later and there are no children crying. The two little ones are tucked up in bed; the two bigger ones lost in the next instalment of Coronation Street. I can tackle Martin with strong words.

  Martin is drinking beer at the kitchen table, reading through a sheaf of paper, randomly highlighting stuff, in an irritatingly intense fashion. He ignores me as I set up the ironing board. Ironing will help me focus and avoid eye contact with him.

  ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘Do we?’

  ‘Yes, Martin.’

  ‘Do we have to do it now? I’m rather busy.’

  ‘Busy? You don’t know the meaning of the word busy.’ I grab an item of clothing from the washing basket to illustrate my point.

  He puts down his pen and scrutinises me the way he must do his students. Professor Martin Bumface. ‘Well, of course I’m not as busy as you, Vicky-Love. Everyone knows you epitomise Busy,’ he smirks at this little gem of his, ‘but have you ever thought that you might be able to organise things slightly better? Rope in some of those parishioners?’

  ‘To look after your child?’

  He doesn’t reply to this, considering his comeback, unless he’s actually listening to me for once. Either way, we’re both silent as he gets up to help himself to another beer from my fridge. He doesn’t offer me anything, just leans against the fridge door, knocking off a collection of magnets and pictures, and cracks open the can. (Cans, Vicky-Love? Haven’t bottled beers made it to Penge?)

  I carry on, forcing myself to ignore the mess he’s created on my floor, tackling the mountainous pile of Daz-white clothes (though not as Daz-white as I would like, seeing as Martin has forbade me to use biological washing powder which aggravates his eczema).

  ‘Are you worried about Dad?’ he asks eventually. ‘Is that what this is all about?’

  ‘Of course I’m worried about Dad, Martin, but that’s not what this is all about, no. It’s – ’

  ‘Olivia starting playgroup? The works of art?’ He looks at his feet, at the latest collage. ‘I suppose you’ve examined this one?’

  ‘No. It’s – ’ Actually I haven’t.

  He plucks it off the floor and hands it over.

  It’s crinkled with dried glue and half of last week’s Heat magazine. Some celebrity is pregnant again. ‘Who on earth are these people?’

  ‘I have no idea. But I know a woman who does.’ He takes a double slug of beer and a wave of sadness washes away his haughtiness. He slumps back down on his chair at the kitchen table, head in his hands. He starts scratching.

  ‘Nits?’ I ask sweetly.

  ‘Eczema,’ he snaps. A drift of de
ad skin flutters towards the table. My table.

  Eczema. How many times have I heard that excuse over the years. Martin can’t do the washing-up, Vicky-Love. You know how it gets him all itchy. Run down the chemists, Vicky would you and pick up Martin’s prescription. He’s all agitated, poor lamb. I’ve always resented him for it. Thought it was all one big con but looking at him now I can see the patches on the back of his hands. Cracks across his knuckles. Dried blood. I hadn’t noticed. I try to quash a feeling of guilt. I haven’t got enough energy to spend any on him.

  ‘She’s back on Sunday.’ I hear a note of sympathy in my voice. ‘Maybe you’ll be able to sort things out then.’

  So much for strong words. I pick up the iron again. The backwards and forwards motion is soothing.

  ‘So what was it you wanted to talk about?’

  ‘Oh... nothing. Except... well, do you think we should get rid of the TV?’

  ‘The TV?’ He’s thrown for a moment. Then he ponders my suggestion. ‘Are you that brave?’

  ‘No, I’m not that brave.’

  ‘And one more thing, Victoria.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Isn’t that beyond the call of duty?’ He points at the object in my hands, ironed to perfection.

  And I realise with horror that I am holding his underpants.

  Thoughts for the Day: Why didn’t I just throw the nit comb at him and be done with it?

  January 28th 1978

  Mr Harris doesn’t like me because I am Martin’s sister. It is so unfair. He always says, ‘Victoria Wright. Don’t think you can get away with it like your brother.’

  Mr Harris likes Alice. Alice is my best friend. She has a private tutor because her parents think education is really important. My parents think gardening is really important. Dad always wanted to be a gardener ever since he was taken to Kew Gardens as a little boy by his grandmother. So that’s what he does. That’s what he is. A gardener. He would have liked to be a gardener at Kew but actually he only does the gardens of Catford. Though he has a couple of big gardens out in Kent. He takes Mum along to help with those ones. She loves gardening as much as he does. Only Mum doesn’t get paid for it. Dad just buys her a fish and chip lunch. She spends all her time out in our garden when she’s not helping Dad. When she should be cleaning the kitchen floor.

  Alice’s mum has a cleaner. Alice’s mum does the ironing. Alice’s dad washes his car on a Saturday morning. Alice will go to a good school. I will go to the dump.

  Chapter Twelve: Saturday January 12th

  Steve’s day off and we are spending it in Worthing. Steve, Rachel and Imo are settled with Dad watching the final scores while Olivia and I are upstairs in Dad’s bedroom. She is dusting Mum’s knick-knacks on the dressing table and windowsill while I sort through Dad’s smalls. There’s no way I’m ironing these. Too much even for me. Still, it’s satisfying putting things in order. I miss Mum but if she were here I’d be forbidden to help out. We like things how they are, dear. Stop fussing.

  Olivia, job done, sits tidily on the bed and watches me folding and smoothing. ‘Are you going to die, Mummy?’ she asks cheerfully.

  ‘Oh... well... not for a long time, darling, don’t worry.’ Though as each day goes by with Martin in my house, a year is most probably slashed off my life expectancy.

  ‘Good,’ she says. ‘Cos I don’t think I could do all this on my own.’ She surveys the room, shaking her head at Granddad’s mess.

  Suddenly the room is depressing. All Mum’s trinkets untouched since she died. The Isle of Wight sand layered in a glass tube. The china pomander that still smells of old rose petals. A three legged china cat. A brass lady that doubles up as a bell. All these knick-knacks that I used to play with when I was little, that Olivia has spent the last thirty minutes playing with as she dusts. It’s like Mum’s still here, stuck in the cupboard or hiding under the bed. Until now, Dad has forbidden me from coming in here too. But he didn’t bother arguing today. Now he’s less mobile he can’t exactly chase me up the stairs. Why they didn’t buy a bungalow when they moved down here is anyone’s guess. There’s plenty to choose from. But they went for a terrace house almost identical to the one they left.

  All the bungalows are out of town. We want to be nearer the centre of things, Dad insisted.

  So why leave London?

  London hasn’t got the sea.

  It’s got the Thames.

  Now you’re just being daft, Vicky-Love.

  Mum didn’t have much to say on the subject. It’s nice and flat, was all she could come up with. Poor Mum. So flat they couldn’t even see the sea from their house despite being only a couple of streets away from the prom.

  I look at Olivia, searching for my mum in her. All that shared DNA. I wish they could have shared some time together. Time is what matters.

  ‘Let’s go and get a drink, darling. This is thirsty work.’

  Olivia nods and reaches for my hand. We go down the narrow staircase, flicking on lights as no-one has bothered downstairs. They are all in the lounge, sitting in the gloom, the hushed stillness of 4.45. I switch on the overhead light and they turn to me, blinking like moles.

  ‘I’ve put clean sheets on your bed, Dad,’ I announce.

  ‘Ssh,’ he says, the Millwall score not in yet.

  I go on, regardless. ‘And Olivia’s cleaned the bath. But you ought to consider putting in one of those walk-in showers. I don’t want you slipping and breaking something else.’

  ‘Ssshh,’ more aggressive this time.

  ‘Yeah, ssshh,’ Rachel adds her two-penn’orth, bolstered by her position, between father and grandfather on the sofa.

  ‘Yeeess!!’ Dad’s suddenly on his feet but has to flop straight back down, his weakness taking him by surprise. A cloud of dust billows out of the sofa on impact.

  ‘Dad, honestly. Be careful.’

  ‘Stop fussing,’ he says, swiping his hand at me. ‘I’m fine.’

  Steve can see I’m almost hyperventilating so he suggests I sit down with them. I avoid the dustbowl of the sofa and choose the least mucky chair, near Imo who is prostrate on her blanket, shielded from the tacky carpet.

  Finally, the football over, Dad turns his attention to me. ‘I like that bath,’ he says. ‘There’s nothing wrong with it.’

  So he was listening.

  ‘It’s very deep, Dad. And it doesn’t even have handrails. I don’t know how you manage.’

  Well, I do know. Dad doesn’t exactly bathe regularly. He’s been using the bath for propagating his seeds judging by the amount of soil Olivia had to sweep out of it.

  ‘And where’s our Jeremy today?’ Dad deftly changes the subject.

  ‘With Martin.’

  ‘Not Claudia?’

  ‘She’s not home till tomorrow.’

  ‘And will they move back in with her?’

  ‘I hope so. Believe me, Dad, I hope so.’

  ‘Been getting on your nerves has he, your brother?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  Dad chuckles and it’s so nice to hear him laugh that I join in though it’s not at all funny.

  ‘Shall I send Steve to the fish and chip shop for tea?’

  ‘Oh you don’t need to worry about me, Vicky-Love. I’m alright. You gave me a grand lunch. A whole field of broccoli.’

  ‘But you need to eat a proper tea as well. You’re anaemic.’

  ‘That’s all in hand.’

  At that moment the doorbell rings. Steve gets up to answer it. I’m still looking at Dad, wondering what’s going on, why he’s blushing the colour of one of his ripened tomatoes, when in walks a woman. A woman of a certain age. Older than me but quite, quite younger than Dad.

  ‘This is Pat,’ he says. ‘We met through the library.’

  Pat doesn’t look like the sort of woman you’d meet through the library. She looks like the sort of woman you’d be accosted by down a dark alley. She has a tattoo. And an ankle bracelet. And her skirt’s just a bit – well, a
lot – on the short side. No wonder Dad is blushing. And to think of the fuss he kicked up when I got my ears pierced aged sixteen.

  ‘I answered her advert.’

  This gets worse.

  ‘She wanted to meet you so I said she should pop over. She’s my home help.’

  Home help. Good. That’s good. She might not exactly look like a home help but you shouldn’t judge by appearances. And Dad’s home needs all the help it can get.

  ‘I’ve brought you some liquorice, Jim. Thought it might get things moving.’ She hands Dad a paper bag with black sticks poking out the top. ‘Get your laughing gear around that.’

  ‘Ta very much, Pat,’ says Dad. ‘Sit yourself down.’

  Pat sits herself down on the pouffe. ‘What a bonny baby,’ she says. ‘May I?’ And she hefts Imo off her blanket on the floor where she has been trying, unsuccessfully, to roll over. While she does This Little Piggy, Olivia squats down next to Pat, mesmerised by her stilettos. Pat kicks them off. ‘You want to try them on?’

  Despite the dubious appearance of Pat, Olivia tries them on and struts up and down the room like she’s at an American beauty pageant.

  Even Rachel is transfixed. ‘What’s that picture on your arm?’

  ‘Oh, that old thing.’ Pat pushes up her sleeve for a clearer inspection; a dolphin, caught in a net of sun-damaged skin. ‘I got it done when I was a young girl. Had a bit too much to drink,’ she shrieks with guttural laughter.

  ‘When I have too much to drink I wet myself,’ Olivia announces once the laughter has subsided. ‘It’s ’gusting. It goes all cold down my leg and into my shoes. But I don’t do that anymore. I am three-years-old and I go to school.’

  ‘Pre-school,’ Rachel corrects.

  ‘Come on, girls,’ Steve cajoles, jumping up, all jolly, clapping his hands like a mad vicar. ‘How about a five-minute run around the garden before we get back in the car?’

  ‘Mind the beds,’ Dad shouts after them.

  Yes, the beds. The beautiful flowerbeds. Not a weed in the garden but dirty dishes in the sink and scum in the bath. That’s the way it’s always been. And I can’t see things improving with the addition of Pat. Not with those nails.