by Sophie Duffy
On the journey back, the children sleep, three girls in a row, three peas in a pod. A tug at my heart. A quickening in my stomach. Where has he gone?
Steve is silent, not so much concentrating on the roads, as on his sermon. I can see him preaching internally, tomorrow’s expressions already across his face. That leaves me with my own thoughts. So I turn them forwards, to the evening ahead: tea, chores, a bit of telly. A slushy film would be good; anything to stop me worrying about leaving Dad with that woman. Without me. Without Mum. Anything to stop me thinking about my baby boy. My Thomas.
Martin and Jeremy are playing chess at the kitchen table, listening to something classical when Steve and I struggle in with our three hungry, grumpy children.
‘How’s Dad?’ Martin swipes Jeremy’s bishop, not bothering to ask if we need a hand. A cup of tea. Anything. Though I think I can detect a note of interest in there somewhere despite the fact he doesn’t lift his eyes from the chequered board.
I tell him all about Dad, all about Pat, not sparing any detail, while I jig a grotty Imo up and down. She’s flushed and grabbing at her ear. Teething. Time for a feed and bed but Martin has other ideas.
‘I’ve booked a table at that dodgy-looking Italian round the corner,’ he says. ‘By way of a thank you for having us,’ he adds, so quietly that perhaps I’m imagining it.
‘You’re planning on leaving tomorrow as well then?’ I don’t bother keeping the surprise out of my voice.
‘Course,’ he says. ‘Why not?’ And he moves his queen with a flourish of his big fat hand, without noticing the quiver of his son’s lower lip. ‘Check mate.’
There’s no way Claudia’s going to take him back that easily. She’d be mad. Still, Martin’s blind faith means we have to forgo our usual Saturday night routine. I hope we don’t regret this. Sunday is Steve’s most important day – not that he doesn’t work hard every other day of the week, like people think. We all need an early night but I shouldn’t throw Martin’s offer back in his face. And, I have to say, a nice bowl of spaghetti would go down a treat. And a glass of Chianti. Maybe some garlic bread. We’ll have to skip pudding obviously; it’ll be way past the kids’ bedtime, which has already come and gone. Maybe they do take-out. If only Imo would stop crying. Where’s the Calpol? The Bonjela? The teething ring? Anything but my nipples? The prospect of teeth makes me want to cry too.
Imo doesn’t stop crying. We have to endure the noise throughout our starters. People are beginning to stare. The waiters – astonishingly stereotypical baby-loving Mafia types – keep coming up to her and patting her on the head which makes matters even worse. In the end it’s Martin that stops the crying. He takes a breadstick out of one of those plastic packets and says: ‘Here, Imogen, get your laughing gear around that.’ She looks at her uncle, quiet suddenly, shocked at being noticed by him. Then she reaches out her chubby little hand and grasps the breadstick. After a moment of examination she manages to aim the stick at her mouth. Then with an after-shudder, she begins to chew on it, grinding her gums, with a satisfied sigh.
We finish the rest of the meal with no crying. The children love their pizzas, my spaghetti is divine. A family meal out with no fuss from the children. It should be bliss. But there is a horrible taste in my mouth. Martin. What made him suddenly do that? He’s crap with babies. How come he’s the one that managed to stop her crying? I should love him for it. But I don’t – Martin yet again interfering. Yet again doing better than me.
Claudia has to take him back tomorrow.
Thoughts for the Day: Do not judge others. But how can a woman like Pat help Dad? How can a man like Martin know what’s best for my baby? Do moles blink?
Chapter Thirteen: Sunday January 13th
Jessica Talbot, Rachel’s best friend and the girl next door, must reciprocate Jeremy’s feelings. Why else would she follow us to church? Jessica Talbot never comes to church, being scathing of anything that doesn’t involve football. She only ever enters St Hilda’s for the school Christmas concert, despite me often asking her on a Sunday morning, hoping Rachel might think church cool if Jessica Talbot wanted to come along too. Of course whenever I mention church to any of Rachel’s friends she gets the hump. And I understand. It’s embarrassing for her. If Steve had always been a vicar it might be easier. But Rachel can clearly remember the day, way back in Year Two, when Steve met her at the classroom door at the end of the day and was collared by Mrs Hughes.
Could you take a look at my boiler? she asked. The pilot light keeps going out.
And Steve, who would normally have fit her in, being well-acquainted with the lot of a teacher, said: I’m sorry, Mrs Hughes but I’m not a plumber anymore.
Have you been struck off or something? she half-joked.
No, he said. The Corgi inspector has always been happy with my work.
So why the change?
I’m training to be a curate. I’ve got a calling. And Steve scribbled out a name and number, a bloke he knew from a City and Guild’s course. (Craig was doing well out of Steve’s calling.) He’ll look after your boiler. But if you want help with your soul, then I’m your man.
Mrs Hughes didn’t look so sure. Rachel was left feeling subdued. Her dad had always come to her rescue. Now it was less certain what he actually did. It was that hazy area of God where people blushed or coughed or sometimes got inexplicably angry at the mention of His name. Mrs Hughes blushed and coughed but thankfully didn’t get angry as that would have been unprofessional.
So yes, I do sympathise with Rachel. To have to admit to your friends, to every adult that ever asks you, that your dad’s ‘got God’ and that you’re expected to go to church every Sunday – not just to get into the school – can create a few problems. Rachel still maintains it caused less of a stir when Jessica’s dad, Bob next door, found a Thai bride on the internet.
The Thai bride is actually a big improvement on the first Mrs Talbot, who went to Lanzarote for a friend’s hen do and did a Shirley Valentine. She sent for her stuff – her clothes, shoes, handbags, make-up – but not for her daughter, believing dubiously that she’d be better off with Bob.
Tamarine, the Thai bride, is not as young as the stereotype would suggest. She knows exactly what she is doing, has the measure of Bob and seems to enjoy being his wife. He must have hidden talents. Very well hidden talents. Tamarine’s talents are more obvious. She keeps the house clean and even sweeps the street outside which is something you don’t see these days. And the smell of cooking that finds its way into our house is quite enticing. I would say Bob Talbot has landed on his feet. As has Jessica, who now has clean clothes and help with her homework.
Tamarine told me that although she herself is a Buddhist, her country is tolerant of other religions and therefore she would be happy for Jessica to come to our church anytime. Bob would be happy for Jessica to be anywhere other than in his back garden kicking a ball against the house.
So this week, during the embarrassing song, Jessica, in her Crystal Palace away kit, joins in with the actions. ‘This is cool,’ I hear her mutter to Rachel and Jeremy. ‘Normally Sundays are sooo boring. I have to wait for Dad and Tamarine to get up and then we like go shopping.’
‘We don’t go shopping on a Sunday,’ sparks up Olivia. ‘Unless we run out of milk.’
‘Lucky you,’ says Jessica.
Olivia beams, Jeremy drools, and Rachel tries not to smile at the triumph of bringing a friend into her world and it not backfiring.
And there is Steve, up at the front, singing along to ‘Shine, Jesus, shine’ and I envy him. For his lack of worrying. He says there’s no point in worrying. Worrying changes nothing. Only hope can do that. And faith. And love. But most of all love.
But it’s alright for Steve. Steve has thick skin and inner strength, a tough combination to crack. I, on the other hand, am like an egg. Knock me and I am likely to end up all over the floor, broken, in a hideous mess.
After the usual – 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 – Steve and I are alone again in the kitchen. He used to catch up on the odd jobs. I used to do my preparation. Schemes of work and lesson plans. Not anymore.
The doorbell goes. Claudia. Steve looks at me and I’m pretty sure I catch a hint of worry as he gets up to answer. I check my list. Jeremy’s clothes are washed, ironed and packed, waiting in the hall along with his cello (hallelujah!).
‘Darling!’
I get to the hall in time to see Claudia embracing her son. He lets his mother kiss him, both of them slightly awkward, but there is relief there too. Things may finally be getting back to normal. Normal? Can I let myself dare to hope Martin may be welcomed back home?
Martin appears out of the shadows and smiles feebly at his wife.
‘Oh, hello,’ she says, as if she’d forgotten he’d be here which of course she hasn’t, because I can see she has put on her going-out face. Cover-girl eyes and killer-red lips.
‘Good trip?’ he asks, impersonating someone who cares about his wife’s career. But I can tell he’s taking her in. The new shoes, the power suit. The just-stepped-out-of-a-salon hair.
‘Very profitable yes, thank you.’ Claudia has morphed into another woman. A woman of power and strength and even more drop-dead beauty than before, all fired up, hurrying Jeremy along. ‘Must get going. Cab’s waiting.’
Martin follows his family outside, hands in pockets in forced nonchalance but he’s fooling no-one. We troop after my brother, standing in a huddle as he watches – a pained expression on his bearded face – the cabbie wedge the very expensive cello into the boot of a battered Astra. ‘Where’s the car?’ Martin asks his wife.
‘I was too tired to drive.’
‘It is safe around here you know. My Saab’s still got all four tyres.’
‘Of course.’ She looks unconvinced, horrified in fact, her power and strength evaporating in the toxic Penge air. As if our street was in Kabul or somewhere. She’s probably wearing a bullet-proof vest under her Karen Millen suit.
‘I could’ve dropped him back if you were worried, I mean tired,’ Martin goes on.
‘And let you worm your way back in?’
‘Would I have succeeded?’
‘I wasn’t prepared to risk it.’
‘So there’s a chance then?’
‘Don’t sound desperate, Martin. It doesn’t suit you.’ Claudia turns away from him and focuses her attention back on her son. ‘Jeremy, say goodbye to your father.’
‘Can’t he come too?’ Jeremy begs, as if Martin’s a Labrador.
‘You can see him during the week,’ she says, fastidiously ignoring the Labrador who’s begging for crumbs. Any crumbs. ‘Wednesday would be good. I’ve got a late meeting in town. He can pick you up from school. Dulwich, that is. It’s all sorted out. I cleared up the confusion with them today.’
Then, before anyone can answer this, she flips her attention to me. ‘Thanks Vicky. You’ve been an angel.’
You don’t know the half of it, I want to say but I am trying to be gracious.
‘And thanks Steve. You really are a holy man,’ she kisses him. He blushes.
And suddenly we are watching the cab retreat down the street, a dirty emission pluming out of the exhaust, which appears to be held in place with masking tape. Martin is watching his family leave him behind. For a moment he looks on the verge of crying like a baby. But then he turns away and goes inside, telling me to get a life. Me? What a cheek! I have a life. Maybe not the one I was expecting but it looks a darn sight more appealing than his right now.
The evening is very, very quiet. The house quieter still. Even Martin can’t fill it with his noise. He has shut himself in the back room. He’ll be grateful for that zed-bed, you mark my words. Meanwhile I’m grateful for our marriage bed with the clean sheets. For the chirpy snoring so close to my ear. I’m grateful that we’ve stuck with it, me and Steve, even though we’re different people to the ones who stood in Lewisham register office, pledging our troths. Even though there have been times – bad times, serious times – when I’ve wanted to go out into the garden, walk across those stepping stones, climb over the fence and up onto the railway cutting and hurl myself under the 10.26 to London Bridge.
Marriage. That’s one thing I’ll do better at than Martin. Ha!
Thoughts for the Day: Why aren’t I the sort of woman who makes men blush?
Chapter Fourteen: Monday January 14th
Steve has encouraged me to take Imo to the parent and toddler group at St Hilda’s this afternoon. Olivia has already been to pre-school there this morning and has the collage of Katie Price and Peter Andre to prove it. I don’t really want to go back but Steve said it would do me good, as if I’m ill or something.
Olivia, the big girl for once, has a congregation of smaller children about her, while Imo, still trying to roll over, has managed to wedge herself under the baby gym. As I am prising her free, a familiar voice assaults me.
‘Vicky! How lovely to see you.’ It’s Amanda, swooping down on us, scarves swishing, beads jangling. ‘I was wondering when you’d make it down here to see us with your tots.’ She looks at my tots, one with her entourage, the other with her Beryl Cook thighs. ‘I hear Olivia is establishing herself at playgroup.’
‘She seems to have found her feet,’ I say, cagily.
We look at Olivia’s feet, encased in her plastic Cinderella shoes. She has now seated a group of toddlers on a mat and is reading Where’s Spot? to them in a sing-song teacher voice, slapping their wrists if they try and lift the flaps.
‘She can certainly command an audience,’ Amanda observes. ‘Following in her father’s footsteps.’
I get a picture – a vision – of Olivia as a grown woman, in a dog collar, standing in the pulpit, delivering a sermon on tidiness. Even Jesus folded his grave clothes before leaving the tomb, I hear her say. And the angels who attended him were shining white.
‘Vicky? Are you alright, dear? You look a little peaky.’
Maybe anaemia’s catching. Maybe I need a stint in hospital, being looked after, being cared for. Three meals a day. But no. I’d never sleep. Not in the knowledge there were deadly germs all around me, waiting to pounce.
‘You need a pick-me-up,’ Amanda proffers a plate of Rich Tea.
‘I need a double gin and tonic.’
Amanda laughs, worried.
‘But I’ll make do with a biscuit and cup of tea.’
‘You must come for lunch soon. And bring that clever brother of yours,’ Amanda blushes.
I need that G and T now.
On the way home we collect a subdued Rachel from school.
‘Can we go to the sweet shop?’ she asks, a long shot.
‘No, it’s not Friday. But there’s some delicious homemade shortbread from Mrs Gantry. You could have one with a glass of milk.
‘Alright,’ she says, no fuss.
‘Are you okay, Rach?’ She normally puts up more of a fight. ‘Bad day at school?’
‘Yes. No. It’s just sort of like, weird, without Jeremy. I kind of got used to having him around and stuff.’
‘We all did, darling. But you can see him soon. Wednesday probably. I expect Uncle Martin will bring him back here after school.’
‘It’s not the same, though, is it?’
‘No, Rach. Things change. It’s just part of life.’
She winces and my stomach pulls. It’s a hard lesson to learn but an important one. You go along in life and you get used to it, the way things are, day by day. And then gradually, little by little, bit by bit, things change and it’s only when you look back that you see those changes. Like your hair growing. One day you step out of a salon, all sleek and groomed and coloured and you manage to keep it up, the sleekness, the grooming, the colour, and then one day you look in the mirror and your hair has got away from you. It is a wiry, straggly mess (actually, bad analogy; my hair’s always like that). But sometimes
change comes more quickly. Unexpected and out of the blue. One day something happens and your life changes forever.
Rachel slips her hand in mine. For a second. Long enough to get my attention. ‘Can I have Nesquik in my milk?’ she asks.
Steve is out. Another meeting. Martin and I are in the kitchen. He is battering his laptop with his fat fingers. I am ironing cassocks. If I could have prophesied this as a young woman at college...
‘I miss him,’ Martin cuts into my reverie. I almost scald myself on a jet of steam I am so taken aback by this revelation. Not just that he misses his son but that he should confess this human frailty to me. Wise words are needed.
I breathe deep, move the iron back and forth. ‘Well... maybe you needed this to happen so you could get to know him.’
Martin stares at me, deadpan. I’m not sure if he has heard me or if he is even aware I have spoken. But then I notice his fat fingers twitching on my table, like the hairy fat legs of a tarantula, and it dawns on me that he is angry.
‘What?’ he says, almost spitting at me. ‘Maybe I needed to be turfed out and move in here?’ He shoots a venomous look at his surroundings. At my MFI sale kitchen fitted by my husband who could turn his hand to anything, whose wife never in a squillion years thought this would extend to weddings and funerals. ‘High life living in Penge?’ My brother pronounces the ‘P’ explosively.
‘Oh, shut up, Martin.’ One squirt of steam in the eyes and he’d be sorry.
He abandons his laptop, standing up and throwing back his chair in a way my floor will not appreciate. Then he announces that he’s going to the pub. ‘Don’t blame me if I get very drunk,’ he says, petulant, harvesting a wad of notes from his wallet and stuffing them in his back pocket as he heads out the door.
‘No, of course I won’t, Martin. Cos you getting drunk would be my fault, wouldn’t it?... Martin... I said, “Wouldn’t it’?”’
My question lingers in a swirl of steam. I am speaking words to empty space. He has gone. And I am left alone with a half-ironed cassock and a bad mood.
