This Holey Life

by Sophie Duffy

  So, what party food for a girl who’s eleven, still a child but on the cusp of adolescence (though actually, Rachel’s been poised right there since she was able to talk)?

  Last year, for Rach’s birthday, we used the church hall. We hired a clown who juggled with knives whilst standing on a plank rolling back and forth over two barrels. The kids screamed with excitement and begged him for more. Last year there were boys and girls who jumped up and down to music and we had sandwiches and crisps and fairy cakes and all the usual party food.

  Rachel doesn’t want any of that this year. I’m too old for jelly and ice cream, she said when I suggested a repeat performance. But you love jelly and ice cream, I replied, pathetically. But I knew what she was saying. She’s moved up a party level. This year it’s a few select friends for a sleepover. I preferred it when it was all over and done within two and half hours. And not in my house. And now I have to put up with Jessica Talbot overnight. Bob was delighted when he saw the invite. Great, he said. I’ll take Tamarine for a night out. Poor Tamarine. I hope she likes Status Quo tribute bands.

  Is this the time to move from triangle sandwiches to slices of pizza? Is Rachel really that age? I can’t believe that in September she’ll be at secondary school. She’ll look tiny again and I’ll want to protect her, to change her back into the baby she was a decade ago, when television quotas and Pot Noodles were not on the agenda. I want her to be small and warm and attached to me the way Imo is. The way Thomas was.

  I remember the last evening I held him. It was summertime. A Friday. There were peaches in the greengrocer’s and Rachel had one for tea and got juice everywhere and Steve cleaned her off in the paddling pool when he’d got in from a job in Bromley. She was allowed to stay up and watch Wimbledon with him. A Henman semi-final. Come on, Tim, she’d shout, though she didn’t know why she was shouting except that was what her daddy was doing. I left them together to go and bathe him upstairs. It was still warm and the sash window was open at the top so we could hear the 19.49 to London Bridge as he splashed about trying to catch water in his little hands. Hands that were just beginning to reach out. Then I scooped him up and wrapped him in his towel with the hood and when he was dry I smothered him in cream before putting him in a white cotton babygrow. I think he had Martin’s skin. Sensitive and a bit blotchy. I thought I’d take him to see the health visitor who is good at eczema, much better than the doctor who sees you as a fussy mother. I sat in the chair with him up in the box room. His room. The nursery which was still pink as we hadn’t got round to changing the colour. We listened to a blackbird in the old cherry tree in the garden and the occasional shout from downstairs and the sound of mass clapping reaching up to us. Henmania. I sat with him in my arms in the box room, the evening sun all soft and apricot above the railway line, feeling him quietly drop off to sleep, and thought of all these little joys and snippets of life, enjoying our time together, knowing these moments were precious. But I didn’t know then how precious that particular moment would become.

  ‘Vicky, isn’t it?’

  I hear a voice from somewhere, muffled and distorted like I’m underwater.

  It’s her. Natasha’s mother. The young Polish woman.

  ‘My name is Karolina. Our children go to the playgroup together.’ Her English is far better than Shelley would have me believe. She rummages in her bag and pulls out a tissue. ‘You are crying,’ she says, as if I didn’t know this. Actually I didn’t know this. But she is right. I am crying. ‘Do you want coffee? They have restaurant.’

  ‘But my shopping... ’

  ‘Your trolley is empty.’

  ‘What about yours?’

  ‘There is nothing freezing.’

  Even through my tears and embarrassment I manage to be impressed that she is not the sort of mother to buy frozen dinners.

  I follow her to a table and we sit down, a little awkward.

  ‘Tea or coffee?’ she asks. I reach into my bag for my purse but Karolina shakes her head, and says she invited me, she will pay.

  ‘Thank you. I’ll have tea, please.’

  ‘Of course,’she says and queues up, leaving me contemplating why I am sat here instead of shopping and wondering why the hell I am feeling so foolish. For crying in Sainsbury’s? Or for crying in front of someone I felt pity for only a short time ago?

  When she returns I manage to smile and say thank you, I’m not normally like this. Then I tell her I’m a bit tired. A bit stressed. I tell her about the prospect of the forthcoming sleepover.

  She looks blank, takes a slug of her cappuccino, confirming my foolishness. She thinks I am stressed over a sleepover. She thinks I am a silly, trivial woman. A neurotic mother, that all I have on my plate is the usual mundane day-to-day stuff, not the stuff of Shakespearean tragedy.

  She has no idea.

  After I have drained my tea I thank her politely, saying I have to get going.

  ‘Good luck,’ she says. And I must look confused or worried so she adds: ‘With the sleepover.’ Then she smiles. But there is something not quite right with the smile. It is trying too hard.

  Jessica Talbot is wearing a skirt. I have never seen Jessica Talbot in a skirt. Admittedly this one is a bit on the short side, revealing rather too much of her muscular footballer thighs, but at least she has made the effort like Bob is always nagging her to. I think Tamarine must have taken her shopping because it is the sort of skirt she favours. But then Tamarine has lovely legs. Bob is always ogling them, even after a couple of years he hasn’t got bored.

  The other girls who have been picked to come to Rachel’s sleepover are from her class. Three girls who are all trying to be ‘with it’, but somehow miss the mark. And that’s coming from someone who buys her clothes from supermarkets.

  The girls are upstairs, looting and pillaging Rachel’s bedroom, when Martin turns up with Jeremy – the guest of honour – banging and crashing their way through the poky hallway, voices ricocheting off the ceiling. The girls stampede downstairs, fiddling with their hair and sniggering as if the band members of McFly have walked in. Only Rachel is not sniggering. She looks put out, observing the way her friends act around her cousin. A feeling I learned to live with long ago whenever my own school friends came round. Not only did I have to worry about our embarrassing dirty house, but that they would fall hopelessly in love with my pig of a brother. I had to warn them off and then they took offence, thinking I thought they weren’t good enough for him. As if. But fortunately Martin never looked their way. They were just his kid sister’s friends. Dross. Scum. Microscopic life form.

  Jeremy, however, is lapping up the adoration. ‘Come on, then,’ he says, forcing himself to sound casual. ‘I’ll set up my Wii. Then I’ll whoop you at bowling. I’m a pro.’

  This is all another language so I leave them to it and head to the kitchen, familiar territory. I could do with some time alone to sort out the pizzas but Martin can’t deal with the ‘zoo’ and so after just a few moments of getting down with the kids, he joins me at the fridge. My fridge.

  ‘Pass us a beer, will you?’

  ‘If you chop up this red pepper.’

  ‘Give us it here then,’ he says.

  I have to admit, he cuts very well, like one of those TV chefs, but I do worry about his fat fingers. One of them could easily be sliced off and end up on the Margarita.

  ‘So,’ he says, cracking open a bottle. ‘They seem like... nice girls.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, wondering why he’s trying to make polite conversation. ‘They are. On the whole.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know about girls. Not really. I often wonder what it would’ve been like if Jeremy had been Jemima. Would I have been a better father?’

  ‘Do you think you’re a bad father?’

  ‘I’ve not exactly made good decisions lately.’

  ‘That’s big of you to admit.’

  ‘Are you being facetious?’

  ‘No, I mean it.’

  He swallows back half the can, b
elches, and then goes all quiet. ‘Vick, do you ever wonder... ’ he starts, falters, fiddling with a bit of pepper, edgy, if indeed he is capable of that emotion.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well... ’ He starts again and then plunges into uncharted territory. ‘Do you ever wonder what it would have been like, you know, if he, Thomas, was still... here?’

  Thomas.

  You’d think I’d want to cry but somehow hearing his name on Martin’s lips is unexpectedly beautiful. I feel a warm rush of love – not for Martin, obviously, but for Thomas. To remember that he was here. He was my son. Is my son, even though I can no longer sit with him in my arms on the chair in the pink box room, listening to the trains pass by. He’s still around me, with me, every moment of the day. Yes, I wonder all the time.

  ‘Sorry, Vick, I just, well, you know, you never talk about him. It can’t be good, keeping all that inside.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it. Him. I can’t. Not now. I’ve got a party to think about. And anyway, stop changing the subject. We were talking about you. You need to put things right with Claudia. What were you thinking, messing about with that silly girl?’

  He doesn’t get the chance to answer this. Bob has appeared from nowhere, carrying a six pack of Carlsberg. ‘Have one of these, Martin,’ he says. ‘Not one of those poncey bottled beers you go in for. It’s a party.’

  Martin is lost for words for once and accepts a can off Bob. Seeing him slumming it with Penge’s finest makes up for not finishing – barely even beginning – what could’ve been our first ever heart-to-heart.

  Thoughts for the Day: It is hard to have a thought for today, knowing that in the bedroom next door lie four tweenies, whispering about make-up and music and boys and all the rest of it. All the things that eluded me at that age. All the things that still elude me at this age.

  Chapter Seventeen: Sunday January 27th

  Here we go again. Sunday used to be the last day of the week as far as I was concerned, the working week over, Saturday shopping and cleaning done, and then finally Sunday, a day for resting and taking it quiet, a roast dinner and a trip to the park or a day out to see Mum and Dad. And then after Mum had gone, just Dad, helping him get his life back on track.

  I never got why some people said Sunday was the first day of the week. Now I do. This is where it all begins, not where it all ends. If I were a theologian I might have more to say about this, beginning and endings, alpha and omega and all that. But I’m not a theologian. I’m a theologian’s wife. And my husband likes to say that being a Christian isn’t just about going to church every week. Being a Christian is how you live your ordinary life, your everyday life, going about everyday ordinary things. And, if I could say I was a Christian, that’s how I’d want to be one, through and through and all the time. Not just on Sundays. But I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to say that.

  This Sunday is different. I’ve invited Claudia to church, bringing Jeremy who is quite the convert. I thought she’d be as resistant as Martin but she said she was up for it, which was refreshing for Steve to hear as he likes to think he is ‘seeker-sensitive’. Just as well it’s Steve taking the service; Claudia would shudder at the state of Desmond’s vestments.

  So it’s quite a crowd of us squashed up together on a pew as Jessica has followed us along the street and up the church path as well, squeezing herself unsubtly between Jeremy and Rachel. Jeremy is not complaining though Rachel tries. Jessica has thicker skin than even Martin or Steve so she takes not a blind bit of notice.

  Claudia is dressed for church 1950s style, only missing the white gloves. To my knowledge she only ever goes to church for the usual rites of passage, which is more than most people. And exactly as often as Steve and I in the old days. Before he got the call to go to Dartford.

  We stand for the embarrassing children’s song. Claudia joins in reticently, keeping half an eye on her son who is as enthusiastic as ever, bright-eyed and concentrating on hand-eye coordination. Even Jessica Talbot is captivated by something other than Crystal Palace FC. Or Jeremy. It’s only when we sit down and the children file out that I notice Karolina and Natasha, sitting quietly in the row behind. I’m surprised to see them here. I thought Poles were Roman Catholics. Steve’s mother is a nominal Roman Catholic though she never took him to church. She says religion causes too many problems. Steve says religion might cause problems but God solves them.

  I turn round and smile at them in what is supposed to be an encouraging way. She looks distinctly unfriendly at first, till I remind her who I am and then she breaks open that smile again, and apologises, saying she was dreaming.

  ‘Anything nice?’

  ‘Yes, very nice, thank you.’ But she doesn’t elaborate.

  I ask her if Natasha would like to go out to Sunday school. Natasha is on Karolina’s lap, clutching handfuls of her mother’s bleached blonde hair in her dimpled hands. Natasha doesn’t look like she’d want to go out to Sunday school. Natasha doesn’t look like she’d want to move an inch away from her mother who gives a shrug – a shrug that says, what do you think, stupid woman? – in answer to my question. I give her a knowing smile that is supposed to say kids, eh? But I’m not sure how effective it is or how she will interpret it.

  I turn back then, having done my bit (Amanda would be proud), and try to focus on Steve who is drumming up last minute business for the Alpha course starting this week. Maybe I should do it. I need to discover the meaning of life. But I have more pressing matters. Like discovering when Martin is going to leave. I will corner Claudia later. Meanwhile, she is looking in horror at Mr Barratt’s shoes.

  Sunday lunch is a success as far as the Yorkshire puddings are concerned, beautifully light and fluffy, but not so regarding the atmosphere at the table, which is somewhat tense. Martin is trying too hard and Claudia is ignoring his cringing efforts. We finally make it through to the end of pudding – a rather nice blackberry and apple crumble brought by Claudia via Waitrose – and then disperse to various parts of the house: Rachel and Jeremy to the shed, Imo to her cot, Olivia to the telly, Steve to the back room to go over his sermon, Martin to the understairs loo with the Observer. Only Claudia and I remain in the kitchen, clearing up. Well, I clear up while she sits at the table glugging wine.

  At last we are alone, the dishes are done, and this is my chance. I make a cup of tea and join her at the table.

  ‘What is it, Vicky? Do you want to tell me something? Have I got spinach stuck in my teeth or something?’

  ‘No, no it’s not that. You look fine. You always look immaculate.’

  ‘What is it, then? Is this when you try to convert me?’

  ‘No, no, that’s Steve’s job, not mine.’ I’m glad Amanda’s not here to witness my poor witness. I take a sip of tea and go for it. ‘But I did want to tell you something, Claudia. Well, ask you something really.’

  ‘Is it about Martin?’

  ‘Yes, it’s about Martin.’

  ‘I suppose you want to know if I’m taking him back.’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘You’ve had enough of him.’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  Claudia does one of those laughs that are not about humour. ‘He’s only been here a few weeks,’ she says. ‘I’ve had to put up with him for nearly fifteen years. Can you imagine that?’

  Now it’s my time for the humourless laugh. ‘Yes, Claudia. If anyone can imagine that, it’s me. I grew up with him, remember?’

  ‘That was different.’

  ‘How was that different?’

  ‘You weren’t locked to him by wedlock.’

  ‘I was locked to him by Mum and Dad. And it was quite clear who was the Chosen One.’

  At this point, just when I have somehow managed to drive the conversation off course, in walks Martin. He stands still for a while, raspy-breathed, weighing up Claudia with her Pinot Grigio, me with my PG Tips.

  ‘What about mine?’ he whines.

  ‘Oh, sit down and I’ll pour y
ou some tea,’ I snap at him. He might as well stay and hear what I’ve got to say or I’ll be waiting forever to get to the bottom of this. Eternity is a long time as Desmond likes to point out.

  He does as he’s told and sits down, in relative safety, two seats away from his wife. ‘So what have you been talking about?’ He accepts the tea off me, heaping in the sugar. ‘I presume it’s me.’

  ‘You presume too much,’ I say, sitting back down at the other end of the table from him, still within spitting distance.

  ‘But I’m right though.’

  ‘Yes, Martin. You’re always right.’

  ‘Thank you for acknowledging that.’

  ‘Actually,’ Claudia interjects, looking from him to me and shaking her head, ‘your sister was asking me if I was going to take you back because she’s had enough of you. I hadn’t given her my answer but I might as well tell you at the same time, kill two birds and all that.’ She sips the last of her wine. Dutch courage. ‘I’m not having you back. I’ve found someone else. Nothing serious. A bit of fun but I realise there’s more to life than you. And if you can do it then why can’t I?’

  Silence while Martin and I absorb this new information.

  ‘I’m sorry, did you say you’ve found someone else?’ Martin cracks the silence, his voice roller-coastering like an adolescent boy’s. ‘Where exactly did you find someone else?’

  As if that’s the most important question.

  ‘Well, if you want precise details, it was in LA. In the lift of the hotel. I dropped my earring and he picked it up and then we got talking and he asked me to dinner and I accepted.’ She pours herself more wine and goes to drink it when Martin reaches over and swipes the glass from her hand, necking it back in one. Claudia leans back in her chair and folds her arms.