by Sophie Duffy
Quiet. All that can be heard is the muffled cries of Olivia in the front room shouting at the TV, a reminder of what this marital breakdown has brought into my house. An obsession with the worst of popular culture. We used to be happy with Blue Peter and Bill Oddie.
Martin lights up a cigarette, right there in front of me in my kitchen, at my table, seizing advantage of a situation brought about by his own doing, confident I won’t tell him where to go at this crucial stage in negotiations. ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me he’s an actor,’ Martin says, exhaling smoke down his nostrils. His big fat nostrils.
‘No actually, you’re wrong. He’s a writer.’
Now Martin does the laugh-thing.
Claudia carries on regardless, retrieving her glass and helping herself to yet more wine. ‘He’s a very talented writer who’s all set to be the next big thing.’
‘That’s what they all say.’
‘It’s better than being a washed-up has-been who has to take his thrills from his students because he can’t cut it anymore in Academia.’ Claudia is on her feet, flinging her glass around rather worryingly. It might not be Dartington but it is unchipped and part of a set of six.
‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ Martin says, banging my table with the palm of his fat hand, like he’s a prosecuting lawyer, though the effect is spoiled with his B&H. ‘I’m onto something big. Research. Vicky will tell you.’
Vicky’s keeping quiet.
‘Research?’ Claudia jeers.
‘The God gene. I’m researching the God gene.’
‘Well, I can tell you now I haven’t got that gene. I can’t believe in a god that would create you in his image. And anyway, I thought that idea had run out of steam.’
‘That’s where I come in.’
‘Oh, the big I Am.’
I’m half-expecting Steve to come in and ask them both on an Alpha course at this point. But Jeremy beats him to it. There is a very loud crash. A terrible splintering of wood. A very expensive splintering of polished wood, handcrafted in what used to be Czechoslovakia. When the three of us rush out into the hall, into the hushed quiet that follows the cacophony, we see Jeremy standing over what used to be his precious cello. But from the dark expression on his face and the sparks in his eyes, it is clear this was no clumsy accident.
‘I hate you both,’ he says. ‘I hate you more than I hate my cello. I want you both to go. I want to stay here with Auntie Vicky and Uncle Steve. They’re a normal family. I just want to be normal.’
He whispers this, but his audience – Claudia, Martin, me, and an inquisitive Olivia who has foregone Bid TV to watch her big cousin fall apart in our poky hallway – we hear every word. Despite the significance of what Jeremy is saying, I still find time to think how nice it is to be seen as normal. But most of all, my heart is filled with a sadness that wants to explode my body into tiny pieces against the wipe-clean walls. If I had a son – if I still had a son – I would value him above all else. More than jewels, more than temples, more than the air I breathe. More than the sun in the sky or the moon that stands guard over his grave at night. And the wind that blows in the trees. That blows and blows but can never blow my grief away.
Thoughts for the Day: If any of my children express a desire to take up a musical instrument, I will suggest the penny whistle.
Chapter Eighteen: Monday 4th February
Monday morning. A week has passed since the cello-smashing incident. Jeremy is back at St Hilda’s C of E as part of the process he believes will give him a normal life. Despite his initial dodgy start there in January, he has found that he actually quite likes it. Being back at Dulwich for that brief period of time has shown him where he’d rather be: with his cousin and Jessica Talbot.
This means – and Claudia is surprisingly happy about this – that Jeremy is staying with us during the week and back to Dulwich for the weekends. So somehow things didn’t work out the way I planned. Instead of getting my house back, the poky terrace is still overflowing. Only the cello is missing.
Claudia wanted to go out and buy another one. A thousand pounds and the rest, just like that. But Martin, for once almost sensible (though probably being tight), suggested they wait. He said that Jeremy couldn’t go round losing his temper without there being consequences. This led to Claudia losing her temper at Martin for being a hypocrite and the consequences of this are that they are now even more at loggerheads than before. Whereas, unusually, I’m with Martin on this one; I’m all for waiting if it means my hall stays clear.
It is only eleven o’clock and already I am dreaming of bed in a way only sleep-deprived mothers can dream. I have had to dispatch two sullen children to school, one chirpy small one to playgroup, and I still have to heave a fat baby to clinic. No help from Steve because although it’s his day off he has had to shoot off to Plumstead to see his mum who’s got herself in a tizz over his dad. And no help from my brother, obviously, because he is at work, chairing an ‘important departmental meeting’. Hard to imagine when all he does around here is eat, drink and slouch. Though there has been more battering of his laptop lately. Not that there’s time for me to waste imagining. Must get to the clinic where a telling-off from the health visitor awaits.
It is bedlam in here. Naked babies everywhere you look. All shapes and sizes and colours but none quite as fat and pink as mine. Fat because apparently, according to Eileen the health visitor, Imo is naturally this size. I shouldn’t fret, it’ll come off when she starts to crawl (must get Steve to get stair gate out of attic). And pink because she objected fiercely to the humiliation of being made to lie down, nappy off, in cold scales with Eileen looming over her. As I squeeze Imo’s limbs back into her clothes, I feel relief that I haven’t been told off. I’m not a bad mother.
The clinic is held in this cavernous room – for maximum sound effect – which also serves as a waiting area for patients to see their doctor. Sick people sit alongside babies, perhaps in an effort by the NHS to keep their immune system in working order.
‘Are you alright, Vicky?’ It’s Eileen. Eileen has been doing the job forever and ever, possibly since the time of Dr Spock. She has seen thousands of mothers over the years. Every sort: blissed-out, euphoric, lovey-dovey, confident, know-it-all, knowing-nothing, anxious, neurotic, weepy, frightened, depressed, shattered, grieving. She has seen even more babies and toddlers and pre-schoolers, crying and gurgling and weeing and feeding. Imo is just another baby but Eileen takes time to talk to her and smile at her and I feel assured that my little girl is alright. We’re doing alright. Despite everything. Despite Thomas.
‘We’re alright,’ I say. She hands me back my red book, the pink graph filled in. And that’s when I drop my shoulders, clutch Imo to me, and start crying. When I think of the blue graph and the line that was following its centile beautifully. That suddenly stopped at three months.
‘It’s alright to still be feeling sad, Vicky. There’s no specific time limit on grief.’ Eileen pats my hand.
I take a deep breath and ask the question I haven’t been brave enough to ask anyone else. ‘But will it ever stop?’
She thinks about this, pausing briefly in her hand-patting as she does so. A toddler wobbles past us, aiming for the Little Tikes car that needs an MOT. He is wearing dungarees.
I had a pair of dungarees that were so cute. I’d bought them on a whim from a baby shop on Lordship Lane. I was waiting for Thomas to grow a bit more, he was nearly there... And then, after, I hung onto them for ages, folded up in my chest of drawers along with my cardigans and jumpers. But every time I opened the drawer they stared at me. Every time I closed the drawer, they cried out to me. So I put them in the trunk at the foot of the bed but at night, as I lay there next to Steve, listening to his sighs, his silent tears, I could feel them there, folded up carefully in tissue paper so they wouldn’t crease, lying there, empty, in the dark. And I could feel Thomas, his hot little body lying next to mine. I could hear him breathe. I could smell his milkyness.
And my breasts filled up and my tears overflowed and my heart wanted to stop beating. In the end I could bear it no longer so I sent the dungarees to Romania with a pile of blue baby blankets. I used to imagine a little Romanian boy toddling around in them, cosy and handsome, the pride of his mother.
The patting starts up again. Eileen has thought about her answer. ‘Not completely,’ she says. ‘It will get better.’ She plucks a tissue from thin air and pushes it into my hand. ‘But you might like to think about talking to someone.’
‘I’m not depressed. I’m just tired, you know, with this one.’ I look down at Imo, who is avoiding eye contact with Eileen. ‘And Rachel and Olivia. And Steve. And then there’s my brother.’
‘You’ve got a lot on your plate.’ She shakes her head and reminds me of Mum who always got exasperated with how much I took on. ‘You need to make sure that you’re okay. Phone me any time you feel it’s too much. Any time.’
I pull myself together – I Can Do This – and let Eileen return to the scales. The queue is lengthening and the noise reaching a crescendo. Despite the chill of the day, it is hot and stuffy in here. I need to get us out into the cold air. I need to breathe. I concentrate on Olivia’s buttons so I don’t have to face any of the other mothers. Not that any of them are aware of my pain. They are all wrapped up with their own babies. But I feel one pair of eyes on me. I look up, blinking fast to hold back any stray tears.
It is Karolina. She is clutching a prescription, gazing at Imo rigid on my lap. She smiles a quick smile in my direction when she realises she has been spotted.
‘She is lovely baby.’
‘Thank you,’ I say. These words are what I want to hear. What I need. But that’s all I can say in return. Thank you. I can’t manage anything else and before I get the chance to offer something better like ‘do you fancy coming back for a cup of tea?’ she has gone. I watch her through the streaky double-glazing, a lone figure walking through the grey London morning, the wind pushing back her bleached blonde hair. She makes me think of Steve’s mum. Not that to my knowledge Dorota ever had bleached blonde hair. I think hers has always been henna red. But once, long ago, she was young and alone here too. I hope whatever this tizz was about, Steve has sorted it.
Steve’s idea of sorting it was to bring his mother back to the poky terrace. Once I’ve put Imo down for a well-deserved nap, I join them in the kitchen to find out what has happened.
What has happened is this: Steve’s mother has had a falling out with Steve’s father. This is nothing out of the ordinary. They do it regularly, about every five years or so. Dorota finally has enough of Roland and the only way round it is to keep them apart, separate them for a bit, like naughty children, the way Mum used to do with Martin and me. Usually this strategy works for them. They soon start pining and are running back into each other’s arms. Well, limping what with Roland’s dodgy knee and Dorota’s weight.
Dorota’s weight seems to have increased further since she was last here – as it does with each visit. I can judge by the length of time it takes for her to get her breath back after she has made the marathon journey from the car to the kitchen table. Each time it is a little longer, the breathing a little louder. Louder even than Martin’s after a packet of Benson and Hedge’s. Like Martin, she foolishly blames it on her asthma.
Dorota has a cup of tea in front of her into which she deposits a cascade of sweeteners, a new departure from her standard three spoons of sugar. ‘My new friend,’ she says, rattling her Hermesetas. ‘They come everywhere with me.’ She puts them back safely in the handbag, which never leaves her lap.
The sweeteners allow her to have a piece of Mrs Webber’s walnut and date cake without worrying. Not that she worries. It is Roland that worries. Roland has begged her to go back to Weightwatchers, not because he doesn’t want a fat wife but because he is afraid her lungs will give out. But Dorota doesn’t like going to Weightwatchers. She says the woman, Valerie, cheats. She is suspicious of anyone in a position of authority. Police, doctors, solicitors, vets, dentists, bank managers, teachers, priests – which means she has always been suspicious of me and, of late, she has become suspicious of her son.
Why do you want to be a priest? she asked when he’d first broken the news about his vocation.
It’s what God wants me to do, Steve said with his new-found simplicity.
How do you know it is God speaking and not voices in your head?
I’ve been through a scrupulous selection process.
She tutted. She knew all about scrupulous selection processes. This had happened with Steve’s Eleven Plus. He’d failed, despite scrimping and saving to pay for tuition.
And my calling has been confirmed from the bishop to the cleaner, Steve went on, rather corporately, it has to be said. The decision wasn’t taken lightly or overnight. It was taken prayerfully and over a long period of time.
Dorota scoffed at the mention of prayer. In her experience you were told what to do by the priest, not by God. The priest would intercept the channels of communication to the Almighty. So unless you were going to pray to the Virgin Mary who might bypass the priest for you, there was no point. Of course Dorota believes Roman Catholicism is a load of superstitious nonsense but if there has to be a church then it is the only option. As for Steve wanting to join the Church of England, she cannot understand it. Dorota is a woman of mystery. And there is as much mystery about her as there is woman.
But there was one word she picked up on that day: cleaner. She softened a little when she heard it. In Dorota’s eyes, cleaners are good honest workers, doing a good honest job. Well, if it’s good enough for the cleaner... you could hear her thinking. My being a teacher is outweighed by me keeping a clean house. Dorota is proud to have a daughter-in-law who hangs her husband’s shirts so nicely in the wardrobe. It makes up for filling children’s heads with knowledge. Dorota is deeply suspicious of knowledge. She will not have a book or a newspaper in the house. This ban on intellectual property does not extend to TV, which she loves. It isn’t education; it is entertainment. As are her two hobbies, bingo and dog racing.
‘Please can I have another piece of this delicious cake?’ she asks me now, ignoring Steve’s muffled tut. ‘A tiny piece.’ She indicates the size she would like – her idea of tiny is quite different to mine – with her jumbo sausage fingers which are even fatter than Martin’s. Her wedding ring has virtually disappeared. In fact it has disappeared. Steve notices this too.
‘Where’s your wedding ring, Mum? Things aren’t that bad between you and Dad are they?’
‘Reggie cut it off.’
‘Who’s Reggie?’
‘Madge’s husband.’
‘Who’s Madge?’
‘You know Madge,’ she looks incredulous that Steve does not know Madge. ‘Madge Madge,’ she says as if that clears up the matter and when Steve still looks blank she sighs impatiently. ‘From the bingo.’
Too exasperated to carry on with this, Steve gives in and lets it be understood that of course he knows Madge Madge from the bingo. ‘And is Reggie qualified to cut off wedding rings?’
‘You do not need qualifications to cut off wedding rings. Reggie is odd-jobber. Very handy. He is a good honest man.’
‘Why did you have it cut off?’
‘It was too tight.’
‘Mum.’
‘Do not look at your mother like that.’
‘I’m worried.’
‘Tell your father.’
‘He’s worried about you too.’
‘He’s worried about himself. He wants me to stay the skinny girl he married. I was skinny because we had no money for food. We have money now so we can buy food. He wants to go out with me on his arm and show me off. I do my best for him. I do my hair nice and I put on make-up but it is not good enough. I am no girl. I am old.’
‘You’re not old, Mum.’
‘I am a pensioner. I have bus pass.’
She’s never set foot on a bus.
�
��You’re only sixty-four, Mum. Sixty-four’s young. Sixty-four’s the new fifty-four. But you need to take care of yourself. You’re not well. Listen to your breathing.’
We sit quietly, listening to her breathing. Despite a police car hurtling up the street, the crackle-and-wheeze is unmistakeable.
‘You’ve got years left on this earth and Dad wants to share them with you.’ Steve takes her hand, the one with the missing ring, and holds it still in his own. No hand-patting. ‘He doesn’t want to be alone. He wants to be with you, Mum, doing good things together.’
She huffs at this. ‘Like what?’
‘Like being a grandmother for one thing.’
Dorota clutches the locket at the mention of her grandchildren. I know what is inside the locket. A tiny, crumpled and faded black and white photo of her parents on one side. And on the other, Thomas, in all his beautiful, glorious colour.
I make my excuses and leave, citing Imo. I shut the kitchen door behind me and stand alone in the poky hall. The walls seem closer together than ever, even without the wretched cello. Like my mother-in-law, and my brother, I am finding it hard to breathe. It must be catching.
If only I could relieve the symptoms with an inhaler and a strictly observed calorie-controlled diet.
I suddenly want to be anywhere but here, my house, which is usually my shelter, my refuge. I want to be with new, different people who have nothing to do with my past because then they can’t bring him up in conversation. They can’t remind me. I can forget. Just for a while I can be normal. Because Jeremy is mistaken, we are far from normal. If we could be normal, then maybe we could even be happy. And that is the thought that makes me weep and feel sick. The thought that I could possibly be happy without him.
Thoughts for the Day: Eggs, lemons, caster sugar, golden syrup, chocolate, frozen raspberries.
Chapter Nineteen: Tuesday 5th February Shrove Tuesday
Dorota has stayed the night, which at least got rid of Martin who sloped off to impose on Bill, a boffin from his department. Dorota slept in our bed. I didn’t want to risk the springs of the new sofa already knocked about and finally vacated by Martin. So Steve got the sofa. I got the bottom bunk in the girls’ room, top to toe with Olivia.
