This Holey Life

by Sophie Duffy

  Martin continues to watch the News. ‘Drop it for now, will you? I’ve had a day of it.’ He turns, appealing to the nearest nurse for rescue from these two pestering women. The nurse is only too pleased to administer a stern shake of the head to both Claudia and me. I want to kick her in her stockinged shins but instead I stare pointedly at my watch, waiting for her to drag herself away, which she eventually does when Martin hands her his empty mug.

  ‘I’ll get you a refill, cheeky,’ she simpers, reluctantly swaggering away.

  ‘So how long do you have to stay in for?’ Claudia asks.

  ‘They haven’t said.’ He looks at his wife, mustering up an expression of misery. ‘Till my heart rate settles.’ He points to his heart, a gesture laden with symbolism, which elicits an expression of worry, a delicately crinkled brow, from his estranged wife. ‘I had a funny reaction to the adrenaline. The very thing that saved my life almost killed me.’ He smiles weakly and we can see a gap where the troublesome tooth once was.

  While we contemplate his words, forgetting the bit about Karolina punching him, he asks: ‘Where’s Steve? Can you send him in?’

  This is when Claudia’s eyes well up and her little pixie nose pinkens in sympathy with her husband’s red hooter. ‘But Martin, surely it’s not that serious you need a vicar?’ She extracts a delicate lace handkerchief from her clutch bag, perfecting the hospital bed scene.

  I know he’s had a scrape with death but Martin is perfectly alright. He’s going to be fine. So I will not buy into this melodrama. ‘Why on earth do you want Steve?’

  Martin drags his eyes away from Claudia and lands them on me. ‘I’ve got some information.’

  ‘Information? What are you talking about?’

  ‘Information about our Polish friend.’

  ‘The one that decked you?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘Why did she hit you?’

  ‘That’s what I want to tell Steve. Can you get him to come in?’

  The story according to Martin:

  When I was a kid I had this shocking eczema. Scaly red patches behind my knees and in the crooks of my elbows. Bad in the heat. Worse in the cold. My skin would be cracked, oozing pus and itchy. So itchy. I had to have oily baths and plaster myself in cream or else my skin would be so tight it would split. Mum used to fuss over me, spent ages applying greasy emollients, gently, methodically, the way she’d rub milk into the ficus leaves to make it shine.

  It got a bit better when I was a teenager though there’d be outbreaks at times of stress like my O-Levels. Then when I got into my twenties I had this funny turn. It was a colleague’s retirement do, this crusty old academic who’d been in the department since the time of Aristotle. There were drinks and nibbles one Friday afternoon in the senior common room. Warm white wine. Dry, salt-flecked pretzels. Crisps. Peanuts. I ate great handfuls, anything to soak up the Liebfraumilch so I could get away sharpish and avoid the rush hour. Claudia had a dinner party planned. Her first, and I didn’t want to let her down. I felt a bit odd, was in a trance-like state listening to Hugh bang on about his latest research project and the huge lump of funding he’d somehow blagged, when I thought I was going to be sick. Blamed it on the gut-rot wine, excused myself and went to the loo. Sitting there I felt steadily worse. My stomach was heaving and I felt giddy, like I was on a ferry sitting in the bilge. I went to get a drink of water from the tap, and then glancing in the mirror above the sink, I saw my face was distorted. My eyes and lips had swelled up and suddenly I found it hard to breathe. Needed a puff of my inhaler. And another. And another. I could feel my airways constricting, my tongue swelling. It was like I had a sock stuffed in my mouth and then I had this overwhelming sense of doom, as if the world was falling down on me. That was the point at which Hugh came in and rushed straight back out to call an ambulance.

  I had these tests done and they decided I was allergic to nuts. So I avoided nuts. I didn’t seem to be quite as bad as some people who couldn’t even be in a room with nuts without keeling over. I just don’t eat them. So it hasn’t really impacted on my life.

  And then there’s my tooth. I should’ve gone to the dentist sooner but to be honest I hate going. Haven’t been for years. I’ve spent so much time with doctors, in hospitals, with my eczema, asthma and all the rest of it that I suppose I’ve avoided the dentist. My teeth have never given me any problems. Until recently. This tooth has been aggravating for a while and then I got walloped by Bob. And then by Vicky. Then Karolina extracts it. Once I see it, my tooth, held up to the light, its long pointed root, clasped in the grip of her shiny dental implement, I confront her. The dental nurse has popped out for something, a sticker maybe because I’ve been such a good boy and not cried a drop. I tell her, Karolina, that I know she has made up stories about Steve. I tell her that she needs to retract everything she has said. She stares at me, her mouth open, nothing coming out. She starts to cry. I tell her I know she made those phone calls, I know she stole Steve’s mobile and made those calls herself. I worked it out. It’s a no-brainer. She stops crying then, as suddenly as she started, the proverbial tap, and comes over all serious and quiet. She is very close to me. Her hands are right by my face. I can smell the latex. It makes me feel queasy but maybe that’s the tooth, the blood I can taste in my mouth. Her musky tobacco scent. I’m biting down on this swab and I wonder if she can understand what I am saying to her, muffled as I am, and English not being her mother tongue. But she understands alright. She gets up from her swivel chair. She gets up and she punches me. A third time. Only at least she has the decency not to punch me in the mouth. She goes for my nose. It hurts. But not for long. Soon I feel drowsy, like I’m wafting up out of the dentist chair. I am stuck to the ceiling, looking down at this spiky angry head. I hear a scream and then I see me, myself, Martin, in a deep, deep sleep from which I may never wake. It is not the punch that has done this. It is the gloves.

  Martin tells this to Steve, Claudia and me. Jeremy has disappeared with a can of Pepsi, courtesy of a nurse, to the TV room as it is time for Eastenders. A Maundy Thursday special.

  Martin is peaky, his face dotted with patches of pink eczema and strange red bumps. Stubble is creeping back and he has a George Michael look about him. The porky middle-aged George, not the gorgeous Adonis of the Wham! years. I have to stifle the desire to sing ‘Club Tropicana’ and focus on what my brother is telling us. About his spiritual moment. His epiphany. I am finally about to discover what this word actually means.

  As I am floating on the ceiling watching the new dentist seize control of the situation, grabbing a medical pack from the wall, the nurse shouting down the phone... ambulance... emergency... as fast as you can... I can see that this is quite serious; I am separated from my body and there is nothing I can do about it. But it isn’t me I think about. It is Karolina. I realise that she is actually a crazy woman. A crazy woman who is actually very clever. But not clever enough; I have found her out. And I can’t die because I have to tell Steve what I suspect. That she stole his mobile and made those calls to herself from his phone. I have to tell Vicky that her family is safe. Her husband is a good man – not that she would ever believe the accusations to contain a grain of truth, she’s not that stupid (a back-handed compliment if ever there was one).

  And I have to see my son and tell him that I love him as I can’t remember the last time I did this, possibly when he was a baby and not able to comprehend those words.

  And then I think of my wife. I think of you, Claudia, and I know I have to tell you I love you and I’m sorry for not being honest and if it takes the rest of my life, which I’m hoping is going to be longer than the few minutes it might take before my body shuts down completely, I will make sure you know I love you.

  And then I think of God and the Alpha course that was supposed to help me gather evidence for the God gene... only I ended up being less sure of anything.

  An epiphany.

  And then I feel a prick in my leg... far off a
nd faint... after a few more moments I see another head appear beneath me, so frizzy-haired and wild I would know it anywhere. It belongs to my little sister, Vicky. And I remember how she used to skip along the road ahead of me, off to the newsagent’s. I remember how once she fell and had a bloody knee and I had to carry her all the way there to get her sherbet pips and all the way home again, and her legs rubbed my eczema something chronic but I wouldn’t let on because she was my little sister and I had to take care of her. And it doesn’t matter if we have a different dad. It doesn’t matter because the same man brought us up, the same man and the same woman and I will do anything now to help my sister grieve properly. And there she is, Vicky, standing over me, her hand reaching out to touch my face... and then a surge of something running through me... energy. A life force. Something medical yet supernatural. And I float back down off the ceiling and am aware of a bright light shining in my face, not heaven’s glory but the dentist’s light. The light is moved away and, once my eyes adjust, there is Vicky, smiling at me. Vicky-Love.

  Steve says: ‘Do you want me to pray for you?’

  Martin says: ‘Don’t push it.’

  There is a slightly awkward silence as we come to grips with Martin’s revelation and all its repercussions. Then Martin asks Steve to bring in Dorota tomorrow. He needs her help.

  I suspect the help he ‘needs’ will be contained in a hip flask, but I let it pass. I pat my brother’s hand and tell his audience I need some fresh air.

  I keep my head down till I get outside, following the yellow line on the floor that guides me through the warren of corridors, back to the main entrance. And there’s the hand gel. The very thing that’s supposed to prevent what happened to Mum. It is impossible not to remember.

  The last time we saw her was in hospital. The night before her knee op. Martin and I came in to visit her. He’d picked me up in his Saab and was still smarting over the expense of the car park ticket and was huffing while I gave Mum a People’s Friend and a Fry’s Turkish Delight. She wittered on about everything she was going to do once her knee was repaired: the allotment, a keep-fit class, swimming. Martin, calming down after a few soothing glances from appreciative nurses and a junior doctor, joked that she’d be bungee jumping next. Mum said, oh, no, she didn’t think her stomach would put up with that malarkey, it wasn’t natural to be bouncing upside down on a large elastic band. We laughed and, after another half hour or so, gave her a kiss goodnight and said we’d be in the next evening. She reached up and gave each of us a squeeze of the hand. And that was the last time we talked to her. The next day, Dad called Steve. He was in a state. Steve had to sit me down at the kitchen table and explain to me that my mother had caught an infection. We couldn’t see her because she was in an isolation ward. It was serious. Ferocious and quick. The germs had marched in and got hold of her. They wouldn’t let go. Two days later she was dead.

  My brother could have died.

  It is late and I need to see my children.

  The box room. A sleeping angel, cherubic and snoring, moonlight pooling over her curled up body, her snuffles reassuring. Bunk beds, two sleeping girls, heavy breathing and dreaming, the pink nightlight making them glow healthy and well.

  Thoughts for the Day: When will I get an epiphany?

  March 20th 1978

  We were out shopping, Mum and me. It was really embarrassing because it was for my first bra. Mum said it was about time. I was a bit young but I needed to look after them (my wotsits) because when I was grown up and married and had babies I would be grateful for taking care of them. I told Mum I would never have babies. They smell. She laughed.

  We went to the Army and Navy in Lewisham. The lingerie department. And there looking at the Triumphs was Heidi and her mum. They didn’t see us at first. I heard Heidi’s mum say honestly, Heidi, you’re getting bigger by the week. And Heidi looked miserable. I would be very happy if I had wotsits the size of Shooter’s Hill. Instead of the size of Dad’s cherry tomatoes.

  Then Mum spotted Heidi and shrieked heelllooo. And she introduced us to Heidi’s mum who is called Francoise. She owns a boutique in Blackheath but they don’t sell bras. She said it would save money if they did because they are always in here. But I don’t think she needs to worry about money because Heidi’s dad is rolling in it.

  Heidi didn’t say a word. Just looked at her feet. She had new shoes. She was always getting new shoes.

  Chapter Thirty-Five: Friday 21st March Good Friday

  I am re-hanging the front room nets when I see a dangerous-looking Campervan bump up onto the pavement outside. I am curious as to who will get out of it. I certainly don’t expect it to be the tattooed lady. But it is, tottering out of the driver’s seat. In those sling-backs. And I know who’ll be getting out the passenger side.

  Dad bounces up the front path like a schoolboy, while Pat empties a bag of rubbish into my wheelie bin.

  I meet them at the door. ‘What a surprise.’

  ‘We heard about Martin’s latest adventure. Pat said we should come and see him. Thought we’d pop in here first and have a cuppa. Put the kettle on, Vicky-Love.’

  Two pots of tea and a packet of Ginger Snaps later, with the kids occupied in front of Grease (a gift from sunny Worthing), and Imo sitting on Pat’s scrawny lap, I’ve recounted the events of the past twenty-four hours as regards Martin, including the background to Karolina. Dad still hasn’t got over the Dulwich College incident but he softens now. I can see it in his watery eyes – a murky depth of compassion for his son who’s not his blood-son but who’s as much a son as he could ever be, had Dad got to Mum before Uncle Jack.

  ‘How is he?’ Dad asks.

  ‘I’ve just told you. He’s fine. They’ve sorted his heartbeat. He’ll be back later, unless... ’

  ‘Unless Claudia takes him back?’

  ‘Well, this might do it for her.’

  ‘And what about the other stuff?’

  ‘Stuff?’

  Dad looks sideways at Pat and I catch a facet of their relationship, a conspiring closeness I’m not quite ready to think about. She nods at Dad, encouraging, before dunking another biscuit in her tea.

  ‘I mean Jack,’ Dad says.

  I know he means Uncle Jack. Uncle Jack, squinting into the sun, his blonde fringe, his easy smile. And Dad, gawky and upright, grinning like a kid on holiday. Not much older than a kid. Either of them. And tragedy just ahead...

  ‘Vicky?’

  ‘We’ve not really had the chance to talk that through, Dad, what with one thing and another. And besides I’m not sure there’s anything I can really say. I reckon we should give him some time to get used to the idea.’

  I don’t tell him about the epiphany. I’ll leave that to Martin. It might have worn off by now anyway, washed away with the adrenaline. He might have shrunk back to his usual angry Dawkins self. And part of me hopes that he has.

  I am in the garden. A few moments of fresh air and head space. I walk across the stepping stones, dappled with pale sunshine, and stop a few paces short of the shed. Above me are the scrubby trees, the embankment. Pigeons. Fox wee. In a few weeks the nettles will be rife, the bindweed suffocating but for now it is enough to see the bulb shoots poking up through the heavy clay soil of my beds. It’s been a long winter.

  The shed. No longer a place I can enter without knocking.

  ‘Who is it?’ Rachel asks. There is rustling but none of the whispering that has been going on of late.

  I let myself in, without waiting for an invitation. My eldest child is sitting cross-legged on a tartan picnic rug playing solitaire. The two camping chairs are vacant, apart from an abandoned pen and a set of stationery, what looks suspiciously like my expensive Basildon Bond stationery usually reserved for the thank you letters I have to browbeat out of my ungrateful children. ‘Where’s Jeremy?’

  ‘With Jessica.’

  ‘Next door?’

  A pause.

  ‘Think so.’

  ‘What are they
doing? More filming?’

  ‘Maybe.’ She deals the cards, carrying on with her game.

  Despite the effort made by Jeremy to kit out the shed, it is draughty. There is a hole low down in the side (must get Steve to patch it up). A fierce draught blasts through, catching the back of my legs. ‘I need the rake, Rach.’

  Rachel pushes herself wearily up from the floor and reaches for the rake – one of Dad’s cast-offs – hanging from a nail behind her. ‘Here you go, Mum.’ She hands it over, a half-smile, slightly coy, evasive even, like she’s up to something but I won’t press her now. I leave her to her game. Sometimes she needs some peace and quiet... but I do hope Jessica isn’t leading my ‘sensitive’ nephew astray. ‘Don’t stay out here too long. Granddad will think you’re avoiding him.’

  ‘I am avoiding him.’

  ‘Ra-ch?’

  ‘I’ll be in soon, Mum. Don’t fuss.’

  I shut the door behind me, before I get embroiled in a pointless argument, and hop back up the patio where I rake a few leaves.

  My Garden of Gethsemane leaves.

  Dorota and Roland are now sitting at the kitchen table with my father and Pat. An interesting foursome.

  ‘Vicky, I have seen your brother. I got rid of the nurses and we talked. Sit down and I tell you.’ Dorota pulls out the chair next to her. ‘How about a nice glass of sherry? It is Good Friday. That’s near enough to Easter, isn’t it?’

  ‘I think technically, in the Church of England, Lent ends tomorrow. But, like you say, it’s near enough.’

  I have never seen my mother-in-law move so fast. She conjures up glasses and pours them to the brim, but I try not to be distracted. I need to know what’s going on. ‘What is it, Dorota? What’s happened now?’

  She takes a sip of sherry, subverts a smile with a serious shake of the head. ‘Your brother has a job for us to do. Just you and I can sort this mess out.’

  Dorota and I stand in the cold corridor outside Karolina’s flat. Rubbish skids along the concrete floor, pushed by the insistent wind. She looks at me and points to the bell, willing me to take control and ring it. Not because she doesn’t want to but because she knows I need to. I need to do something. I am not entirely sure what it is that I am going to do but, for once, with Dorota’s comforting bulk beside me, I will wing it.