‘The machine’s stopped again,’ Penny tells him. ‘Can you fix it, please?’
‘The washing machine?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hit it with a shoe,’ Sander replies, speaking in smoke signals.
‘I did. It won’t budge.’
‘Hit it harder?’ he offers doubtfully.
‘I did. Believe me.’
‘Maybe switch it—’
‘Off and on? Done that, too. I’ve tried everything, and I’m late. So can you please just deal with it, Sander?’
Sander shrugs. ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘I’ll try. But you know, at some point . . .’
‘Yes, I know, I know. We need a new one.’
By the end of the day, when Penny gets home, she is both physically and emotionally exhausted.
The house is quiet. The kids are in their rooms and Sander is (unusually) absent. The washing line, worryingly, is not hung with drying clothes.
She returns to the basement only to find the washing machine still full of water. Across the top of it, Sander has written, in red chunky marker, ‘I am utterly, definitively, dead.’
‘That’s helpful,’ Penny mumbles, attempting, yet again, to kick, twist or jolt the machine back into life, and becoming increasingly angry as the machine refuses to budge.
‘Right, that’s it,’ she says, now furious.
She climbs the stairs to the lounge and pulls her ancient laptop from behind the sofa. She plugs it in and switches it on, and with an increasing sense of despair, she stares at the screen as Windows attempts to start up, then, after ten minutes, feeling almost tearful, she gives up, closes it and stuffs it back behind the sofa.
She climbs the stairs to Max’s bedroom and knocks, then enters.
Max, who is listening to music via headphones, visibly jumps. ‘Ugh!’ he exclaims, yanking out an earbud and sitting. ‘Mum!’
‘Can I use your computer?’ she asks. ‘I need to do something online.’
Max has an ageing MacBook, one of his uncle’s cast-offs. It’s the only computer in the house that consistently works. ‘What’s wrong with yours?’ he asks, scrambling to reach the computer before she does.
‘It won’t start,’ she says. ‘It just says “Windows Loading” all the time, and then nothing ever happens.’
‘I told you, it’s got a load of viruses on it,’ Max says. ‘You need to get a Mac.’
‘Well, I can’t afford a Mac,’ she retorts. ‘In the meantime, can I use yours? I need to order a new washing machine. The old one has finally given up the ghost.’
‘Um, OK,’ Max says, sitting at his desk and rapidly closing incriminating windows. ‘Where from?’
‘Currys,’ Penny says.
‘There you go,’ Max says, vacating the chair once the website is loading. ‘But can we afford a washing machine?’ he asks, then, ‘And does Dad know?’
‘Can we afford it? No. Do we have a choice? Not really. Does Dad know? I suggest you go and find out,’ Penny says sharply.
As Max backs out of the bedroom, Penny watches the Currys homepage as it loads, and right in the middle of the page is an advert for a summer special, a nine-kilogram Hotpoint SmartWash with a thirty-minute quick cycle.
She studies the photo, notes the half-price deal, and suddenly feels ecstatic. ‘Thirty minutes!’ she says quietly. ‘That’ll do nicely.’
She quickly clicks through to the order-confirmation screen, where she types in her address details. The machine can be delivered tomorrow afternoon, the screen informs her. They’ll take away the old monster free of charge. Isn’t modern life wonderful? she thinks as she types in her debit-card details.
The cursor hovering over Confirm Order, she hesitates for less than a second before – with a smile and a sigh of anticipation – she clicks on the button. She does her best to resist the shopping urge, but a new washing machine really will change her life.
As the little onscreen wheel spins, she tries to remember exactly how close to their overdraft limit they were. Surely there’s enough leeway for a £200 washing machine, isn’t there?
When her debit card is declined, she repeats the operation with the Barclaycard. Yes, the interest rate is crazy, and yes, she had promised herself never to use it again, but this is, after all, an emergency. She’s a working mother and she needs a bloody washing machine; she needs, specifically, a slate-grey, nine-kilo Hotpoint SmartWash with a thirty-minute quick cycle. The cost is only about the same as Sander’s monthly drug spend, after all.
She clicks the Confirm button again. The little wheel spins for slightly longer than the last time, which she takes to be a good sign. She chews her fingernail. She fiddles with the credit card, flipping it over and over as she waits.
And then, unexpectedly, as the words ‘Your transaction was declined’ appear for the second and final time, she bursts into tears.
She covers her eyes with one hand and shudders and sobs. ‘I’m so tired of this,’ she splutters. ‘I’m just so tired of it all.’
By the time Sander gets home half an hour later, Penny has both pulled herself together and repaired the damage to her make-up.
‘Where were you?’ she asks, looking up from the frying pan, in which she is browning onions for Bolognese sauce.
‘I went out for a walk,’ Sander says. ‘I went to look at that second-hand place to see if they had any cheap washing machines.’
‘At this time?’ Penny says, glancing at the clock. It’s almost seven in the evening.
‘Yeah,’ Sander says. ‘I didn’t realise how late it was. They were closed.’
‘Right,’ Penny says, partially mollified that Sander has at least tried to do something. ‘We really do need to find a solution, and soon.’
‘I tried to fix it, but it’s really dead this time. It is about a hundred years old.’
‘I know,’ Penny says. ‘I went to order one online. There’s a half-price deal on a Hotpoint one at Currys. But the card was refused.’
Sander frowns. ‘Really? The debit card or the Barclaycard?’
‘Both.’
‘Ouch.’
‘Yes, ouch . . .’ Penny says flatly. ‘Look, we’ve used up our overdraft limit and the credit card is over the £1,000 mark.’
‘Jesus,’ Sander says.
‘So, we’re in a pickle.’
Sander nods. ‘I . . . I don’t know what to say, really. I’m sorry.’
‘Unfortunately, “sorry” doesn’t fix this one,’ Penny tells him. ‘We need to do something. We’re at the end of the road here, Sander.’
‘Sure,’ he replies. ‘But what?’
‘You could stop smoking.’
‘Oh, Jesus, that again?’
‘Yes,’ Penny says, switching off the hob and turning to face her husband. ‘Yes, that again. A washing machine costs almost precisely what you spend on dope each month.’
‘I do not spend two hundred quid on dope.’
‘But you do. You’re just in complete denial about it.’
‘Do you really want to have this whole conversation all over again?’
‘How can I not have this conversation again?’ Penny asks. ‘We’re overdrawn at the bank. We’re up to the limit on the card. The electricity, broadband, water and rates all need paying. And the only thing I can possibly think of that we could spend less on is your stupid dope habit.’
‘It just so happens . . .’ Sander says.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘It just so happens that the only thing you can think of is the only thing I actually spend any money on.’
‘No, Sander,’ Penny says, now raising her voice. ‘It doesn’t “just so happen”. We’ve cut back on everything else already. We don’t go on holiday. We don’t buy nice clothes. We don’t eat out. We buy our food from bloody Lidl. We don’t spend a single extra penny on anything.’
‘OK, OK, I’ll stop,’ Sander says. ‘Happy now?’ He then turns and storms from the kitchen, slamming the door behind him.
But even as he cl
imbs the stairs to his studio, he knows that it’s not true.
He won’t stop smoking because he can’t stop smoking. And he’s not, in truth, in denial about it at all. He has noted and fully accepted his complete inability to stop smoking. He uses the word ‘addict’ within the confines of his own head to describe himself. And he has even worked out some of the reasons why he can’t stop smoking.
The fact, for instance, that when he does try to stop, time stretches horribly. His days become vast, desolate wastelands to be got through, where the only thought that manifests is that he should work, he should paint – only he can’t think what to paint. Yes, stoned or straight, he’s out of ideas. With or without dope, he’s no longer an artist. With or without it, he’s just an ever-fainter memory of an artist. It’s just that it’s a lot more painful without dope than with it.
Once the Bolognese is ready, Penny returns to the basement. By removing the filter she manages to drain the washing machine into a basin without spilling too much on the floor. She then piles the sudsy washing in the sink and pummels it beneath running water until it’s clean, until her fists hurt, and until her rage finally dissipates.
It’s nine thirty on Saturday morning, and while her coloureds tumble over each other in the drum of one of Whitstable launderette’s industrial machines, Penny walks to the nearby seafront.
It’s a beautiful July day, one of those days when you can sense, in the air, the heat that is to come – one of those days when the world feels almost like energy itself, bottled up. Perhaps she’ll go for a swim this afternoon, if she’s feeling brave.
When she reaches the shore, she sits on a wall and looks out at the pebble beach on which holidaymakers are already setting up windbreaks, and at the deep, grey strip of sea beyond.
She pulls her phone from her pocket and, after a moment’s hesitation, dials the number. She’s been meaning to phone her mother for days, and she’s hoping that the confirmed death of their washing machine might inspire a little charitable donation. It’s a bit ridiculous at forty-five to find oneself soliciting handouts from one’s mother, but when there are no other options . . .
‘Hello,’ she says as soon as Marge answers. ‘It’s Penny.’
‘Penny?’ her mother says. It’s her usual way of expressing reproach.
‘Yes, your youngest daughter,’ Penny says, playing along. ‘Remember me?’
‘Just about,’ Marge says.
‘Come on.’ Penny laughs. ‘It wasn’t that long ago.’
‘No,’ Marge says. ‘If you say so. So what’s new down at the seaside?’
‘Nothing much. It’s a lovely day here. It actually feels like summer for once.’
‘Lucky you,’ Marge says. ‘It’s all grey here. Are you outside? Only, I can hear seagulls.’
‘I am!’ Penny says. ‘I’m on the seafront. I’m waiting for my washing to wash. I had to take it to the launderette. Our machine has finally given up the ghost.’
‘It’s been giving up the ghost for years,’ Marge says.
‘You’re right. It has. Only this time it has totally given up. Even Sander can’t resuscitate it. What we really need is a new one. They’re only £200, but we can’t even afford that at the moment.’
‘You’re lucky you have a launderette nearby, then,’ Marge says, doggedly refusing to take the bait. ‘I used to have to hand-wash all of your clothes when you were little.’
‘Well, I’ve done a few hand-washes, too. But what we really need is a new machine.’
‘That’s such a shame,’ Marge says. ‘I just realised. Your sister threw hers out only yesterday.’
‘That red Smeg one?’
‘Yes. They’re having new worktops and cupboards fitted, and the red ones didn’t match.’
‘But it was almost new.’
‘Oh, it was a few years old, I think. But perfectly good. But you know what they’re like. They’ve more money than they know what to do with, those two.’
‘But Mum . . .’
‘Still, I suppose we should be happy for their success and all that, shouldn’t we? Jealousy’s a terrible thing when you think about it.’
‘But has she actually thrown it out? Or is she just about to?’
‘Oh, it’s gone, darling. They did the worktops last week and the new machines came on Friday.’
‘Machines? She changed the dishwasher, too?’
‘Yes, I told you. She wanted grey ones. To match the new units.’
‘But Mum. I mean, we really need her old machine. Are you sure it’s too late?’
‘Oh, definitely,’ Marge says. ‘But what a shame. If only she’d thought of you first. Still, she always was a selfish child. When she was little, she never wanted to give you her toys, even when she didn’t want them any more. Do you remember?’
‘I do.’
‘Of course, if you were actually speaking to her at the moment, then you could have told her yourself.’
‘Yes, well. That works both ways, doesn’t it?’ Penny says.
‘She’s getting the bathroom retiled this week, too. She wants it all done before Martin gets back from Spain.’
‘Right,’ Penny says miserably. The red Smeg washing machine is still revolving in her mind’s eye. ‘So how’s that going? How is Martin’s Spanish adventure?’
‘Fine, I think,’ Marge tells her. ‘Vicky hasn’t mentioned it much, to be honest. I think they might have had an argument or something. Or perhaps she’s just too busy with the workmen and everything. And Bertie.’
‘Is he all right, then?’ Penny asks sounding disinterested.
‘I think I heard Vicky saying she was going to ask you if he can come and stay, actually.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Yes, he’s been . . . well . . .. a bit funny, lately.’
‘Funny?’
‘I told you about the boarding-school thing.’
‘Well, no one could blame the boy for wanting to get away,’ Penny says. ‘Vicky’s hardly low maintenance. I’m surprised he didn’t go with Martin, though, to Spain.’
‘Yes,’ Marge says. ‘Yes, we were all surprised at that. He’s been a bit under the weather, I think. That’s why Vicky thought a seaside break might do him good. A change of scenery and that.’
‘Poor Bertie. He probably needs a change of family.’
‘Well, quite. So you’d agree, then?’
‘To Bertie coming to visit?’
‘Yes. I’m sure Max would be pleased. They seem to get on well, those two,’ Marge says.
‘Yes, they do. But she’d have to ask me first, wouldn’t she?’
‘I could perhaps let her know you don’t mind,’ Marge says. ‘That might ease things a little.’
‘No,’ Penny says, still thinking about red washing machines. ‘No, if Vicky wants something, then let her call me and ask me herself.’
Victoria is in the process of putting the final finishing touches to the bathroom as she waits for Martin to get home.
Both the bathroom and the kitchen are looking gorgeous, and she has almost finished erasing the last tell-tale signs of all the renovation work – the smears of grouting across the corners of the tiles, the smudges of paint around the edges of the new worktop and the fine sawdust that seems to keep re-depositing itself in every corner.
But the initial buzz of the restyled kitchen and bathroom is already wearing off. She’s back to worrying about Martin now.
She has spoken to him on the phone a couple of times in the last two weeks, and he has sounded normal enough. But she’s convinced that it’s only when she looks into his eyes that she’ll know for sure if he’s going to leave her or not.
She has just succeeded in forcing Bertie to come into the kitchen for lunch when the front door opens and a red-faced, skinny, younger-looking version of Martin pops his head around the door. Which is frustrating, because, with Bertie present, he clearly isn’t going to give anything away.
‘Hello!’ he says brightly, removing his bac
kpack and propping it up against the wall.
Victoria rinses her hands beneath the tap and walks down the hallway to join him. ‘Hello,’ she replies, drying her hands on a tea-towel. She feels unexpectedly shy in his presence, as if, not knowing whether he’s loving her or leaving her, she doesn’t know quite how to interact with him.
He smiles at her and leans in for a kiss, so she pecks him on the lips and tries desperately to decode the depths of his regard.
‘Hi, Dad,’ Bertie says. ‘Was it fun?’
Martin nods. ‘It was amazing,’ he says, and Victoria’s heart flutters a little. ‘But I’m shattered now.’
‘You should have let me come and pick you up,’ Victoria says. ‘I did offer.’
Martin laughs and leads the way through to the kitchen, removing his now-grubby hiking jacket as he does so. ‘Oh, it wasn’t the half an hour on the Gatwick Express that tired me,’ he says. ‘It was walking two hundred kilometres in the baking sun.’
‘Did you really walk two hundred kilometres?’ Bertie asks, then, ‘How many miles is that?’
‘About a hundred and forty, I think,’ Martin says. ‘Give or take. About the same distance as down to Penny’s place and back. Further, actually.’
He carries the kettle to the kitchen tap to fill it, but Victoria prises it from his grasp. ‘Sit down,’ she says. ‘I’ll do that.’
‘Thanks,’ Martin replies, pulling out a chair from beneath the kitchen table. ‘I’m gasping for a decent cup of tea.’
Victoria fills the kettle and switches it on before turning back to face the room. Bertie, who is opposite, looks uncomfortable, too, she can see. Perhaps he can sense the possibility of Martin’s departure as well.
It reminds her of something she once read about Schrödinger’s cat, which, as far as she can recall, was neither dead nor alive until someone opened the box to check.
Right here, in this kitchen, her marriage seems neither dead nor alive until Martin opens the box that reveals what’s going on in his head, what’s happening in his heart.
‘The kitchen looks nice,’ he says.
‘It looks just like before, only a different colour,’ Bertie quips.
‘Don’t keep saying that!’ Victoria tells her son, forcing herself to feign laughter as she speaks.
The Bottle of Tears Page 15
