The Meltdown of a Banker's Wife

by Gill Davy-Bowker

  ‘Mel – Oh my God! What was I like last week? I’m so sorry. I can’t remember what I did. I am mortified!’ Kelly, of course. She had probably slept over the weekend and had only now emerged from her pit, wracked with doubt and guilt about what she had or had not done and whether she had any friends left.

  ‘Oh, Kelly! You’re alive then?!’ Mel answered haughtily. Yes! She was going to make Kelly squirm! After the embarrassment of Brighton, the stinky unhygienic car, the strange company, the disappointed children, Kelly deserved to squirm for a bit. It might actually do her some good, Mel reasoned. Yes, Mel was actually an angel and she was going to rub Kelly’s nose in it. Oh not out of spite or bitterness … no … this was pure altruism! She was doing it to save Kelly from herself, to save her relationship with her husband, to ensure a secure and happy future for Matilda and Ivan! Yes, Mel’s suit was noble and true.

  ‘How did I get home? Do you think someone spiked my drink? Because I have huge gaps in my memory. I’m sure I didn’t drink that much! What if I was raped? Do you think I was raped?’

  ‘No, Kelly, I don’t think you were raped. You had gallons to drink and you brought more to the beach with you. You also brought three butch girls who were all very nice and helpful. I don’t think you would be here now if it hadn’t been for them. One of them gave you a fireman’s lift to the car.’

  ‘How the hell did she manage that? Robert can’t lift me and he’s six foot seven and pretty muscley.’

  ‘She was a big girl, Kelly. A very big, strong, capable sort of a girl who looked like a rugby prop forward. Her name was Tracey. She had two friends called Sophie and Felicity. I think you got quite close to them … you know, Kelly? Very close, maybe?’ Mel needled. There was a silence on the other end of the phone. ‘Um … Kelly … are you still there?’

  ‘Er … um … yep. Right. I’m remembering bits but it’s all rather fuzzy and keeps cutting out on me … hang on … Oh my God … Oh God … please tell me I didn’t do that!’

  ‘You probably did.’ Mel was starting to enjoy teasing her friend. ‘They gave me their numbers. They said that if I wanted someone faithful to share my life with just to give them a bell because they more than hinted that you can’t be trusted. How did they describe you? Ah yes … “a bit of a goer…” I think that was the phrase.’

  ‘Oh my God! Did anyone else see us?’

  ‘It was a packed sunny day on Brighton beach in the half-term holiday. What do you think, Kelly? It wasn’t at all attention-grabbing. You blended in like a little wallflower … singing rugby songs; snoring on your back in the sand; dribbling and being carried over the shoulder of a huge lesbian in leather and chains, covered in more rivets than the Titanic!’

  ‘What happened with the children? How were they?’

  ‘Are they talking to you yet? Last time I saw them they were in a stupefied silence and I feared for their sanity.’

  ‘They were a bit quiet and kept tiptoeing around me but I thought it must be because I was like a bear with a sore head. Do you think I’ve scarred them for life?’ Kelly whined.

  ‘Well, so long as you don’t make a habit of it … I expect they’ll be OK. Kids are very resilient. Alan was surprised you were drinking in the day though.’

  ‘You told Alan!? Oh my God! I’m never leaving the house again!’ Kelly put the phone down. It seemed that she’d had enough embarrassment for one day. Mel was relieved because she really couldn’t handle all this this morning. It was too early for her. She just wanted to switch off her inner worries about her friend and watch the very weird gentleman covered entirely by tattoos and huge fat body piercings that had just appeared on the telly. This man could barely talk because his tongue was so heavy with piercings that it was lolling out and kept catching on his lip piercings. It was like watching someone macramé with their skin. Really quite fascinating.

  Two cups of coffee and plenty of voyeurism later, Mel decided that she’d better actually do a bit of housework and some shopping. She hated housework and shopping. Housework seemed pointless because the place always got messed up again and food shopping was equally so because it all got eaten. She really missed work. She hated being referred to as:

  a) Housewife

  b) Domestic engineer

  or

  c) Homemaker.

  She wondered why she had been sent to school at all. She could have started this lark at a much earlier age and never have had to suffer sleepless nights working for exams or waiting for their results. She could have had a great time bunking off and then found some nice rich man to settle down with and start breeding in her teens. Then she might have been satisfied with the joys of vacuum cleaning, dusting and ironing. She doubted it though. She always marvelled at people who were organised in their cleaning. These people who had no clutter and houses that glowed with care and love and polish. Mel was hopelessly sentimental about decluttering and she was also paranoid that the people at the rubbish tip were going to sift through all her litter and pinch her identity. She was convinced that if she threw a receipt or card statement away the next moment there would be someone else called Simkins in Detroit, Vancouver or Dubai buying out entire shopping malls.

  Anyway … she chucked out things which didn’t contain sensitive information and then decided to go and get some food in.

  She took a deep breath before going into the supermarket. Perhaps if she thought about it in a different way … you know … like they teach you in Cognitive Behavioural Therapy. Yes … think positive … She was so lucky … indeed blessed … that all she had to do to get food and drink and the luxuries and basics of life was to go to a shop. She didn’t have to hunt for and/or grow food. She didn’t have to trek for miles to get water from a muddy hole full of cholera and malaria-infested mosquitoes and then carry the plague-ridden soup back balanced on her head. She reprimanded herself for bemoaning her fate. Only the decadent could afford to be bored. Only the spoilt could moan about the ease of getting their daily bread from a supermarket and not even having to worry about finding the cash to pay for it. She was so rich that she didn’t even need to count money. Just a plastic card and ‘Bob’s your uncle’.

  18

  The kitchen was still only half finished despite the assurances she had been given that they would have it done in a jiffy. The Portaloo was still in the front garden so every passer-by could see and hear the procession of builders going in and out of it all day. The builders seemed to need a massive amount of tea and coffee. Pipes ended in mid-air and Mel was taking her life in her hands venturing in to do anything more complicated than making hot drinks. Even this humble pursuit was beleaguered with difficulty. Trying to climb over plumbers and getting harpooned by pipes and tangled electrical wiring was just the tip of the iceberg. Finding sugar, milk, tea, coffee, cups, spoons … this was a real challenge. Then there was the problem of intermittent water and electricity supply. The fridge held questionably safe food now because its electricity supply had been cut off inadvertently and the thing had defrosted, leaving water all over the floor. Luckily, there was a freezer in the car port, but then Mel had the problem of how to cook its contents. She was wondering if it might just be easier if they put up a tent in the front garden as well. Then they could use the Portaloo and cook on a camping stove and completely forget about the unfolding disaster inside the house. Mel felt weak. Alan wasn’t home till God knows what time and she was finding it difficult to keep nagging at the builders to hurry up and get on with it. She was fed up with harping on that she felt that at £70,000, the work should have been finished by now. Alan was too tired to even walk into the kitchen when he came home at some unholy hour. He had taken to eating out. Mel and the kids were generally living on takeaways. The noise, mess and dust was driving her mad.

  Because there was nothing to cook on, Mel loaded the trolley with tins, fruit and bread. She was definitely going to put the tent up and get the camping stove out … in the back garden, not the front. Perhaps she could make this experience
fun after all.

  19

  ‘Mummy!’ shouted Amy as she ran from the classroom to give Mel a hug. ‘Molly’s party’s next week. Can I go? Please!?’ She was waving an invitation frantically in the air.

  Michael came out next. He looked a bit down in the dumps. Michael’s teacher called Mel over.

  ‘Is Michael all right? He seems a bit reserved at the moment,’ observed the teacher. Mel could tell that the teacher was trying to get some juicy information about Michael’s home life and she immediately felt she had done something wrong, that the devastated kitchen was turning her son into a deprived and scarred child. Apparently a mother’s middle name is ‘Guilt’. It was certainly true in Mel’s case.

  ‘No. Everything’s OK at home, isn’t it, Michael? He’s probably just feeling strange being back at school.’ Mel looked at Michael who returned her gaze wanly. He resembled some poor Dickensian orphan. Mel smiled sympathetically at Michael and thanked the teacher profusely for caring about her child.

  ‘What’s the matter, Michael? You do look a bit sad. Tell Mummy what’s wrong,’ pleaded Mel.

  ‘Mummy, I don’t like Algy. He’s nasty and horrible,’ answered Michael, looking down at the ground as they walked along. The tips of his ears were reddening, as they always did when he was trying not to cry. ‘I’m sorry, Mummy. I know you …’

  ‘What has he been doing to you, darling?’ Mel struggled to stop herself from going back to the school gate there and then and grabbing Algy by the hair for bullying her baby. Better still, she could get his mother’s false nails and yank them off before inserting them up her stupid, turned-up, nasty, snobby little nose.

  ‘It’s all right, Mummy. He hasn’t hit me,’ added Michael bravely. This made Mel’s heart squirm into a tight knot and she actually felt physical pain in her chest as she clenched and unclenched her fists. Poor little Michael. He was being so brave and trying to protect her feelings. She hadn’t brought him into the world to be taunted and stepped upon and made miserable by others. How dare anyone hurt her little boy?!

  ‘Has he been saying nasty things to you, Michael?’

  No answer. Michael kept walking, head down.

  ‘Yes, Mummy. Algy keeps telling Michael he looks like a girl and some of the other boys are laughing about it,’ piped up Amy.

  Amy (tough, insect-wielding Amy, who had made her brother eat snails) gently placed her arm around her brother and kissed him on the cheek.

  ‘I heard them, Mummy. And I hit Toby because he keeps trying to trip Michael over.’

  ‘Is that why his nose was all red?’ enquired Mel. She felt a surge of pride, love and admiration for both her children. They were courageous; they were loyal and, underneath all the sibling rivalry rubbish, they loved each other very much.

  ‘Maybe. I don’t know,’ answered Amy meekly.

  ‘I’m not cross, Amy darling! I’m very proud of you for sticking up for your brother. Very, very proud!’

  ‘Really, Mummy? But I thought it was naughty to hit people. The teacher told me off and …’

  ‘It’s true that you shouldn’t just hit people for the sake of it. But you did it to defend Michael. That’s very different. Did you tell the teacher why you did it?’

  ‘No, Mummy. She was shouting too much and I didn’t know what to say.’ Amy looked at Mel, tears dripping onto her cheeks.

  ‘Right. I’m going to have a word with the headmistress tomorrow! How dare they allow bullying to go on in their school! I’ve a good mind to make Algy and Toby stand in the middle of the hall so that everyone can call them names. That should deal with the bullying. Nasty little toerags!’ Mel was seething.

  She pulled them both to her in a hug. She knew at that moment that she would lay her life down in an instant for her children. When they were hurt, so was she. When she was young and was bullied, she’d felt powerless, no one would listen to her in the school or do anything about it. Now she was an adult, there was no way she was allowing it to happen to her little ones. What was the matter with that Algy boy anyway?

  ‘Let’s go into town for an ice cream, shall we?’

  ‘Yay, Mummy!’ they both sniffed.

  ‘I love you both very much you know. If anyone ever does anything to you, you must let Mummy know and I’ll do everything in my power to make it better, OK?’ Her voice was catching as she felt her viscera twisting with love for them and indignation for any unkindness they might suffer.

  ‘Right. Ice cream here we come.’

  ‘Mummy, why don’t we have a kitchen? Where’s it gone?’ asked Michael when they returned to the house later, full of ice cream and milkshake floats.

  ‘We’re having a new kitchen put in. Remember, baby?’

  ‘But it’s been days and days and days,’ added Amy.

  The kids were right, of course. It had been many days and the place looked like a bomb had hit it. She really would have to talk to the builders’ boss tomorrow because she felt they were taking the mick rather. Probably thought they could mess her around because they never saw Alan. It was always the same dealing with builders, plumbers, car dealers, mechanics, etcetera. They always thought they were superior to her. She was a ‘girl’ and they were ‘boys’. They were doing ‘boy’ things and therefore she wouldn’t understand anything about it. It had been like that when Mel had gone to buy her first car when she and Alan had first started seeing each other. They were only students then and she’d just inherited a little bit of money. She decided to buy a second-hand car, so Alan went with her. ‘Honestly, Mel,’ he’d told her, ‘they will try to take you in if you’re a girl on your own. I’ll come with you and make sure you get a good deal.’

  And, sure enough, the salesman came up to them as they looked at the cars in the yard and (totally ignoring Mel, who had opened the conversation) looked at and conversed only with Alan. ‘Excuse me. I’m buying the car!’ Mel had protested.

  The salesman sneered, ‘OK, so what type of car do you want?’

  ‘A pink one,’ said Mel, in her most commanding, don’t-mess-with-me tone.

  20

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Mel reassured the children. ‘We’ll get this kitchen finished in a couple of days at most.’

  The children appeared rather sceptical and Mel could see why, if she was brutally honest with herself. The microwave was on the dining room table, as were the kettle and the toaster. The sink was a plastic bowl with a bare pipe and tap fitting over it. There was no cooker, no washing machine, no dishwasher. There were no cupboards, work tops or even a floor that could be walked upon safely. It wouldn’t have looked out of place on the set of Slumdog Millionaire or in the war zone of Helmand Province. But Mel swept all doubt aside. Tomorrow she would confront Gordon, the building team leader. She would give him an ultimatum. She would be like Boudicca. She would sort out Gordon, Algy, Poppy, the school and Big Swinging Dick from the States if she had to. All she had to do was a bit of yoga and eat some superfoods and she’d be a new woman.

  ‘Kids! It’s bathtime. Up the stairs with you, please.’

  ‘But it’s daytime. Look! It’s light outside!’ protested Amy. That was the trouble with summertime of course. Children are programmed to night and day as our ancestors were. They get up with the lark always … and go to bed as the dusk falls … well, sometimes. Clocktime means absolutely nothing to them. Mel thought really that this is how it should be for all of us. We were all controlled and moulded into a virtual world by clocks and artificial light well before virtual reality, as we now perceive it, came along. If we could be so well brainwashed by artificial light and clocks into fighting our natural circadian rhythm, then Mel shuddered to think what virtual reality, computer-style, might make us do. Now was not the time to philosophise however.

  ‘It is bedtime, though. If you look at the clock, it says seven o’clock.’ She pointed to the seven to persuade the children that this was the case, but it was a pretty meaningless thing if she thought about it. The children were completely non-plussed
. Well, at least it meant that they might not become adults who would just follow orders to commit horrendous acts in the future. But, she was tired and didn’t really want to get into any democratic discussions for now. Now, she had to be Stalin, ‘Bath! Now!’

  So up went the children, dragging their feet. Michael copied Amy, staggering from one stair to the next like someone with lead boots, arms hanging down in front, gorilla-style.

  Finally she put Michael to bed, giving him an extra long cuddle, hoping that it would be enough to soothe all the hurt of the past day and bolster him up to cope with future knocks and slights. Then she went into Amy. Amy was sitting on the floor talking to some unseen being.

  ‘Anyway, Willy…’ she was saying, ‘I bet you wouldn’t send your babies to bed when it was still light. I bet you would want them to learn to catch flies as much as they could before they grew up and …’

  ‘Amy … time for bed, love. Who are you talking to?’

  ‘You know, Mummy! You met him at the shop. He frightened those nasty witch ladies and made them get taken away in the ambulance!’ chirped Amy.

  ‘Ah, yes!’ Mel smiled. And faith that the future could be bright and that nothing was insurmountable grew within her as she cuddled Amy and tucked her into bed. At the door she turned and winked conspiratorially at Amy’s eight-legged friend and Willy winked back!