I am in mid-flow with my Year 11 class. We are studying Seamus Heaney’s poem, “Follower”. It is not easy for me to teach. Eddie “stumbled” as a small child like Heaney did. Michael always picked up the pieces, just as Heaney’s father did for him. Now the father is the follower. It is all too familiar. Some of my pupils show great emotional intelligence and say it’s their favourite poem after “Winter Swans”. I set the class a pair and share activity so that I can stand at the back and observe. I look out of the huge window, which faces Bond Street, and spot Michael and Kathleen. They are striding towards the front entrance of the school. He is playing follow-my-leader. I am unable to control my increasing heart rate.
Within minutes, the new receptionist pops up to the classroom. We still have five minutes remaining and I am a stickler for the bell. I don’t want to hear what she’s going to say. This is my space and I don’t want Michael invading it. I thought I had made this explicit when I spoke to the agency and to Kathleen in person. The receptionist and I whisper to each other and I agree to meet Michael and “the woman” in the Randolph Room (if it’s empty). Under no circumstances is he to come up to my office. I have no idea what sort of mood he will be in. He may be harmless but he can also be violent. I am unable to regain my poise and confidence. The lesson deteriorates and the pupils start chatting amongst themselves. I don’t think they’re talking about the poems anymore. I say hello to Michael and confront Kathleen. She is defensive and belligerent. She reminds me that he’s my husband and he wanted to see me. I remind her that she’s his carer and I’m paying her to look after him. The atmosphere is tense and unpleasant. I resent being undermined at work. There is no stopping Kathleen. She even lectures me about being a good wife whilst stuffing her face with chocolate biscuits. I reprimand her, as if she were a member of my staff. She firmly takes Michael’s hand, as if he were her child, and ushers him out. He turns his head and says: it’s hard having two wives. I am unable to concentrate for the remainder of the day. I telephone the agency and complain about Kathleen. I am in no rush to go home. In fact, I am dreading it. Now that I think of it, Kathleen reminds me of the overbearing maternity nurse we used immediately after the twins were born. There were complications. Nothing particularly unusual. She was bossy and imperious but we endured her because we felt life without her would be worse. We found out after she left. Kathleen reminds me of her. She has the same curly dyed orange hair and the same brazen personality.
In the evening, I return to find that Kathleen has made dinner: stir fried chicken, vegetables in chilli and lime and noodles. At least I haven’t come home to a boiling rabbit. I am not sure if this is her way of saying sorry. Perhaps I have overreacted. I apologise and she does too. But the atmosphere is still tense. Our house is too small for an interloper. We really have to get on. As we eat, I start to think about Greenbank and all of its advantages. Michael could be happy there. He isn’t happy here. After dinner, Kathleen loads the dishwasher. I ask Michael if he wants to watch something on television; we haven’t seen anything for ages. He grabs all three of the remote controls: one is for the sound bar; one is the Sky remote and the other is just for the television. It is faintly ridiculous. He starts frantically pressing the buttons. I let him fumble around for a while. I am not trying to humiliate him. I am trying not to emasculate him.
I rarely have the opportunity to vegetate so I just take the remote-control back from my ham-fisted husband. I know it’s not his fault and I do not pass judgement. We cannot switch the television on because someone will be watching us; this is probably not as ludicrous as it sounds. He is totally paranoid these days. I press a button and MasterChef comes on; it’s about their fiftieth series. I haven’t seen it for years but it hasn’t changed. I try to have a conversation about the contestants and how difficult some of the dishes are but Michael is unresponsive. He is hungry again and asks me when we’re having supper. I tell him that we have all eaten. We give up on the programme as neither of us can concentrate. Kathleen has gone to Kilburn to see her sister, Roisin. We agree to meet in the kitchen at 6.30 am in the morning!
Michael and I go upstairs. We have the house to ourselves. We both go to the bathroom as Kathleen has strongly suggested that we brush our teeth at the same time. He has been complaining of toothache lately. I still haven’t been to the dentist. I am beginning to neglect myself. It’s a bit too early to be in bed but after not watching television, I feel like reading. We are, or were, both avid readers. I am reading a collection of short stories at the moment; it is more manageable than a long novel right now. I offer to read out loud. The story is too complicated for Michael to follow but he doesn’t mind listening. He lies on his back, on top of the duvet, whilst I nestle underneath it. I notice that he has a small burn on his wrist. I wonder how he got it. I read for ages, hoping that my soporific voice will send him to sleep. I can hardly focus on the pages as the print is getting smaller and more blurred as I try to continue. I need to go to the optician as well as the dentist. I’m forty-nine and probably need glasses.
I’m just about to settle down in Olivia’s room when something triggers off a car alarm; it’s a deafening sound. It stops for a brief moment and starts up again a minute later. Most people are probably eating dinner or watching television; it isn’t late. I return to the bathroom to fetch some earplugs and squish them in as hard as I can; they ineffective and I still can’t drown out the noise. I toss and turn in bed for at least two hours. The alarm is stubborn and refuses to cut out. Michael is snoring. It’s only 10 pm but I am so tired now that I am too exhausted to fall asleep. It doesn’t make sense. I decide to get dressed in my navy joggers and navy hoodie. I fetch a hammer from the kitchen drawer and stuff it up my right sleeve and go outside. It has only ever been used to bash in picture hooks, not people’s cars. No one is around. At first, I can’t see the offending vehicle. I follow the noise all the way down the mews and out towards the village shops. At least I probably won’t know the owner. I am so sleep deprived that it doesn’t take much for me to lose control. It is as if there’s a little voice in my head, goading me into committing my first crime. I let the hammer fall out of my sleeve and grasp it tightly. I tap the red back lights on both sides, and to my satisfaction, they instantly shatter. At least now there’s a reason for the alarm; this is how I justify my irresponsible actions. I run back home, as if I were a jogger in the rain. Kathleen is letting herself in through our door. I hope she hasn’t seen me.
My alarm wakes me at 6 am It is much too early and I am not at all rested. I am faintly amused at my dream. But I get a rude awakening when I spy my tracksuit draped over the chair, and the hammer placed at an angle on Olivia’s dressing table. It takes a few seconds for me to realise that I have committed an offence. I can’t explain it but I have an incredibly strong urge to tell someone; I suppose this is how criminals eventually get caught. I don’t want to confide in Kathleen. I think she is more Alex Forrest than she is Mary Poppins. We talk for a few minutes and plan Michael’s day. He enjoys the quizzes at the Day Centre so she will take him there. One of the care workers from Greenbank is going to come in the evening, to assess him, so I need to be back on time for that. It’s important. I am not sure if I can tolerate Kathleen for much longer.
She comments on the “blessed car alarm”. I don’t respond. I can’t be bothered to indulge her. Besides, she is no Priest and she isn’t going to force a lousy confession out of me. I’ll tell Abbas instead. Or Annie. Or Emma or Rosie. Anyone but Kathleen. I don’t feel like cycling this morning. I walk down the cobbled mews until I reach the vandalised car. Several people are shaking their heads with contempt. I decide not to say anything. I don’t want to look too interested or too disinterested. I am not sure how to behave. I still want to tell someone.
Chapter 27
Social Pariahs
Rosie sends me a text, offering to buy me a coffee at the Sotheby’s café in Bond Street; it’s a stone’s throw from my school and she w
ill be in the area today. We agree a time, subject to my not being dragged into a meeting or put on cover. My morning is full of tedious tasks and very little teaching; this gives me the freedom to go out. I am only answerable to Principal Peter (and the Governors who aren’t coming in until after half-term). Although it’s still cold and damp outside, I purposely leave my suit jacket on the back of my chair; this makes it looks as if I am somewhere in the building. I have to formally sign out though – in case there’s a fire alarm or even a real fire – but the chances of that are miniscule. I walk down to Sotheby’s. I always forget how luxurious and civilised it is in there. And there are no bells or noisy teenagers scrabbling up and down the stairwells. Rosie is already in situ, sipping a raspberry infused tea that smells as inviting as it looks. I order a café latte.
I express an interest in wandering around the sale rooms as I know that there’s an Impressionist sale next Tuesday. We scamper up the carpeted stairs and observe the art as if we are potential buyers with millions to invest. The suited and booted custodians in the rooms – all of whom are probably Art History graduates from first-rate universities like Bristol or Exeter, greet us politely. They look bored stiff. They’re too young to be confined to temperature-controlled rooms holding walkie-talkies. As we view the marvellous Monets and the magnificent Manets, I update Rosie about the in-house carer. She doesn’t much like the sound of her and suggests I buy a webcam or install a secret camera; she says you can’t be too careful with “these sorts of people” but I am not entirely sure I understand what she means. She mentions her late grandmother, and an overzealous nurse, but I sense that she doesn’t want to expand on this. I don’t encourage her though she has got my attention. We end the rendezvous with a long stare at the beautiful Monet painting; it’s one of his Giverny garden series. I would like to step into it and stay there. I enjoy our flights of fancy into the art world but afterwards find Rosie’s comments about the webcam ricocheting around my head.
Back at school, everyone is gearing up for the Valentine’s Day disco. It’s tomorrow evening. Two hundred and fifty tickets have been sold. Stacks of food and soft drinks have already been delivered and stored in a locked room. We have a staff meeting at 4.15 pm It’s mostly centred on the party and the security arrangements which we need to put in place. Apropos of this, Joe is also present at the meeting. I am quite pleased to see his ginger cat; in some ways, I prefer it to Joe. A conversation ensues about dog-people and cat-people; it’s as trite as it sounds. Principal Peter asks the staff to raise their hands if they’re coming tomorrow night; he can easily see who is volunteering his or her time and who has a life outside school. Abbas has a friend in catering who has kindly agreed to lend us his industrial sized chocolate fountain. Joe is concerned about the additional clearing up that this will create. I suppose he has a point. The meeting ends at about 5.45 pm which is a bit earlier than usual. Slap-bang into the middle of the rush hour. No one is celebrating.
I walk up to Oxford Street and catch a 13-bus straightaway. I click on the messages on my mobile; there are three from Kathleen and one from my friend, Emma. I read Kathleen’s three messages first. They’re concise professional updates, informing me about Michael’s visit to the Day Centre; how he enjoyed the music quiz and finally, that he slipped over in the kitchen when he got home. No broken bones. I text her back, thanking her for the update, and say I will be home soon. I also tell her where the ice-packs are kept. I pop into the M & S in Swiss Cottage, to buy some salmon and fresh vegetables. I don’t recall discussing supper with Kathleen. She is not contracted to for cook us. Besides, I don’t mind a bit of domestic therapy. I have forgotten to read Emma’s message; it will have to wait. I try the landline; her mobile and my father’s mobile. They all go to voicemail; they are probably at the cinema or the theatre. At least I hope they’re having more fun than I am.
I’m just about to put my key in the lock when Matt (the neighbour) opens his door and comes out to speak to me. He has heard raised voices emanating from my house. I ask him to elaborate but he can’t. He was watching Peaky Blinders at the time. I thank him for his concern. It is so dark that it feels like 9 pm though in reality it is only 7. I put the shopping bag for life onto immaculate work surface and start removing my purchases. Kathleen is wearing my pink and white “Best Mum” apron and my new red oven gloves; they both clash with her frizzy orange hair. I am reminded of an orangutan I saw in the Berlin zoo. There’s a large cottage pie in the oven which has two minutes left on the oven clock. Her timing is immaculate. I wonder how she manages this. She takes it upon herself to fetch Michael from our bedroom so that I have time to “freshen up”. It’s not a phrase I particularly like. I decide to stay as I am. Michael and I sit down with the interloper. She’s still wearing my apron; it was a birthday present from the twins. I ask Michael what he did at the Day Centre. Kathleen tells me that he enjoyed the quiz and his team came third (out of four). Michael is a bit subdued. I try to lift his spirits by telling him about the Valentine’s Disco at my school. Kathleen thinks it would be a “grand” opportunity for us to spend some quality time together. I say it’s really just for teenagers and that I am on duty all evening. I feel mean. I say “We’ll see” though I don’t really mean it.
I decide to leave her to do the clearing up. She might as well feel completely at home here. I sit on the sofa and read today’s Times. Michael hovers around and I pat the cushion next to me, intimating that he should join me. I find his submissive behaviour rather strange since until now he has been so belligerent. I wonder whether Kathleen is dosing him up with sleep-inducing antidepressants. I vow to check this, insofar as I can. I ask Michael if he’s all right. He needs to watch a film. It’s a “work” thing. I am not sure I can ever get used to his new euphemisms. Kathleen couldn’t make more noise with the cutlery if she tried to; this is when I regret the modern mania for open-plan living. We trawl through the film options on Sky. I say I don’t mind what we watch though I am disappointed when he chooses Shrek. I can see Kathleen smirking. She will have a rest upstairs now that everything is “under control”. I am beginning to resent having this patronising woman in my house. Michael cuddles up close to me and we find comfort with one another under a plush blanket; it has been too long. I wonder if this might be a good moment to abandon the film and go upstairs. But I am too subtle for him.
The film is much longer than I remembered. Eventually we retreat and start our evening routine. I don’t know why but I feel fiercely protective of Michael tonight. I hand him a set of clean pressed pyjamas. He is reluctant to change in front of me which is the latest indication that he is a changed man. I run a bath with lots of bubbles and ask him if he wants to go in first. I can have the second bath or we can share it like we used to. It’s big enough. I start getting undressed, folding my clothes up carefully, whilst he stands there staring at me. It is unnerving. I am an amoeba under his microscope. I try coaxing him into changing; after all, he has been in the Day Centre and there is evidence of his lunch and supper all down his sweatshirt. I step into the bath anyway. I feel bloated from the cottage pie that I didn’t want and ate out of politeness. Michael refuses to take his clothes off but gets into the bath regardless. If he didn’t have dementia, it would be like a sketch out of Monty Python. But he has, so it isn’t.
Between us, we are too heavy for the amount of water in the tub; it overflows onto the tiled floor. We haven’t locked the door and I momentarily forget that Kathleen is in Eddie’s room. I screech at Michael but instead of getting out, he stretches his long-clothed legs, pushing his feet into my stomach. Hard. My lower back is pressed right up against the hot and cold taps. I yell noisily though I instantly wish that I hadn’t. Michael’s Fairy Godmother is in our bathroom. I shriek at her to get out but I might as well be a child. She is here for Micky (!) “the poor thing”. She will attend to him. She cajoles him out of the bath; undressing him bit-by-bit and tenderly wrapping him up in my large beige bath sheet. Kathleen passe
s me the hand towel which is woefully in adequate and already damp. I run out of the room, feeling humiliated and embarrassed. I wonder why my husband is so acquiescent with her and yet so violent towards me. I am glad the twins aren’t here to witness this debacle. But I am not too busy to miss them.
A few minutes later, Kathleen knocks on my bedroom door; it’s an empty gesture. She has seen everything now. She presents me with a clean and respectable overgrown child wearing pyjamas, a blue dressing gown and slippers. He looks like an actor in Peter Pan. Michael walks into our room, muttering incoherently. We hug each other and I reassure him that everything is going to be all right. I close the door firmly and lock it. I briefly wonder again whether our marriage will be rekindled but he falls asleep with alarming speed. I envy him for that.
Although Michael snores relentlessly, I endure the din. I refuse to give Kathleen the satisfaction of knowing that I can no longer sleep with my own husband. I manage to doze off a few hours though I wake up long before the alarm. I tiptoe into the bathroom and lock the door. We have never gone in for locked doors; it’s not second nature to me yet. I am reminded of last night’s indignity and can’t wait to go to work. I am mindful that we haven’t discussed Michael’s schedule yet. I do not want to see her smug obnoxious face this morning; instead, I send her a courteous text, reminding her that I will be back very late. She can take Michael bowling. I think he will enjoy it, even with her. I leave £30 on the kitchen table, just in case. I sneak out of the house, with my bicycle, and pedal furiously, venting my anger with each revolution.
The atmosphere at school is light-hearted and jolly. Annie-the-art-teacher has erected beautiful decorations of Andy Warhol style hearts and lips; they’re all the way up the staircase and on every classroom door. She must have stayed late last night. I realise that for the first time in twenty years, I haven’t bought Michael a Valentine’s Day card. We have a long assembly, house meetings, a charity bake sale and about three lessons. No wonder the kids like our school. I find a few moments to telephone the agency that sent me Kathleen. I express my concern about their employee’s behaviour though I don’t mention Bath-gate. I am too mortified. I ask for some additional references and also the name of her previous employer. I follow up the telephone call with an email. As I send it, I receive a text from Kathleen. She is taking Michael bowling at 6 pm this evening and will make sure that he has supper whilst they’re out. It will be like a “date”. He was thrilled to receive the heart-shaped chocolates and the teddy-bear card that she bought. I know she is trying to provoke me so I just text her back: “Have fun” and add a smiley emoji. I will buy Michael a card later. And a box of chocolates. I’m sure he won’t buy me either.
Imprisoned by Love Page 18
