Most of our pupils get changed into smart-casual clothing. Some of the girls are wearing vast amounts of makeup whilst others go for the natural look. The boys are mostly wearing black leather jackets. I have forgotten to bring in a spare change of clothes. I blame Kathleen. I have a choice between cycling clothes and a dark suit. I decide to head to Zara. I buy a black cocktail dress as at least I can wear it on another occasion. I try it on in the fitting room and wonder when that next occasion will be. We have barely been invited to anything these past few months. Word must have got around that we are the new social pariahs on the block.
Chapter 28
Half-Term
I stumble home at about 11 pm on Friday night; it’s late and I feel guilty for leaving Michael with Kathleen for such a long day. At least it’s the weekend and it is also half-term. I am not ready to go upstairs. I sit down at the kitchen table with my laptop and a cup of tea. I search for discreet hidden cameras that are idiot proof. I select and buy a tiny “nanny card” which can easily be inserted into a teddy bear or an ornament. It has to arrive before I leave for Sussex, otherwise I won’t go. I have arranged to stay with my parents and the twins for two nights (Wednesday and Thursday inclusive). Kathleen will hold the fort, if I haven’t sacked her by then. She’s going to stay with her sister, Roisin, from Saturday until Tuesday; this will give me the time to fit the hidden camera and test it out. Maybe Rosie can help me with this; after all, it was her idea. I look around our open-plan kitchen-diner-cum-sitting room and start doing a recce. We have two bookshelves at the far end; both of these have ornaments on them, and stacks of books. There’s also a small teddy bear, wearing a jumper with “I love Brighton” on it. It belongs to Olivia. Either way, there are no shortage of places for my subterfuge. Or I could just hide it in plain sight.
Michael’s mobile is charging next to the bread bin. He hasn’t used it for ages. I have a look at his Life360 which tracks his every move as it does mine. We are connected. He has been all over the place: The Day Centre, Waitrose, the tube station, the local village shops, Hampstead and finally to the Ten Pin Bowling Alley near Tavistock Square. It takes me a few seconds to realise that Kathleen has been using Michael’s phone to track my whereabouts. I have underestimated her.
I walk up the stairs and go straight to the bathroom. It has never looked so clean. I open the cabinet to take out some Nurofen. Kathleen has reorganised my toiletries in height order and put the medicines in a zip-lock bag. I am surprised she has found the time to do this. I brush my teeth and retire to Olivia’s bedroom; there’s no point waking up Michael. There’s a note with the receipts from today’s activities on Olivia’s bedside table. I can see that a hoover has been dragged over the carpet and the bed has been remade with hospital corners. I am reminded that Kathleen used to be a nurse. I am not sure how I am going to approach this intrusion; it’s hard to reprimand someone who has cleaned the room and tidied up the mess. I lie in the bed reading through all my text messages. Emma is restarting her book club. Do I want to re-join? Do I even have the time? There’s a message from my mother who wants me to bring down some warmer clothes for the twins (she is also looking forward to seeing me) and several from Olivia saying that she misses me. There’s one from Eddie, updating me on his and Olivia’s forthcoming travel plans. They’ve decided to work in a ski resort in France. At least it’s not far away and the only cost will be the flights. I hope he’s right about this.
It’s now 1.35 am I think it’s too late to send replies. I am feeling restless and the music from the school disco is still reverberating in my ears; it was far too loud. I start to pace up and down Olivia’s room. I am like a lion in a cage with little to do and nowhere to go. I open the drawers; everything is too neat; too well folded; too colour-coded. This is not Olivia’s handiwork. I feel a sense of outrage and indignation on my daughter’s behalf. I am desperate to go into Eddie’s room, to see what the interloper has been up to in there. I know I can’t just go barging in. Pity Roisin lives in Kilburn not Kildare. I fear that I won’t have the time to conduct a thorough investigation. This is all very much out of my comfort zone.
On Saturday morning, I wake up at 10.45 am with the bedside lamp still on. Kathleen is occupying the kitchen, allegedly making pancakes for Michael and herself. The first interviewee is arriving in fifteen minutes. I am not dressed and Kathleen is not out. I rush upstairs to the bedroom and grab some clothes. I see that someone has invaded my wardrobe as well as Olivia’s. She has made a small pile of garments for charity; there’s a question mark on my favourite pair of ripped jeans. I can’t believe the audacity of the woman. I put on as many of the clothes from the “charity” pile as I can and dump the remainder into the bottom of the tall cupboard. I will decide who gets what and when. I tie my hair back into a ponytail (it needs a wash and this will conceal that for a while); put on some lipstick and rush back down the stairs again. Michael is sitting at the table like a good boy, eating up his pancakes. It’s five to eleven and Kathleen is still faffing around in my space. I thank her for her troubles; give her the difference between the £30 I gave her and the £57 she spent yesterday, and encourage her to make the most of her free time. I am far from subtle and she is far from obliging. We reach a state of impasse.
The doorbell rings and I know it must be Irena, the young Polish woman from the agency. It’s exactly eleven o’clock. I rush to the door, stumbling over my own shoes, and open it somewhat breathlessly. The woman is young, pretty, blonde and Polish. She is inappropriately dressed for an interview and isn’t wearing a coat despite the incessant rain. She comes straight into the open-plan living area and asks for a towel. She confidently introduces herself first to Michael and then to Kathleen whilst attempting to dry herself. “You are the Grandma, no?” This is enough to send the Irish woman into a spin. “And you are the prostitute, yes?” the retort is a poor imitation of Irena’s Eastern European accent. They hate each other on sight. Irena pulls up a chair next to Michael, and starts showing him photographs of her family: her mother, her father and her two younger sisters. They could all be models. Michael enjoys the attention from the attractive blonde. He tells her that he had a Polish client once, from a city starting with a K, but he can’t remember its name. He can’t recall anything much but there’s a trace of a memory which he is desperately trying to retrieve from the locked filing cabinet in his brain. The conversation is a bit stilted but at least they’re having one. I know that I still love Michael because I don’t feel remotely jealous. I am glad that he is enjoying Irena’s company. He deserves to have some happiness.
I interrupt Irena’s flow and suggest we “walk and talk” as I show her around the house. It won’t take long. It’s hasn’t got any bigger. As we reach Eddie’s room, Kathleen emerges, clutching her overnight bag which is bursting at the seams like her. I stand to the side, waiting for her to move out of the way. I’m almost back on the Jubilee Line, letting the passengers off first. Even the thought makes me short of breath. Kathleen has lived with us long enough to know when I am stressed and suffering; she seems to take some pleasure out of it. Eventually she gives way and says she will miss Michael whilst she is “residing” in Kilburn. I wonder if she is genuinely fond of him. Maybe I shouldn’t judge her so harshly. Her references were all excellent. I leave Irena in Eddie’s room, and escort Kathleen back down the stairs and out of the house. I can’t think of anything to say that won’t provoke an argument so I just stand there, waiting for the pre-emptive strike. I don’t know why I am so acquiescent in her presence. I suppose no one can be in charge all of the time; it’s so exhausting. Kathleen, who is a few inches taller than me, looks me up and down, and places her booted foot over my bare one. She doesn’t put her weight on it; it’s just hovering there, letting me know that I am not her superior. I should move but I can’t. I just wait for her to leave.
I watch the interloper walk down the mews and fade into a small blob. I am relieved that I won’t see
her until Tuesday night. I call Irena down and the three of us drink tea at the kitchen table. She takes hers black with one sugar. We talk about her experience and the number of hours that she is available. She can’t do the nights as she lives with her fiancé; he’s in construction and I get the impression that he is overbearing and possessive. He won’t allow her to stay in anyone else’s house. This is a huge setback. We exchange details and I tell her that I will be in touch on Monday morning. I ask Michael what he thinks of Irena. He looks me straight in the eyes and asks me if he has had sex with her. I immediately realise that he can’t have what he wants. I need to rethink this. What’s so terrible about someone who has OCD and organises your cupboards? I must be overreacting. I have seen too many nasty films. The next agency interviewee isn’t coming until 3 pm
Despite the relentless rain, I persuade Michael to walk to Kenwood House with me; it our local stately home. We can pretend to be a normal couple. We walk up Haverstock Hill and back down past the Royal Free Hospital. It takes us about thirty minutes to cut across the heath and enter the Kenwood estate. The ground is soggy and the bottoms of our jeans are muddy. Michael asks me how long we have lived in the country. He likes it here. He needs a period of adjustment. He keeps saying this word. It makes him sound articulate but he is anything but coherent. He is much more energetic than he was yesterday and he doesn’t stop wittering on. I’m almost out of patience, and tired of being the person who is always responsible and sensible. We enter the house. I promise Michael that we will visit the café afterwards; this seems to be very important to him. At least he has remembered that there is one here. The custodian clicks her clicker. We have visited Kenwood hundreds of times, like most locals, so we don’t want a guidebook for £6.99.
I find some solace in looking at the Rembrandt self-portrait in the Dining Room. Michael strikes up a conversation with the custodian whose security radio is too loud. My husband doesn’t know much about art but he is a flamboyant critic today. He inadvertently gathers quite a crowd though most of them are mocking him. The words “early onset dementia” instantly silences their amusement. We aren’t a normal couple anymore. Although I know how to circumvent the gift shop, we end up in it anyway. Michael keeps picking things up that we don’t need and don’t really want: a Kenwood House bone china mug; miniature pots of jam; a tin of fudge and a reduced priced Christmas bauble in the shape of a heart. It’s the only tacky item on display. The woman behind the counter is watching Michael as if he were a kleptomaniac. Michael would never steal anything. He wouldn’t even bring home a packet of post-it notes from the office without dropping £2 into the petty cash tin first. He is an upright man. Always has been. Despite his outlandish vocabulary and his occasional temper tantrums, I don’t think an honest man becomes a dishonest man overnight. I resent the English Heritage Shop Manager. She obviously doesn’t understand what it’s like living with dementia 24/7. I can’t explain this but I have an overwhelming desire to steal something. Just to spite her. I look around the gift shop, noting the discreet cameras poised in the corners of the corniced ceilings. I am not sure what to take. I don’t want anything, of course. I don’t need anything. But my mediating circumstances are that I am fed up of being in charge; sick of being responsible and tired of making all the decisions. Nothing is paired and shared in my marriage.
The rain is driving hard which brings the visitors indoors. We are huddled together in this tiny little shop. I can see that the Shop Manager is anxious. There may be other shoplifters here, besides Michael (who isn’t one, of course). Her eyes are so closely secured onto my husband that I make the most of my window of opportunity. There’s a little rotating display with inexpensive jewellery. Nothing costs more than £30. I have a quick look around the shop; it’s absolutely heaving now. I take a pair of silver earrings and let them fall into my coat pocket. It is so easy. I choose a packet of postcards for £2.99 and queue up to pay for them, using my debit card as I only have a £20 note which she refuses to take. The Shop Manager puts the postcards into a small white paper bag, along with the receipt. I take Michael by the arm and talk about the delicious scones; jam and cream we will eat in the Kenwood café.
There’s a very long queue which tests our patience. I am convinced that I am about to be arrested. Michael needs to go to the lavatory. It is so frustrating as we are almost at the front. I am holding the tray with our pots of tea, a pot of hot water and a plate with two scones, two miniature pots of jam and a dollop of whipped cream. I make Michael wait until I have paid with cash and got a table. He scuttles off to the Gents, which is back outside, and takes ages to return. I am about to send out a search party when he is escorted back in with a very elderly gentleman who hasn’t lost his faculties like Michael. I feel it is so unfair. I run over to thank him and take my husband gently by the hand, bringing him back to our table. He is momentarily The Tiger Who Came to Tea as he demolishes the food and consumes the drink. There is nothing left in the pot.
We are both still rather wet and cold. My appetite certainly isn’t satiated. I don’t recall having eaten breakfast. Michael is always ravenous these days; perhaps his medication makes him like this. I don’t know. I am no expert. And I don’t want to be either. We are about to give up our much-wanted table to another couple when the Shop Manager points at us and nods her head at the Security Guard. He is armed with a walkie-talkie. I am feeling hot and panicky. My hands are a bit clammy. I’m convinced that I am about to have a heart attack. I am a thief. I hate myself. I don’t even know why I did it. I must prepare my response. The Shop Manager rushes out of the café (and probably back to the shop; she can’t afford to leave it unattended) and the Security Manager walks very slowly up to our table. He hands me my debit card which I left inside the PIN machine.
I thank the man and decide that we should leave before my crime is discovered; besides, we have the second interviewee coming from the agency at 3 pm I wonder whether we should take an Uber back but I make the decision for us both: we will walk. He likes the countryside.
We rush home for the 3 pm interviewee only to find that he has cancelled. I put my hands into my pockets and remove the soggy tissues, my keys and the stolen earrings. I don’t want them now. I’m going to return them, next time I am in Kenwood.
Chapter 29
Bloody Sunday
I promised myself that I wouldn’t work over half-term, especially as without Kathleen, I am Michael’s only carer for the next few days. But Principal Peter has sent me an urgent directive in view of the lengthy Governors’ meeting scheduled for Monday week. His email was sent at midnight. It’s our first Education and Pastoral meeting this term and, in view of this, we need to update both our anti-bullying and healthy lifestyles policies; they all fall under my remit. He thinks we will be inspected within the year. This is the last thing I need right now. I start with the anti-bullying policy which was originally drawn up with the guidance issued by the DfE Preventing and Tackling Bullying (back in 2014). There is nothing wrong with our opening statement; I remember agonising over it last time. Until now, I have always approached our policies with detachment, even though I have two children of my own. But it feels different now.
As Michael softly sleeps, I take advantage of what is probably my only golden hour of the day. I read through the policies. The definition of bullying includes a wide variety of issues ranging from the emotional to the physical. I add a new bullet point to the list: children should not be bullied if and when they are undergoing gender reassignment. Fortunately, Joanna-cum-Jeremy has not been persecuted at all and neither have any of our other gender-fluid students. I Google another school’s website, hoping to find their well-written policies on line. I find a “good” one and print it off so that I can easily see what I need to add to ours. I know it’s cheating but there’s no point reinventing the wheel.
It’s 7.37 am now and I am on my third mug of tea though this time it’s decaffeinated. I can hear movement upstairs. My golden
hour is up. I leave the laptop on but stack my papers into a small pile on the kitchen work surface. I am going to give Michael my full attention today. I slip my bare feet back into my slippers and trudge up the stairs. Michael is standing at the top, half dressed. He looks like a demonic centaur. He has developed a bit of a paunch (for which I blame Kathleen) and his chest has sprouted a mass of knotted grey hairs. There is something animalistic about his appearance.
The house isn’t warm – it never is – and I am worried that he will catch a cold or flu. I use the sweetest voice that I am capable of; it’s usually reserved for babies and kittens. I suggest he puts on a tee shirt and a jumper or a shirt. I should have waited until I was on the small landing before I said this. I am not quite at the top of the stairs and he looks twice his normal size from where I am standing. I plead with him to return to our bedroom. I will help or I won’t help. I will do whatever he wants; whatever makes him happy. My happiness isn’t important right now. I might as well be speaking Arabic. He doesn’t seem to understand a word I am saying. I am finding it hard to sustain this baby-kitten voice; it’s not me. I am not being true to myself. I slowly manoeuvre my way up to the top of the staircase, the one before the landing which Michael is occupying with his whole bulky self. He is standing with his arms pressed against the wall on one side and the bannister on the other. He is the tank to my revolver. I change tactics. I will be Kathleen. I bet she is firm and authoritative when I am at work. I put on an Irish accent and I take on her mannerisms. He immediately shudders, hiding his face behind his hands. I say I am sorry. I am not Kathleen. I am not going to hurt you. Has she hurt you? Within seconds he is confident again, throwing his arms around and pushing me to one side. I switch from one persona to the other: the strong and formidable voice to the sweet and sympathetic one. Neither is effective. We screech at each other. He threatens me with dismissal. I am no longer welcome in his office. People don’t behave in this way. They don’t flaunt themselves in meetings wearing scanty clothing (I realise he means me). I repeat, many times, that this is our home; this is not an office; I am not his secretary; he cannot fire me; I am his wife; he is my husband. He bursts into tears but maintains his aggressive demeanour. It is distressing and confusing. I plead with him again but he is impassable. It’s not even 8 am and I have already failed.
Imprisoned by Love Page 19
