Living With It

by Lizzie Enfield

  Ben, Thursday afternoon

  ‘Alright, sir?’

  ‘Hello, sir.’

  ‘Have we missed anything, sir?’

  As I’m about to go home, a group of Year Nines greet me in the car park, fresh off a minibus from somewhere.

  Thursday afternoon seems to have come fast this week, I suppose because I took the day off yesterday. Nevertheless, I am anxious to be home. The kids have been getting to me today by being normal. It’s not their fault. It’s just the way I feel, after the trip to the audiologist yesterday. I resent them all for being regular normal kids, going on regular normal school trips.

  ‘Good trip?’ I ask, trying to hurry past towards my car.

  They appear in high spirits and in the mood for passing the time of day with a teacher. I am not.

  ‘We’ve been on our camping trip for the Duke of Edinburgh,’ says one, indicating the rucksacks on the roof of the minibus which one of the sports teachers is unstrapping.

  I say nothing.

  ‘It was freezing, sir,’ says another.

  ‘So cold I almost wanted to get in the sleeping bag with Riley,’ says someone else.

  ‘So cold our pain au chocolat froze,’ adds one of the girls.

  ‘I thought it was a Duke of Edinburgh trip.’

  ‘It was, sir,’ the girl says.

  ‘And you brought pain au chocolat?’ I wanted to say, for fuck’s sake, listen to yourself.

  She looks puzzled, takes her phone out of her pocket and begins texting – a fairly typical reaction when you try to engage pupils in conversation, especially the girls. They seem to lose interest quickly and turn to their phones; either that or they find me so fascinating and funny that they’re tweeting whatever I’ve just said. But I doubt it.

  ‘Right.’ I carry on to my car, unlock it and have just sat in the driver’s seat when my phone rings. The number is withheld but I answer, just in case it’s important.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Ben. It’s Paddy,’ I recognise his voice.

  ‘Paddy. Your number didn’t come up.’

  ‘I’m calling from work,’ he explains. ‘So how are you? How are things?’

  ‘Fine.’ I don’t speak to Paddy that often. ‘You? And Sally?’

  ‘Yes. We’re all fine. I just wondered, are you free to talk?’

  ‘I’m sitting in my car in the car park, about to go home, but I’ve got a few minutes. What’s up?’

  I can guess why he’s calling.

  ‘Well, we just wondered how you were doing, Sally and I, with the baby and that – whether you’ve got any more news or anything. Sally called last week and spoke to Maggie. She was hoping to speak to you. But I guess you’ve been busy.’

  ‘Well…’ I mirror his hesitancy. ‘We’re OK. It’s not been great, though. Iris is quite fractious and irritable and it clearly frustrates her, not being able to hear, and we’re not really getting very far with finding out what her future holds.’

  ‘I see. Do you think there is anything they can do?’

  ‘Well, there are things, but to be honest, Paddy, it’s all so bloody depressing. I’d rather not talk about it, not until we know a bit more.’

  ‘Sure.’ Paddy hesitates. ‘The thing is, I know you’ve got solicitors on board. Sally’s spoken to Isobel a couple of times.’

  I remain silent on my end of the line.

  ‘She said she’s in a bit of a state and really devastated, naturally, about what happened.’

  ‘Not as devastated as we are.’

  ‘No, but she’s pretty cut up about it, Ben. It’s not that she doesn’t feel responsible or sorry. But what can she do now?’

  ‘She can’t do anything now,’ I reply. ‘That’s the point. She could have done something before but she never did. So she’s going to have to live with being “pretty cut up” about it.’

  ‘I know. I know that. It’s just. I just thought that if you needed help, financially, I – we… we’d be more than willing to help.’

  It is, I suppose, a gesture made with good intentions, but I don’t receive it as such.

  ‘I don’t want your money, Paddy. We’re not a fucking charity.’

  ‘I’m not suggesting…’ Paddy flounders on the other end of the line. ‘It’s just that if… I mean, I realise it will be tough for you financially, and – ’

  ‘Is this to get Isobel off the hook?’ I ask. ‘Has she put you up to this?’

  ‘No, of course not. I’m just trying to help, Ben,’ Paddy replies.

  ‘Well, there’s nothing you or Sally can do,’ I snap, irritated beyond reason. ‘Iris is deaf. It’s Isobel’s fault, so, if anyone should pay for it, it’s her.’

  ‘They don’t really have any money – ’ Paddy begins, but I was not going to listen to him making excuses for her.

  ‘As I said, I don’t need your money, Paddy. Thanks for the offer, but this is between me and Isobel.’

  ‘Right.’ Paddy stalls. ‘Well, the offer’s always there.’

  I am angry now and ready to hang up. ‘If that’s all.’

  ‘Well, there was something else, actually…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look, Ben, I’m – well, we – we’re worried about you. It seems…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look, I know it must be difficult, really difficult, coming to terms with Iris’s… well, her…’

  ‘Deafness.’

  ‘Yes, her deafness. I know it’s a terrible thing to have happened, but the awful thing is, it has.’

  ‘Don’t you think I know that?’

  ‘I know – it’s just, well… We’re just worried for you, mate. I’m just saying, if you need to talk, I’m always around. I’ll come down to Croydon after work one evening, if you want.’

  ‘I don’t need to talk, Paddy. I’ve been thinking and talking about nothing else for the past few weeks. I’m done with talking about it. I’m doing something about it now.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Paddy says.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ I say, and end the call.

  I put my keys in the ignition and start my car, driving it faster around the car park than is either necessary or allowed, and I have to slam my brakes on when I round a row of cars and see the pain au chocolat girl kneeling in the middle of the tarmac laying out the contents of her rucksack.

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ I say, winding down the window.

  ‘Sir?’ She looks up, confused.

  ‘You’re in the middle of the fucking road,’ I say to her, knowing she could complain, might complain, and I don’t care.

  Isobel, Thursday afternoon

  ‘I should go now,’ I say to Sally as I hear the key in the lock and see Gabriella silhouetted through the glass. ‘Gabs is back from school.’

  ‘OK. Well, think about it,’ Sally says.

  ‘I will, and thank you, Sal,’ I say, hanging up.

  She’s offered to lend us money if we need it, depending on how things develop, now we also have a solicitor on board.

  I don’t think we should accept – although we may have to, unless I can find a job – but I’m grateful for the offer, not least because I feel I have Paddy and Sally’s support. They appear to be on our side.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I ask Gabs when she comes in. She looks upset, as if she might have been crying even. That’s not like her. She usually manages her emotions. She’s not like me; I wear mine on my sleeve. But Gabs, even when she is upset, often doesn’t show it.

  ‘Fine,’ she replies, but her voice is slightly wobbly.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I say. I know I’m guilty of going on a bit when I think there’s something up, knowing she won’t tell me unless I do.

  ‘What’s it to you anyway?’ Gabby snaps.

  Now I know something’s wrong. And she’s out of uniform again, which is odd.

  ‘You don’t look very happy,’ I say gently. ‘I’m worried about you. Has something happened? Is something wrong?’

  ‘There’s loa
ds of things wrong. I’ll be OK,’ she says.

  Vincent is in his room and Harvey is playing football after school. It’s just the two of us in the kitchen.

  ‘Do you want a cup of tea and something to eat?’ I ask my daughter.

  ‘I’ll get one,’ she says, and goes to put the kettle on.

  It’s easier for her to talk that way, I recognise that. She won’t sit down and talk to me, but she might let something out while she’s busy doing something else.

  ‘How was school today?’ I start with all the usual questions.

  ‘Fine,’ I get monosyllabic replies, until I hit a nerve.

  ‘How’s Sam? We haven’t seen him for a while.’

  Usually, since they’ve been going out, he comes home with her after school every so often and she asks if he can stay for supper.

  ‘If you must know, we’ve split up,’ Gabby says, slamming the kettle down on its base so hard that the top pops off and water sloshes over the work surface. ‘Bugger!’

  ‘But when? Why? I thought you two were getting on really well,’ I say, wanting to get up and go to her but sensing from her body language that a hug from me is not what she wants.

  ‘We were,’ she says.

  ‘Then why? Did you have an argument?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘But was it important? What was it about?’

  ‘If you must know, it was about Iris,’ she says, turning from the kettle and glaring at me. ‘I told him what had happened. I told him we were being sued. I told him none of this would have happened if he hadn’t got ill first.’

  ‘It’s not Sam’s fault, love,’ I say as gently as I can. ‘Any more than it’s yours.’

  ‘I knew you’d say that,’ Gabs shouts now. ‘That’s more or less what he said too. That seems to be all anyone is saying. It’s not your fault. It’s not my fault. It’s not their fault. Well, that’s not what Ben thinks, is it?’

  ‘Ben’s angry,’ I say.

  ‘Of course he’s fucking angry,’ Gabs screams at me. ‘Wouldn’t you be? I’m angry too.’

  She storms past me now, bumping into me hard as she heads out of the kitchen and up the stairs. I hear her sobbing as she goes, and pause a minute, thinking I will make the tea she started and take it up with me.

  She is lying on her bed, sobbing quietly, when I go up. I don’t want her to be unhappy and I worry she may be more like me than Eric after all, and be more prone to upset as a result.

  Eric has a greater capacity for happiness than I do. It’s one of the things I love about him. He accepts whatever life throws at him and makes the best of it.

  I know he doesn’t like his job. It’s not what he wanted to end up doing, though he says he’s happy doing it. ‘It’s interesting enough. I deal with something different every day and the people I work with are nice. Plus, it’s reasonably well paid.’

  He sees all the advantages and forgets the disadvantages – the long hours, the inflexible management, the fact that he hates the politics of the paper. At least he does when things are good between us. But when they become strained, so too does his ability to be happy, and resentments about his work seem to surface.

  And it’s not the first time.

  I was lucky when we first left university. I landed a job I wanted before we’d even left: I was assistant to Dinah Cohen. Her constituency was in north London and her profile was high. The job description was mainly office work – answering letters, taking calls, that sort of thing. But I knew from the interview that she was looking for someone who could do more than that: help with research, speech-writing, event-planning – and within weeks the job was so much more than it said on the tin.

  I loved it. Dinah seemed to love me. When she was given a job in the shadow cabinet I spent more time in Westminster, less in the constituency. I was happy. I loved doing what I was doing and I knew that, if I kept doing it well, I would end up where I wanted.

  But it was different for Eric. He wanted a career in investigative journalism and he had to start somewhere. For a while he was happy with his job on the Hampstead and Highgate Reporter. I occasionally fed him stories from Dinah’s office. He happily ran with them, but he was less happy with the daily round of stories about planning applications and parking restrictions. He was regularly disappointed, not just by the job but the people he was dealing with too.

  I remember one day he came home in a particularly low mood.

  ‘What’s up?’ I asked him as took a beer from the fridge and slumped in front of the TV.

  ‘I went to interview Frank Carey today,’ he told me.

  ‘Frank Carey? But you’re always loved Frank Carey. It must have been great to meet him.’

  Frank Carey was – still is – an artist with a cult following among students. When we were at university he was in South Africa, living with the ANC and producing rather lovely Impressionist-style paintings of meetings and townships which adorned mugs and T-shirts in student halls up and down the country. I had one of each. He was the sort of person everyone we knew would have been excited to meet.

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘Charming, polite,’ Eric said. ‘But disappointingly outraged over the introduction of parking charges in the lovely leafy street where he lives.’

  I laughed, but Eric was genuinely feeling let down.

  ‘He’s Frank Carey, Isobel. I was so excited about meeting him, and all we talked about was the difficulty of parking in Highgate. It’s depressing.’

  By contrast, work for me was exciting. I had what I wanted: good job, nice flat, lovely boyfriend whom I presumed I would one day marry or, if not marry, who would be my life partner.

  And Eric had two of those things, but it wasn’t enough, not then.

  I thought that sooner or later he would apply for a job at one of the nationals, or a training scheme at the BBC. I thought he would look for a better job in London. I didn’t realise he was thinking of moving elsewhere, not until a month or so later when he told me he had an interview and would be away for a night as the interview process lasted two days.

  ‘But can’t you come home in the evening?’ I asked.

  ‘It would be difficult.’

  We were having dinner in our flat, and he got up and went to get some bread when he told me, as if he didn’t quite want to face me, just as Gabriella had done earlier.

  ‘It’s in Glasgow.’

  ‘Glasgow?’

  ‘Yes, Glasgow. BBC Scotland, which is based in Glasgow.’

  There. It was out there.

  ‘So you’re going to leave me?’

  ‘I’m not going to leave you, Isobel. I am just applying for a job, a good job, a job I’d really like to get, in Glasgow.’

  ‘And if you get it?’

  ‘Then I’ll go and live in Glasgow for a while.’

  ‘So you would leave me?’

  ‘I may not even get the job,’ Eric said. ‘They may not want me. But I should at least go for the interview.’

  ‘And if you get it?’

  ‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.’

  I hated myself for not being more supportive, for making him feel bad about following his dream, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself doing it.

  We were hardly speaking by the time he went up for the interview, had a huge row the night before, and while he was away something happened which made me check myself, calm down a bit, take stock, look at the way I was behaving and try to behave better.

  ‘How did it go?’ I asked, when he came back.

  ‘Yes, really well.’ There was a polite guardedness to our exchange. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And when will you hear?’ I asked.

  ‘It should be in the next couple of days. Is there anything to eat?’

  ‘I’ve got a couple of steaks. I’ll cook them in a minute.’

  Eric loved steak. We hardly ever ate it. I didn’t eat a great deal of meat, for no reason other than that I didn’t really like it that much. Steak was my
peace offering.

  ‘Great.’ Eric appeared to accept it as such. ‘Thanks, Isobel.’

  ‘So how did you feel about being there?’ I felt calmer now. His going for the interview had forced me to accept that there was a real possibility he might take the job, if he got it, and the thing that had happened in his absence had left me subdued and ashamed for being so selfish.

  ‘It was good.’ Eric took a bottle of wine out of his bag. ‘Want some? It was exciting. It’s quite a big centre and there’s lots going on there. It would be a great opportunity for me. But we’ll have to wait and see.’

  ‘Listen, Eric,’ I said, ‘I know I’ve been behaving selfishly for the past few weeks and I’m really sorry. If it’s what you really want then you must take it. I will miss you, of course, but I couldn’t live with myself if I stopped you doing something you really wanted to do.’

  ‘I’m not sure that I do,’ Eric said then, pouring us both a glass of wine and taking a large swig of his.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about what it would mean if I got it. I’ve been thinking of nothing else. I was torn, Bel, over even whether to go to the interview or not, but I thought it would become clearer if I went.’

  ‘And did it?’

  ‘In a way, yes. If I got the job, I’d have a great job but I’d be away from you, away from our friends, away from my family. Having spent just the one night in a hotel in Glasgow by myself, I’m not sure that a great job would be enough. I’d miss all the other things in my life too much.’

  I turned away, unable to look at him, feeling even worse for the way I’d behaved. I almost wanted him to take it now, to punish me, if nothing else.

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ I said. ‘I feel I’ve taken the edge off your excitement. If you get it and you want it, you should take it.’

  ‘I don’t think I do, Bel,’ he said, and he came over and put his glass of wine down and kissed me. ‘I want to stay with you, more than I want the job. I realised that before I went up there.’

  ‘Even though I’ve been a selfish bitch for the past few weeks?’

  ‘Even though you’ve been a selfish bitch,’ he said, taking me in his arms and kissing me. ‘Don’t cry. It’s OK. I’m not going anywhere.’