But that wasn’t why I was crying. I was crying because of the way I’d behaved in his absence.
Eric was offered the job and he turned it down. A few months later he landed a job as a trainee on the Guardian news desk. It looked better on paper than it was but he was happy, using the capacity he has to be so.
He asked me to marry him not long after. It was what I wanted but I didn’t think I deserved him, not then. I wasn’t the sort of woman for whom someone should give up something that would have made them happy.
And now my daughter’s given up someone that seemed to make her happy, and I don’t really understand why or what good it will do. I just have a sinking feeling that things are going to keep on coming. Finding out Iris was deaf was just the tip of the iceberg. Who knows what else is going to be affected?
Ben, Friday morning
I have a missed call on my mobile when I finish my Year Eight lesson and I listen to it as the Year Elevens begin to file in. The longer the kids have been at the school, the slower they are to get to their lessons. I suppose I was the same but it annoys me. These are the boys and girls who are taking their GCSEs next summer. Most of them need all the help they can get. Every second counts.
So I barely look up as they come in. Two can play at nonchalant. I’m in a bad mood, obviously. There’s no particular reason for it. Iris woke in the early hours and cried a bit, but Maggie got up and went to her and I went back to sleep. It’s just one of those days.
‘Hello, Mr Deakin?’ The speaker on my voicemail has a trace of an accent. It is Hedda. ‘I am just calling to tell you we have had a response from the Jordans’ solicitor and I need to speak to you before we proceed. If you can call me this morning, please.’
‘Sir, how long is a Pinter pause?’ Josh Foley is sitting in the desk nearest to me, watching me, waiting for me to finish listening to my message.
‘What do you mean?’ I say, pressing the End Call button and checking the time on my phone. The class should have started five minutes ago.
‘Well, Mr Poole says you should count five seconds when Pinter writes “pause” in the script and ten seconds when he writes “silence”. But that sounds a bit long to me. Is he right?’
If we were studying Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, which we are not, I’d say we were playing ‘Get the Teacher’. It’s a favourite game amongst the pupils in the upper half of the school, to pit a teacher’s opinions against those of their colleagues. ‘Sir, so and so says this. What do you think of that?’ Half the time I think they make up what the other teacher has said. They’re aware it goes against some innate code of teaching practice to undermine your colleagues, but also aware that each of us has our own opinions and, with a little stirring, they wind up one of their teachers to a pleasingly satisfactory degree.
I don’t answer Josh immediately. I continue to stare at my phone.
‘Sir?’ Josh asks again.
‘What was that?’
‘I was asking how long a Pinter pause should be. And a silence.’
‘I know you were.’ Two can play at Year Eleven games too. ‘And I paused before replying. Or was there a silence before I replied. Which do you think it was?’
The rest of the class are taking their seats now and have heard this exchange; some of them laugh. Round one of ‘Get the Teacher’: one nil to Mr Deakin, I think, and I wonder who will be the winner of round one of ‘Sue your Friends’.
I call Hedda at break.
‘We have had a response from the Jordans’ solicitor,’ she tells me again.
‘And?’
‘They deny responsibility, which we thought they would at this stage.’
‘So what happens next?’
‘I will write to them saying we hold them liable for the costs of ongoing treatment, specialist equipment, education, etcetera, and we will invite them to attend a meeting before we issue proceedings.’
‘OK.’
‘I am just calling to check you are still happy with this and wish to me to go ahead?’
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘OK, then I will do that, and also start working on the details of the damages we are seeking. I need to seek advice but realistically we are looking at a six-figure sum.’
‘Yes,’ I say, and I feel a little sick, but I know Hedda would not be taking on the case, it wouldn’t be worth her while to take it on, unless she thought she could get substantial damages.
I also know that, unless they sell their house, Isobel and Eric don’t have access to that sort of money. But that’s beside the point.
I’ve no idea how much Eric earns. He has told me his job is ‘well paid’. That was the reason he cited for taking it, this job that was peculiarly unsuited to his talents or ambitions. ‘I’ve got three kids to support now,’ he said, when he told me about it.
‘Seriously, you’re going to work on the Daily News?’ I was a little incredulous.
It wasn’t the first time I’d felt a little angry on his behalf. Vincent had just started school when he took the job. Isobel could, if she’d chosen to, have thought about going back to work in some capacity, but she’d clearly decided not to. So Eric, rather than staying at the Guardian a little longer, waiting for the promotion he hoped would come his way, had taken a sideways step, out of writing into sub-editing, on a paper which typified everything he hated about tabloid newspapers.
I felt miffed on his behalf, that he had to take a job that would close more doors than it opened. But it wasn’t the first time he’d sacrificed his own ambitions because of Isobel.
My loyalties had been divided at the time Eric applied for a job with the BBC in Glasgow. It would have been a great opportunity for him, and a job he’d have loved. It could have led to great things. He’d probably be gracing our TV screens nightly, reporting from somewhere exotic, if he’d taken it rather than staying put and then getting the job at the Guardian. But Isobel got herself in such a state about him going that he turned it down, decided to stay in London and marry her instead of following his dreams.
I hated her for doing that to him then, and I hated myself for being unsure which way to turn when they both approached me, asking what they should do.
I ended up taking a wrong turn.
Eric called me first in the week before his interview, told me his dilemma and asked if we could go for a drink. I couldn’t see the problem really. People had long-distance relationships these days. If he was really serious about Isobel then surely they could weather the couple of years that he might be in Glasgow?
I said as much to him.
Then Bel called and asked if I could go round, the night he was away for the interview.
She was in such a state when I got there, tearful, angry, beating herself up about being tearful and angry. I didn’t really know what to do so I suggested we go for a walk.
We drove to Hampstead Heath and we walked and talked. I told her what I’d told Eric – that they could weather a temporary separation – and she seemed to calm down a lot.
Then we went back to their flat for dinner. Bel cooked and she seemed happier, but then, just as I was about to go and get the tube, she got tearful again.
‘You’ve got to stop now, Bel,’ I said, putting my arms around her before I left. ‘You and Eric will be fine.’
‘Maybe,’ she said, holding me so that it was hard to extricate myself. ‘But I’ll miss him. I miss you too.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked, trying to pull away.
But she held on to me. ‘You know what I mean,’ she said. ‘It’s hard to let go of someone you’ve been close to, even if it’s the right thing to do, for their sake.’
‘We’re still close,’ I said. I was standing a few inches away from her now. ‘I really need to go now, Bel, or I’ll miss the last tube. You’ll be OK. Shall I call you when I get home?’
‘You could stay,’ she said, and she looked away as she said it, as if embarrassed by her suggestion.
‘I don’t think I should
,’ I said.
But I’d taken a step closer. Even then, even though she was living with my best friend, I still couldn’t quite let her go, couldn’t quite pass up an opportunity to be close to her – if that was what she was suggesting; I wasn’t quite sure.
‘No one will know,’ she said, taking a step closer herself, looking at me directly now, our faces only inches apart so that there was no mistaking what she was suggesting.
I held her face in my hands then and kissed her. And I didn’t think about Eric once, not even when I was lying on his side of the bed curled around his girlfriend, falling asleep having fucked her.
It wasn’t until I woke up in the morning, in the cold light of day, that the realisation of what we’d done dawned on me.
I got up awkwardly, and headed off with only a few words. I think I tried to reassure her that everything would be fine, with Eric’s job. Though, bearing in mind how we’d spent the night, it seemed unlikely that it would be, if he got it and took it.
But he didn’t. He turned it down to be with her and they decided to get married.
I was their best man, for fuck’s sake. I told Bel to ask Eric not to ask me. Why didn’t he ask his brother or anyone other than me? How could I be his best man?
But it was easier than I thought, when it happened.
Maybe that final night helped them in some way decide their future. Anwyay, it wouldn’t happen again, not now they were getting married. But maybe it happening that ‘one last time’ helped Bel sort herself out. Or maybe it just helped me feel better, to tell myself that.
WEEK THREE
Isobel, Tuesday morning
It had to be today that the next letter arrived.
It’s Vincent’s birthday and he’s been excited for days, days in which I’ve been quietly dreading whatever happens next and at the same time anticipating that something will. I knew our solicitor had sent a reply to Ben’s. I had no idea what reaction it would prompt, but I have been expecting something.
‘Can I have waffles with Nutella, Coke and squeezy yoghurt for breakfast?’ Vincent asks.
‘Not Coke.’ I am indulging him a little but there are lines to be drawn. ‘You’ll be completely hyper.’
‘But they won’t mind at school. I can just work with the ADHD group today.’
‘No, Vinnie.’
I feel a bit mean. It’s not been much of a birthday so far. Eric left for work before Vincent was up, Harvey overslept and had to be reminded, by Vincent, that it was his birthday, and Gabs has just come down to breakfast and told him the present she ordered on Amazon hasn’t arrived yet.
I almost feel like conceding over the Coke, just to inject a bit of life into the day. ‘Well, anyway, do I have to go to school today?’ Vincent tries another tack. ‘I could not go because it’s my birthday.’
‘No, Vincent. You have to go.’
‘You’re such a pushy parent!’
‘This is from me.’ Harvey is still a bit of an overslept grump but he hands over a package. ‘Happy birthday.’
‘What is it?’ Vincent feels the package, which is about a foot long and misshapen.
‘Open it,’ Harvey and I say in unison. I am as curious as Vincent to know what the parcel contains. All Harvey has told me is that he’s been making him something.
‘Oh, wow!’ Vincent unwraps what appears to be a stick. He is clearly a little bemused but too polite to say so. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s an elastic band gun.’ Harvey takes the object, which on closer inspection reveals itself indeed to be a stick, stuck to another stick to form the shape of a gun, with a clothes peg fixed to the top and a groove carved into the end.
‘You stretch the elastic band across the end. Then push the peg, like a trigger, and it shoots it.’ He demonstrates.
The band disappears across the room. In fact the band seems to disappear entirely. Vincent cannot find it and is disappointed, as he wants to have a go.
‘There might be some in the drawer.’ I nod to the drawer that offended Eric so much last week, and Vincent starts rummaging through it. ‘That’s brilliant, Harvey,’ I say. ‘Well done.’
Harvey shrugs.
‘You’ll have to show Dad later.’
‘I can’t find any,’ Vincent shouts, but he is distracted by the sound of the letterbox clanging as the postman struggles to push something through it. Vincent leaps up and races into the hallway, coming back with a small packet and a big grin and a handful of other envelopes.
‘That’s for you and Dad,’ he says, handing a manila envelope to me, and my heart sinks. It has the hallmarks of being from a solicitor and I don’t know if I can face opening it. Not today. I want to enjoy Vincent’s birthday. I want to go out and shop for pizza and make a cake, without having to worry about whatever it says. I want to start thinking about what I need to do before his party, which is not till the weekend.
It’s a Space Hopper jousting party. Vinnie came up with the idea, and I need to borrow some more Space Hoppers from friends and brooms to use as jousting poles.
‘You can wrap them in towels or something so they don’t prick people,’ Vincent had suggested.
‘Have you played this before somewhere?’
‘No, I invented it,’ he’d replied. ‘But I did see elephant polo on the telly. I sort of copied that a bit.’
I put the letter aside and watch him flicking through the others now, putting the coloured envelopes with his name on them on the table next to the packet.
‘This one’s from Grandad,’ he says, tearing open a blue envelope from which flutters a fifty-pound note. ‘Wow, that’s amazing. And I think this is from Sally and Paddy.’
I know Sally’s writing but I’m surprised Vince does, and say so. ‘I think it’s because they always remember,’ he says. ‘And I think I know what this one is.’ He picks up the parcel and begins squashing it excitedly. ‘Can I open it now?’
‘Of course.’ I suspect it’s from Eric’s brother, but whatever it is will have been chosen by his wife, Natasha.
‘Oh.’
Vincent shakes out a blue T-shirt from its wrapping. On the front a series of baked bean transfers snake across the front to form the words ‘Full of Beans’. Vincent loves blue. ‘Why do people say they feel blue when they feel sad? I like feeling blue, it’s tickly.’ And he loves baked beans. It’s a perfect present for him. But he looks disappointed.
‘Don’t you like it? I ask.
‘Yes, I love it,’ he says, looking slightly put out.
‘You can wear it after school.’
‘Yes,’ he says, and hangs it over the back of his chair. ‘Mum?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you think Ben will send my present before my party?’
‘Oh…’ I’m not sure what to say. ‘He doesn’t always remember your birthday, does he?’
‘You won’t get a birthday present from Ben this year,’ Gabriella says.
‘Gabs,’ I say, warningly.
‘Well, he won’t, will he?’
‘Why not?’ Vincent looks anxious, as if he’s done something wrong. ‘He said he was going to try to get me a straitjacket.’
‘He’s not going to get you a straitjacket, Vincent,’ Gabriella says to him, but it’s me she’s looking at and daring to contradict her.
‘Do you think he couldn’t get one?’ Vincent looks from his older sister to me.
‘I don’t know if he could get one or not, Vinnie,’ I say. ‘Let’s wait and see, shall we?’
‘He won’t send you a present this year because he hates us,’ Gabriella tells him.
‘But why?’ Vincent looks confused and upset.
‘He doesn’t hate you, Vincent,’ I say quickly.
‘Well, he hates Mum and he hates me,’ she says. ‘So he probably doesn’t like anyone else in our family much either.’
‘Did I do something wrong?’ Vincent’s lip is quivery now.
‘Gabriella, that’s enough,’ I say sharply, and she busie
s herself making toast, admonished but not placated.
‘Listen, Vincent,’ I try to explain, ‘Ben doesn’t hate you. He thinks you are fantastic, which you are, but, well, the thing is, Iris hasn’t been very well, and Ben and Maggie have been very busy trying to deal with that and they probably haven’t had much time to think about what they were going to get you for your birthday.’
‘But why did Gabriella say he hates us?’
‘Gabriella says things that are not always right,’ is the best I can come up with.
‘Like when she told me jamlee was the worst swear word in the world?’ Vinnie asked.
‘Yes, a bit like that.’
Jamlee was a word I’d invented to try to stop Vincent using the bad language he’d started to pick up at school.
‘Vincent, don’t say shit,’ I’d admonished him when he dropped something after school one day.
‘Everyone says it,’ he’d replied.
‘That doesn’t mean you have to.’
‘Connor uses the F word too.’
‘Well, I hope you don’t?’
He didn’t answer, which suggested that he did. It was one of those parental battles you feel you can only lose. You tell your children not to use certain words but all their peers do, so you know they probably will as well.
So I offered him an alternative.
‘Well, as long as you never say…’ I looked around the kitchen, searching for inspiration and hit upon a pot of jam ‘… jamlee!’
He believed it was the worst thing anyone could say, right up until a few months ago when Harvey put him straight.
‘So Ben doesn’t hate us. He just forgot my birthday because Iris hasn’t been very well?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Maybe he’ll remember before the weekend.’
‘And you remember that Jack’s coming home after school today?’
‘Yes, of course,’ I say. ‘And I’ve not forgotten that you want cake, crisps and popcorn for tea and pizza, chocolate biscuits and ice-cream for dinner.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Is Jack still a vegetarian?’ I ask.
‘No, he eats meat now,’ Vincent fills me in. ‘But only orgasmic meat.’
Living With It Page 23