by Sophie Duffy
It’s late. Jeremy should be in bed. I knock tentatively on the shed door. ‘Jeremy? Can I come in?’
Shuffling. The door swings open. His face appears, backlit by a torch, ghoul-like. ‘Alright,’ he says, retreating into the shadows.
As my eyes adjust I can see that he has made the shed into a kind of nest. He has stowed a stash of prawn cocktail crisps and a packet of Penguins in a flower pot. He has found a sleeping bag from somewhere and a cushion from the armchair where Socks likes to sleep. He slumps onto it, banging his head against the wall as he does so. He doesn’t flinch; he’s used to crashing into things, having inherited the clumsy genes from Mum, via Martin. Mum was always stubbing her toe, dropping her keys, spilling her tea. Dad used to joke about it, there she goes again; Mum would roll her eyes, a quiet smile playing at her lips. And although Martin can catch a cricket ball at a running dive, he might just as well pour his food straight onto the carpet without bothering to attempt to eat it first.
Jeremy is looking at me, waiting.
‘I should watch your asthma with that cushion, Jeremy. It’ll be covered in cat hairs.’
‘I’m alright with cats,’ he says, solemnly. ‘It’s dogs that like make me sneezy and that. Which my allergist says is unusual.’
‘I’m sure it is.’ I reach up for the camping chair that hangs from a nail and sit myself down, trying to sound casual when I say: ‘I didn’t know you had an allergist.’
‘Mum made me go and see this woman.’ Jeremy picks the dirt out of his nails with a bit of twig. He may be able to pluck deftly away at his cello but he is likely to cut himself and get lockjaw.
‘A doctor?’
‘A voodoo doctor Dad called her.’
‘I see.’
‘What’s a voodoo doctor, Auntie Vicky?’
‘I shouldn’t worry about that, Jeremy. Dad was probably only joking.’
‘Mum didn’t laugh.’ He starts snapping the twig into little pieces. I take it off him.
‘No, I don’t suppose she did.’
A train rumbles past, vibrating the wooden floor. When it’s gone, I suggest we go in for a snack.
‘Please may I have a Pot Noodle?’
I have to resist the temptation to say yes you can have a Pot Noodle. I can’t believe we actually have Pot Noodles in our house but they have started appearing in the pantry.
‘How about some nice toast and jam?’
He looks doubtful.
‘It’s homemade jam.’
‘Did you make it, Auntie Vicky?’
‘Yes.’
‘What flavour?’
‘Raspberry.’
‘Alright,’ he says. And he gets himself up, comes out into the night garden.
I follow him across the stepping stones. The back of his head is at once annoying and pitiful. He is so like Martin. And so different.
Thoughts for the Day: Did Richard Burton ever have a beard? What are my gifts, other than cleaning?
Chapter Four: Monday January 31st
New Year’s Eve. Time to look forward but I can’t help reverting to the gawky, awkward Vicky that lived in the house in Catford with Dad the gardener, mower of lawns and planter of bulbs, pruner of hedges and mulcher of vegetable plots. And Mum, the housewife, the sidekick, the woman in whose eyes you sometimes glimpsed other lives. Other possibilities.
Martin broke out from there, escaped to university to study some kind of science. Got a first. Then an MSc. A PhD. A lectureship. A fellowship. Got Claudia, social commentator, beauty, family money, envy of every one of his peers. Ended up just a few miles from where he began. But what a few miles they are. Dulwich Village. Claudia finally persuaded him to move there when Jeremy was little, and my brother is in his element, despite his whining. He loves being surrounded by wealth. It reminds him how far he has come from our humble beginnings.
And me? I’m a few miles in the other direction, standing at my kitchen sink peeling carrots to be sliced into crudités to dunk into dips for a few friends (not parishioners) that we’ve asked round for drinks, seeing as Steve’s not doing the midnight mass. That duty’s down to Desmond, the vicar, the one with the superior vestments – usually spattered with grease stains.
Tonight is to be shared with our old mates. Friends from school, the plumbing days. Neighbours. This past year has been mad what with Steve’s new career and Imo. Steve thought it would be a good chance to catch up, to let them see he’s not become some kind of weirdo. Not that Steve’s an embarrassing Christian. He doesn’t have Jesus Loves Me car stickers or wear socks and sandals. But he has changed from the man he was. He’s still Steve but he’s got something extra. And it’s more than the conscience that makes him fork out for The Big Issue. It’s more than the dog collar or the ‘Revd’ that’s transformed him from plain old ‘Mr’. It’s something inside that’s changed.
It’s called the Holy Spirit, Vicky, Desmond’s wife, Amanda, informed me.
Amanda is a proper vicar’s wife. She’ll be in church tonight with Desmond, sitting enraptured in the front pew while her husband appeals to the congregation to turn over a new leaf in the coming year.
Amanda has an open house, a very nice vicarage in a tree-lined street with a large garden that doesn’t back onto the railway. There’s a constant pilgrimage of waifs and strays passing through, eating her enormous beefy stews and hunks of granary bread.
Amanda gave Desmond four sons who are all worthy men, settled down with worthy wives in Greater London and the Home Counties and every few months a new grandchild is paraded in St Hilda’s to the delight of the congregation. Their photographs fill the vicarage with cherubic baby faces on every shelf, every surface. Which at least has the advantage of hiding the dust.
The Lord doesn’t love me for my cleaning, Vicky.
Just as well.
Amanda escorts Desmond everywhere, making sure he is never alone with a single woman. For his protection, not theirs.
We learnt our lesson early on, Victoria. When Desmond was a curate in Plymouth, women were always falling for him. There was one particular woman who thought Desmond was so in love with her that he would actually leave me and the boys and run off with her into the sunset. She was very convincing, had the vicar doubting Desmond’s integrity. They saw through her in the end, once she started attending the Methodist church, oh but gosh it was a close shave for a while.
The poor woman must’ve been deluded. Who would fall in love with Desmond? Except for Amanda. Though maybe he didn’t always have a round belly and comedy hair. And how would dozy Desmond ever manage without Amanda?
I’ll never be like Amanda. I’ll never be a proper vicar’s wife.
The carrots are done. My dress is ironed. The kids are in bed. Martin was supposed to be making himself scarce, going down the pub or something but he’s still here, lurking in the kitchen, eyeing my food display with derision.
‘Is there a problem, Martin?’
‘Yes, there is, Vicky-Love.’ He swipes a carrot and crunches into it with his great big teeth. ‘I’m skint.’
‘Oh?’
‘So I won’t be going out after all.’
‘Oh.’
He reaches for another carrot but I am quick off the mark and get the dish out of his way. He opts for his fag packet instead, watching me strain to keep my mouth shut.
‘Unless, that is, you can lend me some money.’ He gets out his lighter. ‘I’ll pay you back as soon as.’
‘How come you’re asking me for money? You’re the one that’s loaded.’
‘Cash flow,’ he says, as if I’m an idiot. ‘Go on, Victoria. Twenty quid should do it.’
A moral dilemma: Do I lend Martin money – money we haven’t got – to go boozing? Or do I let him stay and ruin our evening?
Martin looks out the window, unlit fag in mouth, lighter in hand. It is raining heavily. Big fat drips chasing each other down the panes of glass (must give them a going-over). He sighs like a dog. He hates the rain. Hates getting wet.
Sets his eczema off, the poor diddums. I can guess what’s coming.
‘The pubs’ll be full of students and chavs tonight.’ Another dog-sigh. He’s stalling, feeling sorry for himself that no-one’s invited him anywhere. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t really leave Jeremy anyway.’
Pitiful.
‘No, you shouldn’t leave Jeremy, Martin,’ I wag a carrot stick at him. ‘But why change the habit of a lifetime?’
‘Now, now, Vicky,’ he retorts. ‘Show some of your Christian ideals.’
I ignore this bait. I might not have been overjoyed when Steve confessed he wanted to go into the Church but I won’t have Martin make fun of the unexpected turn our life has taken.
‘You can stay but you’ll have to make yourself useful.’ I make a point of thinking about this. ‘You’re on peanut duty.’ I get a large packet of KP nuts out of the pantry and slap it into his hand. ‘You should know where the bowls are by now.’
‘But you should know I’m allergic to peanuts. And I’ve left my EpiPen at home.’
‘Oh dear, of course. You’d better go and get it then, hadn’t you? Better safe than sorry.’
Martin eyeballs me for a few moments. If this were a cartoon he’d have steam coming out of his ears. But he’s not going to put me off. I’ve hit the ground running and I won’t let him catch me. Ha!
‘You should go and see Jeremy’s voodoo doctor. She might be able to weave her magic on you.’
If this were a cartoon Martin’s face would be pillar-box red. No, wait, Martin’s face is pillar box red. He lights his cigarette in the kitchen, my kitchen, and as he stomps his way out of the room, he skids on a carrot baton which, had it been a banana skin, would have completed this cartoon moment. He swears, loudly, as he hobbles down the hall and for once I am grateful for the eardrum-rattling volume of the TV so the kids don’t hear his disgusting expletives. But no-one can miss the bang of the front door as Martin exits (must get Steve to install rubber stop).
Two minutes later, our first guest arrives. Perfect timing.
My moment of triumph is short-lived. Unfortunately Gerry the carpenter is the one and only guest to arrive. Over the following half hour the phone rings no less than eight times with various excuses ranging from babysitting problems to the flu. There’s even an RTA thrown in for good measure. Our tentative venture back into our old world with a little soirée has been a complete failure. We are left with a mountain of carrot batons and no washing up. We force ourselves to stay up till midnight to see the New Year in with the TV, watching the fireworks and our council tax go up in smoke. I phone Dad to wish him a Happy New Year. He doesn’t answer. Steve phones his mum and dad. No answer. We turn in at 12.15. No sign of Martin who must’ve had a wad of cash somewhere up his sleeve. Or crashed the party of some poor unwitting soul.
What a depressing night. It would have been better to be in church with Desmond and Amanda rather than spending our evening ‘listening’ to Gerry’s tales of dovetail joints. Whether we have been struck by a vengeful God for my lack of brotherly love or whether we are now too cringe-worthy for company is for me to fathom as I lie in bed, listening to the rockets zoom into the night sky and the shouts of drunken camaraderie echoing on the London streets.
Happy New Year, Vicky-Love.
Thoughts for the Day: Do I actually have any friends? Why do our parents have a better social life than us?
Chapter Five
I have finally inched my way towards a fitful sleep when the phone rings, cracking the night-quiet wide open. My heart thuds, like I’ve been stabbed in the thigh with one of Martin’s EpiPens. Something must be wrong... While I am pinned to the bed in a state of paralysis, Steve has jumped up, phone in hand, all sticky-up hair and skinny legs.
‘Yes, yes, I’m Reverend Butler. Is he alright?’ He puts his finger in his ear, turns away – is that me shouting hysterically?
‘Yes, yes, of course, I’ll be there as soon as I can.’ He sits on the bed. ‘Thank you, officer.’
Officer?
‘What’s happened? Is it Dad? Is he alright?’
Steve puts the phone down beside him and turns to me. ‘It’s not your dad.’
Thank God! It’s not my dad. Oh the relief. But then... ‘No!’ I leap out of bed and start pacing.
‘Calm down, Vick,’ Steve grabs my hand and guides me gently back to the bed, like I’m sleepwalking. Perhaps I am sleepwalking. ‘Don’t worry.’ He rubs my neck.
I shake him off. ‘What’s he done?’
Steve scratches his stubble, considering how to break the news to me.
‘Just tell me, will you.’
‘He’s been arrested,’ he says, as if he doesn’t quite believe his own words.
‘ARRESTED? WHAT THE HELL FOR?’
‘Ssh, Vick, be quiet. You’ll wake Imo.’
‘Sorry. What for?’
‘Breaking and entering.’
‘BREAKING AND ENTERING?’ I am flabbergasted. Is Martin that skint he has to resort to burglary? ‘What do you mean breaking and entering? Where? Why... ?’
‘Vicky, ssh, calm down,’ Steve grips my shoulders, gets me to look at him, eye contact, body language. He’s been on a course. ‘I don’t know the details... only that they feel I ought to get down to the station sharpish.’
‘Why?’
‘Apparently Martin’s agitated.’
‘Agitated?’
‘Agitated.’
‘I’ll give him agitated.’ I’m off the bed again, agitated myself.
‘No you won’t, Vick. You have to stay here. The kids, remember.’ Steve starts throwing on clothes, the nearest to hand.
The kids. That’s when I think of Jeremy. Is it wrong for me to race ahead of the situation and hope for his father to get a custodial sentence? One way to get him out of here...
And then there’s Claudia. I slump back onto the bed. ‘Shall I call Claudia?’
‘Best wait till we find out what’s going on,’ he stoops to kiss me. ‘I’ll phone as soon as I know more.’ He’s about to go out the room when he turns back and puts on his shirt and dog collar over his vintage Anarchy in the UK tshirt.
‘What are you doing?’
‘You never know,’ he says. ‘Could come in handy.’ He fiddles with the collar. I can’t quite believe he’s my husband. A vicar. It seems ludicrous somehow. I keep expecting him to turn back into Steve the plumber. To get my old life back.
‘Poor old Jeremy,’ Steve says as an afterthought as he goes out the bedroom door, leaving me stranded in the middle of the bed until eventually I manage to get some control over my thoughts and turn them back towards my nephew, innocently sleeping on the zed-bed downstairs.
Yes, poor old Jeremy. I shouldn’t be wallowing in self-pity right now. I should be concentrating on him. He’ll be mortified. His dad, a criminal. Happy New Year, son.
Chapter Six: Tuesday January 1st
‘Wow, cool!’ exclaims Jeremy, eyes bright with excitement. ‘Can we go and see him, Auntie Vicky? It’s like The Bill. Is he banged up in a cell?’
This is the most animated I have ever seen Jeremy so I should be thankful for small mercies. He has appeared in the kitchen, where I have been force-feeding Imo baby porridge. I have had to explain the absence of his father. I thought about lying but Steve wouldn’t go a bundle on that.
‘It’s not “cool”, Jeremy. It was a very foolish thing to do.’
‘But it was our house. He only wanted to get some stuff but Mum’s like changed the locks. That’s what you said.’
‘Your mum changed those locks for a reason and your father should have respected that and gone down the proper channels.’
‘You sound like one of those police officers off The Bill. How did you learn that, Auntie Vicky?’
I’ve obviously been watching far too much TV since Jeremy’s arrival.
‘I have no idea.’
I am being a good mother and aunt. I have gathered the four children together (i.e. dragged them away from C
Beebies), and we are busy at the kitchen table making biscuits. Even Imo is on the table in her car bucket, kicking her feet in encouragement. The table and the children are covered in flour but they are smiling and so am I.
Then the door goes and in walks a bedraggled Martin accompanied by a slightly crumpled curate.
‘Morning all,’ says Martin, bending his knees like Dixon of Dock Green. This goes right over the kids’ heads but annoys me right off that he can be so blasé about the havoc he’s caused.
‘Right, I’ll put these in the oven while you lot go and get cleaned up. And don’t touch anything with your sticky hands.’
‘I’ll wash the bowl,’ volunteers Olivia, rushing to the sink before I can get rid of her and find out exactly what’s been going on.
‘Steve, do you think you could supervise while I have a little chat with Martin?’
Steve expresses concern at the prospect of me having a little chat with Martin. ‘Are you sure you want to do that now?’
‘Yes. Definitely now,’ I squeeze Steve’s arm in a display of marital harmony and support (must encourage Steve back to the gym; church doesn’t tone the biceps the way a tap wrench once did). ‘Then I’ll make you some breakfast. You must be famished.’ I drag Martin out the back door into the garden before Steve can intervene.
It is freezing outside so I button up my cardy. ‘Don’t even think about mentioning the stepping stones or gnomes. Tell me what you’ve done, Martin.’
He looms over me in his Martin-way but I will not be made to feel small. His little sister. ‘It would never have happened if you hadn’t forced me to go round to retrieve my EpiPen,’ he whines, colour returning to his cheeks from the cold. There is an arrogant jut to his chin that lurks somewhere under his increasingly skanky beard.
‘So it’s my fault, is it? Ha! I should’ve known.’
‘I didn’t say that. Only I wouldn’t have been at my house otherwise, would I?’