This Holey Life

by Sophie Duffy

  Much, much later, after checking on the children, watching for the rise and fall of their chests, their pink colour, their warmth, I glance out the landing window to the street below. Tamarine is putting out the rubbish. Mr Khan from number 12 is just back from his shift at work, pushing his spotless Raleigh down the passageway. A cat, black and sleek, leaps onto a wheelie bin as Ray from the dry cleaners walks past with his collie. Who says London’s anonymous? All these people, their comings and goings, are part of my life.

  But hang on. There’s Martin. Staggering up the street with a woman in tow. Not Claudia... someone else. She looks vaguely familiar. A little like... Christina Aguilera. I should know. I’ve seen her on one of Imo’s collages. But that’s not why she clicks something in my brain. As she stands under the lamplight, gazing up at him, talking earnestly to him, the way Heidi used to be with him, she looks ridiculously young, barely out of her teens, maybe scraping twenty.

  I feel sick.

  Not because I’m witnessing my revolting pig of a brother being unfaithful on my doorstep but because I now realise who this young woman is. Melanie. From the shoe shop. With the long blonde hair like Christina Aguilera. The student drinking frothy coffee outside Starbucks. The One Small Incident. And Martin is stupid enough to make it more than that. Two, three, four, five, six, who knows how many small incidents? Who knows how far these incidents have gone? How big they’ve become? Claudia’s worst suspicions are being confirmed before my very eyes.

  I’d better wake Steve. I won’t be held responsible for my actions.

  That is how I come to be in the car, at eleven thirty in my slippers, ferrying a celebrity looky-likey across South East London. Martin, true to his word for once, got rip-roaring drunk, banging and crashing into furniture and walls even more than normal. ‘Ssshheeee’s come back for a coffee,’ he slurred, diving onto the sofa and falling spectacularly asleep just as the baby started caterwauling. My instinct was to feed Imo, get her straight back off, but I stopped myself from running up those stairs and grabbing her out of the cot. I went to the fridge, took out a bottled of expressed milk (waiting for this moment), and handed it to a bleary-eyed Steve. Much better if I disappeared for a bit, according to Miriam Stoppard. Less confusing for baby. As much as I would’ve liked to stay and have it out with Martin, I left that to Steve. He’s been on the courses. He’s got the words whereas I’ve only got a big sack full of anger and bitterness.

  I volunteered to drop Melanie home. Melanie whose job in the shoe shop is part-time. Who is indeed one of Martin’s students. A PhD student. Older than she looks. And who stood, ten minutes ago, horrified in our front room, whether at being in Penge, or in our poky terrace, or at Martin’s disgusting prostrate form, or at the newly-ironed cassock hanging from the door frame, or all of these, I am not sure. And where does Melanie live? Dulwich, of course.

  After a silent journey – apart from my huffs and sighs, which are supposed to communicate my disapproval – I pull off the South Circular, passing Martin and Claudia’s family home. I go this way on purpose. Melanie doesn’t even flinch.

  ‘Just here,’ she says, after a few more of my huffs and sighs, indicating, with a hair advert flick of her hair, one of the biggest houses in the Village and that’s saying something.

  ‘You live here?’ I can’t help myself asking.

  ‘My mum’s place. I’m crashing while I do my PhD.’

  I want to ask why she needs to work in a shoe shop. With that kind of money surely you and your offspring need never work again.

  Melanie unfolds her long legs out of my very old and modest Espace and stands up straight, all ready to slam the door (please don’t fall off). I don’t think she is going to thank me for the lift somehow.

  ‘Don’t be fooled by him,’ I say, before she can vanish up her drive, so big it has an entrance and exit so you don’t even have to bother with three point turns or reversing.

  ‘I’m no fool.’ She bends down to look me straight in the eye, then closes the door with deliberate self-control so at least it doesn’t fall off and make me look like Del Boy.

  But I can see through her. Despite her staggering self-assurance and apparent lack of conscience, I don’t believe one word of it. She is a fool. Martin is a fool. Somewhere back down the road, sleep a woman and child who, somewhat against their better judgement, love that man who happens to be my brother. And that man happens to be staying in my house, eating my food, raiding my fridge, breaking my crockery, breathing my air, passed out on my new leather sofa. And what am I doing? Driving home this idiotic young woman.

  Just who’s the fool here exactly?

  Thoughts for the Day: Why can’t we leave London? Why can’t we live in some Dibley-esque parish in the country with stone cottages, a village green, a local pub full of eccentric characters and yet child-friendly and welcoming of incomers. A pretty church with a prettier vicarage and a smart, flat lawn. Daffodils and honeysuckle. Apples and plums. A proper Harvest Festival with those wheat sheaf loaves and giant marrows with Hallelujah! carved into the side. Somewhere far away from the hustle and bustle, the noise and the grime. Far, far away from my brother, Martin, and his messy, dirty, filthy excuse for a life.

  Chapter Fifteen: Wednesday January 16th

  I haven’t seen Martin for two days. No opportunity for strong words. Yesterday morning he left for work before even Imo woke. He never suffers from hangovers – so unfair as he really, really deserved the mother of all hangovers. He deserved my wrath and all of God’s judgement. But Martin being Martin has so far got away with it. And tonight Jeremy, the human shield, is coming over. I need to tread carefully.

  Playgroup pick-up. Waiting outside, Imo perched on one hip, a hip that will need replacing before its time. I am one of many, part of a multitude of diverse mothers, child-minders, and one solitary dad, most of us with a baby or toddler in tow, in slings, pushchairs, on reins, with dummies, organic grapes and snot bubbling out of nostrils.

  The doors open and we begin our shuffle inside, to wait in the foyer for the children to be matched to adults. When it is finally my turn, Olivia greets me proudly, leaping up from the carpet and waving a trademark brightly-coloured collage. I kiss her on the head. She smells of biscuit. ‘That’s lovely, Olivia.’ I use my bright, happy, shiny voice, talking slowly, trying to think of something positive to say. ‘What careful cutting out.’

  ‘I know,’ says her key worker, a young girl called Shelley. ‘She’s ever so good with scissors. We never have to worry about her.’ And then Shelley laughs in a way that suggests they have to worry about other children and what they might be inspired to do with a pair of scissors.

  I grip Olivia’s hand and shepherd my girls briskly out of there into the fresh air. I’m feeling a bit faint, fighting off the possible catastrophes leaping about in my head, struggling to do my one woman band thing with two infants, a handbag, car keys, plus a sticky collage of what looks like Alan Sugar’s head pasted onto David Beckham’s body.

  Just as I’ve bundled them all into the car, I notice her: Natasha’s mother. She’s always late, got her head down, avoids eye contact, gives off a don’t-get-too-close vibe. But I don’t think it’s rudeness. It’s something else. Shelley told me she is one of them Poles or summink, keeps herself to herself. And then she added, as if I’d be interested: But watch her, she’s a man-eater.

  Mmm.

  If I was a true Christian, a proper curate’s wife, I’d talk to her. Ask her round for a cup of tea. But something stops me. Life stops me. Rushing around and chasing my tail stops me. I may not be a true Christian but I’m not a bad person. I’m a mother. A daughter. An auntie. A sister. A wife. A curate’s wife. Like Olivia I wear all these different pairs of shoes but none of them fit properly. I feel as if I’ve been forced into them, like the black clumpy lace-ups Mum made me wear to school so I wouldn’t get the bunions that gave her so much gip. I’ve been forced into these shoes and they’re pinching. I want to kick them off and run barefoot ac
ross the car park. Might be a bit chilly though. There’s a nasty wind up out there.

  As I drive away, slowly into the lunchtime traffic, I catch a glimpse of Natasha emerging from the hall with her mother. They hold hands and bow their heads to the wind, walking home, their home from home, wherever that is, just the two of them.

  I’m not getting very far with my anti-television campaign. So far my children have watched their weekly quota in one evening. If Steve were here I’d have some back-up but yet again he’s out. I am left on my own trying to trick Imo – rigid in her bucket on the coffee table – into opening her mouth for some pureed veg. She ignores the spoon heading her way, cunningly disguised as an aeroplane, concentrating all her efforts into staring at my overfull breasts. I’m not giving in. I’m hanging on till her bedtime.

  ‘Why don’t you go and play in the garden, girls?’ I suggest, once the jar is finally empty.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Mummy. It’s dark,’ Olivia says, lining up her Barbie shoes on the arm of the leather sofa.

  Brain cells. Dead.

  Rachel drags her attention away from the screen, sensing her mother is not quite on the ball and using this to her possible advantage. ‘We want to watch Hollyoaks,’ she says.

  Hollyoaks hasn’t got anything to do with David Bellamy. It is full of rampant sex-crazed young northerners. Another world that is certainly unsuitable for children. That is why I throw Imo’s blanket over the telly. That is why Rachel is sulking in the shed, Christmas lights twinkling in the window, when Jeremy turns up with his father at seven. When I explain this to Jeremy, much to Martin’s amusement, he takes himself off, with the remains of a KFC family bucket, to join his cousin in the shed. I leave them to it.

  Now is the time to pin Martin down and ask him what his intentions are. Yes, I’d really like to pin him down and stuff peanuts in his big gob.

  The smell of deep fried chicken is making me queasy. Or maybe it’s the sight of Martin with grease in his beard. Will he ever shave that thing off?

  Apart from a desultory ‘hello’ he has ignored me, plonked his laptop on my kitchen table and attacked it with much aggression. I don’t care if he’s not in the best of moods. I’m not in the best of moods. Steve would say you have to choose the right time. I would say I’ve tried doing that and it leads nowhere.

  ‘When are you moving out?’

  ‘Fed up of me already, Victoria?’

  ‘It’s been weeks, Martin. You turn up Boxing Day, unannounced, and now we’re halfway through January. You said it would only be a few days. You need to sort yourself out and move on.’

  ‘I see,’ he says, like he’s a psychiatrist and I’m his delusional patient. ‘I didn’t realise it was such a pain having me here.’

  ‘Stop patronising me, you idiot. I’m being serious.’

  Silence while my brother processes this concept.

  ‘Really?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes, really.’

  ‘I see.’ This time he says the words like they’re a revelation. He looks genuinely surprised, which in turn surprises me. Is he that thick-skinned? Does he really not know he’s getting on my nerves? I thought it was his raison d’être to get on my nerves, to persecute me.

  ‘But I’m your brother,’ he says, a slight wobble in his voice. Alright, now he just sounds pathetic. This isn’t right. He’s not playing by the rules. Our rules. Our commandments that were set in stone long ago at the beginning of my life.

  ‘I’m quite aware of that. But the days when we had to share a house are long gone. Or at least they should be.’

  He closes his laptop, puts his fingers together in a prayer-like gesture, gathering his strength before moving in for the kill. Pop down to the chemist’s would you, Vicky-Love. ‘I’m not sure what Mum would’ve thought,’ he says, his voice still containing a wobble but now with an edge to it.

  ‘Don’t bring Mum into this.’

  ‘She would’ve expected you to help me in my hour of need.’

  ‘Probably. But you seem to have forgotten the circumstances – the One Small Incident – that brought you into my house on Boxing Day. I think it entirely probable that Mum would have stuck up for Claudia, despite you being the golden boy.’

  He ignores this, changes the subject, rubs his beard in a way he knows will wind me up. ‘And what about Steve? Does he know you want to kick me out? He doesn’t, does he? Well, well, well, Vicky-Love. Keeping secrets from your holy husband. The vicar. Tut tut. And I thought you two had the perfect marriage.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘You mean you don’t?’

  ‘We have our moments like everyone else,’ I mumble. ‘But, hang on, Martin. This isn’t about my marriage, it’s about yours. How do you explain Melanie?’

  ‘Melanie is... she’s... it’s none of your business who she is.’ He waves his arm at the thought of Melanie, catching a pile of his papers and sending them skidding to the floor. My floor. Waving her away like she’s an irrelevance. An annoyance.

  ‘How can you say that, Martin?’

  ‘I just did. I opened my mouth and I said it.’

  ‘Oh shut up, smart arse.’

  ‘Now now, Vicky-Love. Language.’

  ‘Arse is a rude word, Mummy,’ says a third unexpected voice. Olivia has appeared in the kitchen, clutching a threadbare Tinky Winky by the aerial thing sticking out of his head. ‘Say bottom.’

  ‘What are you doing out of bed?’

  ‘You were making a big noise. Are you arguing with Uncle Martin?’

  ‘Yes, Olivia, I’m afraid I am.’

  She looks at her Uncle Martin with eyes so serious I want to cry.

  ‘Be nice to each other,’ she says. ‘That’s what Jesus would do.’ She leaves us then and we listen to her little feet, bare for once, as they pad softly back up the stairs, neither of us sure how to follow this up, all strong words, all regressive behaviour quietened by a three-year-old.

  ‘I’m going to tuck her in,’ I say eventually, to the table.

  His voice follows me out of the kitchen, unexpected and detached from its owner. ‘Fancy an omelette?’ it asks.

  I don’t know if my brother is making amends or if he’s manipulating the situation but I am too tired and too hungry to turn down the offer of food. ‘That would be... good,’ I tell the door.

  Bedtime and it’s only ten o’clock. In the old days I’d just be thinking about going out. Not that I went out that often. But still, in London – young London, single London – the night is only beginning to get going.

  What would Mum have thought if she’d been here? Would she have wanted me to let Martin stay longer? Or would she understand how hard it is for me? He never got on her nerves. I’m not sure she actually had any nerves. She didn’t notice the banging and crashing because he was so like her. She didn’t notice his mess because she didn’t notice any mess. A little bit of mess never did anyone any harm, Vicky-Love. She and Dad and Martin had spent the day at one of Dad’s big gardens out in Sidcup. Martin was working for pocket money because he wanted to take Heidi out. I spent the day at home tidying and cleaning, wanting to surprise them when they got back. They trod mud all through the house, all three of them. Only Dad was contrite. I think deep down he wanted a bit of clean and tidy but he had long since accepted that that wasn’t to be. Not with Mum as his wife.

  But she was wrong. Look what happened to her. She’d still be here now if people had taken more care. If they’d been clean and tidy.

  Thoughts for the Day: Whatever happened to Heidi?

  February 4th 1978

  I had a go at spring cleaning today. It isn’t spring. But the house is dirty. And I want to ask Alice round for tea after school one day next week. Mum and Dad were busy up on the allotment. Martin was out with Heidi somewhere, a bus shelter or Wimpy. So I had the house to myself.

  I began with the lounge. It took an hour just to clean under the sofa and down the back of the seats. I found:

  5 of Martin’s socks (none of t
hem matched but they all stunk like Dad’s fertiliser)

  2 of Martin’s school ties (both with tomato ketchup stains)

  Some Lego bricks (Martin hasn’t played with Lego for at least five years)

  A half-chewed Wagon Wheel

  £4.61 in loose change, including some old money

  A slipper (Dad’s, I think, though it is hard to tell as it has been there so long, possibly since before I was born)

  A Tufty Club badge (mine, stolen from Martin years ago)

  Dried-up Satsuma peel that smelt of Christmas

  And a photo.

  I put everything back in its proper place, apart from the money. I have kept the money as it is impossible to know who it belongs to. This is called ‘redistribution of wealth’, according to Mr Harris, who is a commie, according to Dad.

  I have kept the photo too.

  It is a black and white photo of two young men, a bit older than Martin is now. One of them is Dad. He looks quite a lot like me but with shorter, straighter hair. The other, it says on the back in Mum’s scribbly writing, is Jack. I don’t know who Jack is but I think I’ve seen him somewhere before. It’s hard to tell. He’s shielding his eyes from the sun but you can see his big grin.

  I will ask Mum about it later. See if she’s got another picture. I don’t know why but I want to get a proper look at him.

  Chapter Sixteen: Friday January 25th

  Sainsbury’s. On my own while Steve watches the girls. What’s usually a dreaded chore is now a refuge, a luxury, wandering the aisles and daydreaming about being a domestic goddess. No bored baby. No obsessive three-year-old.

  Today’s a special day: Rachel’s birthday. I should feel celebratory every time one of our children becomes a year older, to know we’ve had a part in shepherding them further along the road. They know how to be polite, how to lay a table and stack a dishwasher. Rachel has avoided getting into trouble at school. Olivia is settling into playgroup. They don’t embarrass Steve too much at work or me when I’m taking them down the high street. They answer the phone to parishioners. Sometimes they pass on messages, occasionally with accuracy. They are good kids. But this knowledge is tinged with loss. Panic rises up within me so my chest could burst with the pressure and an unstoppable torrent come flooding out of me. I have to keep it tucked up safe inside.