by Sophie Duffy
Eastenders is finished and by some miracle all the children are in their beds – whether they are sleeping or not I don’t care, as long as they are quiet. Dorota is having a bath. Thankfully Steve upgraded the central heating with a combination boiler before quitting his old life or we’d have run out of hot water. Every time Dorota changes position in the bath it makes a rocking sound, like the groaning of an old ship tossed about in a stormy sea.
Finally, when I am really worrying about the structural support of the ceiling, Dorota pulls out the plug and a gush of water can be heard, followed by more creaking floorboards. Hopefully she’ll take herself off to bed and I can wallow in front of the telly. I won’t have to listen to her commentary, her tuts, her exclamations of disgust. And no Martin either. Heaven.
But no. She’s coming downstairs, trying to do it quietly but unsuccessfully. She appears in the doorway not wrapped up in her fleecy kaftan of a dressing gown but dolled up in her smart outfit, make-up, the works, so I catch a glimpse of that young girl out on the town, dating Roland at the Locarno.
‘I miss my Roland,’ she says. ‘When is Stefan coming back? I want him to take me home to his tata.’
Thoughts for the Day: Will Steve love me when I am a fat pensioner?
Chapter Twenty-Two: Sunday 10th February First Sunday of Lent
Early morning and I’m already exhausted despite Imo sleeping through. It was me that lay awake, listening to every little noise. Even the familiar ones sounded different: the creaks of the house, the chirpy snore, the train, the late-night home-comers trudging past. They all had an edge to them.
But it was the silences in between, waiting for Imo to cry out to me. I crept in to her at three, to check on the rise and fall of her ribcage. She’d wriggled onto her front and I placed my hand on her back. Felt her warmth. She snuffled and sighed and I was tempted to pick her up and hold her close. It was the hardest thing to leave her there, to walk away. I stayed for a few minutes more, standing there, watching over her, my ears tuned in to her sleeping breath. Then I managed it. I tiptoed out of the box room and went back to bed, slipping between the cool sheets. I lay there for ages, stiff and alert, the early morning light strengthening slowly through the curtains, hearing those first birds, the early shift workers leaving home and heading for the station. I must have drifted off eventually because suddenly there was Steve, nudging me awake, placing a cup of tea on my bedside table.
‘Where’s Imo?’ was my first response.
Then I heard a raucous giggle coming from next door, Rachel and Olivia’s room. But it was neither of them shrieking. It was Imo.
‘I’ve given her a bottle. Hope you don’t mind.’
For a moment I did. But I swallowed any negative feelings down with my first glug of tea, telling myself Steve had every right to do this. He’s her dad. Not her wicked uncle.
And when I got myself out of bed and peeked into the girls’ bedroom and saw my baby with her big sisters, rolling around the floor together, I put my trust in my husband. Just a little bit.
Steve’s turn up the front this week, standing there in his neatly ironed choir dress behind my polished lectern. St Hilda’s doesn’t have a pulpit, being a modern church without architectural significance. The old St Hilda’s was flattened by the Luftwaffe, though not one life was lost. The lectern, along with a few other cherished items, was salvaged from the ashes and, like a phoenix, it has lived again in this new church and so every time I polish it, even the annoyingly tricky bits, I think of the Blitz, the Londoners who had no choice but to go to war. Gdansk had it far worse, I know that, flattened by the Nazis and the Soviets and even the Allies. But that’s just the snippets Roland’s told me.
So the vicars and curates of St Hilda’s no longer float above the congregation, looking down and telling them how to live their lives. They are on our level. Steve likes to move around, using gestures to support his words and giving his arms a vague workout. Today he’s particularly animated, speaking on a subject he’s passionate about: our church should be a place of community once again, where everyone is welcome – the poor, the rich, the sick, the exercise freaks, the dispossessed, the possessed, the workaholics, the alcoholics, the young, the old and those in between. An inclusive church pouring out love on those who come through its doors, whether they are looking for God or have simply walked in by mistake – which is a possibility as St Hilda’s looks more like a job centre than a place of worship.
While we sit in this sacred place, the traffic slugging past outside, I think of the people trapped in their pod-like cars, on their way to visit friends, to football matches, to IKEA, and wonder about this word, ‘community’. It’s something Londoners pride themselves on. As long as they are born-and-bred Londoners. A certain type of Londoner. But what about the Karolinas and the Tamarines? Are they part of this community? Steve sees beyond Penge, beyond London, far beyond the M25 as far as the kingdom of heaven, ever since that day he headed towards Dartford in his van, his tool box at his side rather than his Bible.
I feel something hearing these words, possibly pride. When I look around at the people I am sitting amongst to see what they are thinking because it has gone very quiet – none of the usual coughing or fidgeting or hassock knocking – all the faces are pulled in the same expression of concentration (except for Mr Maynard who is deeply absorbed in picking a scab on his elbow).
And there is Karolina. She must be taking it all in too; she has what I can only describe as a rapt expression on her rather heavily made-up face. Normally she gives off this hostile vibe that says ‘keep away from me’ but today, right now, she is all beatific smiles. Even her bleached blonde hair looks less aggressive, softened somehow. That’s it: her usual hard edges have been softened. Steve has that effect on people.
I take all this in with a glance. And not just because my mother brought me up in the knowledge that it is rude to stare, but because my attention is grabbed by a man sitting over the far side, near the back, scribbling frantically in a notebook like a journalist at a trial. It is not out of the ordinary for a churchgoer to make notes while the sermon is being given – Bible verses, pertinent points, recommended reading – but this is not what I have seen before. Not since his wedding.
I turn away from him quickly, a funny feeling gurgling round my stomach. What the hell is Martin doing here? Why is he writing? I take another quick look, from behind Margery’s bouffant hair. His hand is still. He is staring at Steve who seems completely unaware that his brother-in-law is scrutinising every word he says. What is he up to?
We stand for the final hymn, pulled from our mesmerisation. There’s a fluttering of pages and a waft of perfume as coats are flapped and scarves flung about. Make me a channel of your peace. When I get up courage to look again at my brother, he is gone. But the space where he was sitting seems to radiate a glow. As if his very presence in church was something other. Something that can never be included.
Roast chicken, roast potatoes, roast parsnips, mashed swede, green sprouts, carrot sticks, a mountain of peas, stuffing, gravy, the works. Some people only bother with a meal like this at Christmas but I will do it every Sunday till I am no longer able to use a vegetable peeler or wield a masher. This is my contribution to our Sundays and I may not have thought as a young woman at university that this would be satisfying, but actually it is a triumph of achievement. Every Sunday this meal says ‘Look at us, we are a family and by my efforts we will stay a family. Despite our losses, we will be victorious’.
‘These sprouts are like golf balls, Victoria. Did you forget to cook them?’ Martin gulps down half a glass or Merlot as if it will save his life.
I ignore him. I have other concerns, like trying to coerce a cocktail of mashed-up parsnip and carrot though Imo’s gritted gums.
Martin makes a point of pushing his sprouts to one side and continues chomping his way through his meal, refilling his glass several times so that there’s only a thimbleful left when Steve goes to top up mine. He go
es to the larder and quietly uncorks another bottle.
‘You should really let that breathe,’ says Martin to his patient brother-in-law.
Only I notice my husband take a slow inhalation of breath, his patience being tested by Martin who is somehow more obnoxious than ever. Why isn’t he stuffing his face at some other sucker’s house? Or down the pub? He was supposed to drop Jeremy back to Claudia’s after church, but Claudia is busy until later – conveniently, after lunch. At least Jeremy is eating my sprouts, quite surprising as they are green and healthy. Jeremy – unlike me or the baby – is fanatically sticking to his Lenten promise, even managing his five-a-day. God moves in mysterious ways.
‘Must get on. Come on, son. Eat up. Your mother’s due back soon and I want a word.’
‘What about pudding? Auntie Vicky’s made lemon meringue pie.’
‘Has she now?’ Martin turns his beady little eyes on me. ‘Have you been at the Fanny Craddock recipes again, Vicky-Love?’ He snorts at this ‘joke’ of his, shrugs on his jacket – denim, I ask you – and informs Jeremy his auntie will save him some for later.
Which of course she will do, being a good auntie. But that doesn’t stop me wanting to be a bad sister. Wanting to tie him to the railway track at the end of the garden, like in those silent movies. Only I’d like the sound on. So I could listen to his blood-curdling screams.
A moment of peace. That dip on a Sunday afternoon after the children have been run ragged round the park by Steve and me, after we’ve washed up together proving I’m not the fifties-style house drudge Martin thinks I am. Steve has done his sermon and has a rare free hour. I put him to work on the draught excluder for the back door.
The phone goes. It is answered immediately which means Olivia has picked it up. She will make a very good PA one day, though I can’t see her settling for anything less than director general of the world. She appears at the kitchen door dressed in one of Steve’s surplices. She looks like she belongs to some weird American cult but I don’t say anything as it’s not one I’ve ironed. ‘It’s that lady with the dolphin on her arm,’ she says, holding out the phone. ‘Granddad’s friend.’
The tattooed lady. Pat. Why is she ringing?
‘Don’t worry,’ is the first thing Pat says. ‘He’s not dead or anything, though if I hadn’t come when I did he might be for all we know.’
If I could form coherent thoughts and transform them into words, I might ask her where she got her superb telephone manner from. But all I can do is demand, rather fiercely, so that Steve sits up from his prostrate position by the back door: ‘What happened? Tell me what happened.’
So Pat does as she’s told and tells me what happened.
The story according to Pat: I’d just been down Lidl to get your dad some bits for the freezer and jam – he’s got a sweet tooth hasn’t he, he’d have jam with everything given the chance – so it really wasn’t my day to see him but I reckoned I’d pop the things round, there and then, rather than putting them in my freezer to be going on with. I suppose you could call it female intuition or a sixth sense – I think I’m a bit psychic, there’s gypsy blood in me somewhere down the line – I felt I needed to go round and check up on your dad... At this point, call me psychic too because I sense a thinly-veiled accusation of neglect being channelled down the fibre optic cables to be snagged on my guilt-antenna... which was just as well as he didn’t answer when I knocked so I used my key and let myself in. Finally there is a pause while I wonder how she came to have a key and, of course, what she is about to say next. I wait while she catches her breath, suspecting that she is taking the opportunity to have a drag on one of her dirty roll-ups. He’s only lying on the floor of the living room sprawled in front of the Jeremy Kyle show. I know for a fact he can’t stand Jeremy Kyle – I’m more of a Trisha girl myself – so I realised something was up. He’s had a fall and the silly bugger can’t move. I blanch at this expression. If anyone’s going to call my father a silly bugger it’ll be me, thank you very much. I’m a trained first aider you’ll be pleased to hear, so I checked all the vitals and then called the doctor who said he’s alright, but they want to find out why he keeps dropping, I just thought you’d want to know but he’s asleep right now and he needs his rest.
I am torn between gratitude and annoyance that Pat found him when she did. I’m sure he’d have got help somehow but then you never know. I tell Pat, graciously, that I’ll speak to him once he’s woken up and sort out a visit. She tells me, smugly, that she will keep an extra eye on him. I want to ask her where she keeps that extra eye – in her tobacco pouch? But of course I don’t. I am good Vicky. Patient Vicky. Bad daughter Vicky.
The story according to Dad: I was getting up to switch the channels – Pat had tidied up the remote control – when I somehow tripped over my own legs. Don’t ask me how. It only took a second. Suddenly I was on the floor with a sore shoulder and no energy to get back up again. The floor was the only place I wanted to be. Though I could’ve done without that Jeremy Kyle lecturing all those ill-nourished people. Where’s a gardening programme when you need one? After enduring several lie detector tests, and all the boos and hisses like the panto at Christmas, I was beginning to wonder if I should try and crawl to the phone when I heard the door go. For a moment I thought that was it. I was being burgled. I was going to be done-over. But then I heard the clip-clop of Pat’s shoes and I’ve never been so glad to see those legs come into view.
Dad tells me this on the phone when Pat finally lets me speak to him. I can hear her squawk with fake annoyance in the background at the reference to her legs and I do my best to swallow the violent feelings that this generates. I inform Dad that we will be coming down on Saturday for a few days. Half term has come in the nick of time. Vicky to the rescue.
But what about Martin? When is he going to offer up some filial duty?
Thoughts for the Day: Being shipwrecked, alone, on a desert island, with only the birds of the air, the creatures of the sea and the odd wild animal for company, has got a bad press.
February 14th 1978
I didn’t get any Valentine cards but I don’t care. All the boys I know are dirty little youknowwots.
Martin got a card from Heidi. He was embarrassed because it was ginormous with a massive Snoopy on the front holding a bunch of roses. Mum wanted to put it on the mantelpiece but he said no way and hid it in his stink bomb room.
Dad said Heidi is very keen and Martin said they all are, and Dad said you better be careful. Then Dad went out to sort out the compost and Martin went to rugby practice.
I tidied out the cupboard under the stairs and found 57p. Finders keepers. I am not a commie. Mrs Thatcher would be proud of me.
Alice is coming for tea tomorrow so I have to tidy the front room and remind Mum to go shopping. I will ask if she can get an Arctic Roll. Maybe Heidi will come too then Alice will know not to go silly over Martin if she sees him with his girlfriend.
Alice is clever. She should know better. But then Heidi is clever too. She should know better than to go out with my brother. But then he’s never buried them in the sludgy sand at Worthing and forgotten about them.
Chapter Twenty-Three: Saturday 16th February
Half-term. Hallelujah! No packed lunches, no school uniforms. A leisurely breakfast and then down to Worthing for a few days. The car is packed, courtesy of Steve who has made car-packing into an art form. I wish he’d take the same care over his sock drawer. What is it with cars? Martin treats his Saab better than he treats his fellow human beings, even his wife. Especially his wife. Not that she’s in my good books, having asked if Jeremy can ‘tag along’ to Worthing. Apparently Claudia can’t take time off to look after him. I suspect she can’t take off time from her new boyfriend, Harold Pinter.
Martin calls by with some money for Jeremy and to say sorry he can’t make it down but he’s snowed under. Surprise, surprise. As we pile in the car, fiddling with seat belts, Martin stands watching Tamarine who is washing Bob’s wo
ebegone Rover. He has a smile on his face as she stretches on her tiptoes to reach across the roof with her sponge.
I lower the window to pass on final instructions. ‘Thanks for feeding Socks, Tamarine.’
Tamarine waves her sponge regally and gets back to her task.
‘And Martin.’
‘Yes, Vicky-Love?’
‘Keep your phone with you in case I need to get hold of you.’
‘I can give you Bill’s number if you’re that worried.’
The empty house stands behind us. I know I could offer it to Martin in our absence. But no. He’d trash it. Let Bill (or, if Bill’s anything like Martin, his wife), clean up after my brother.
‘Go on, then. You’d best give it to me.’
Martin scribbles on a business card of his. Since when have academics had business cards? Professor Martin Bumface. I snatch it off him and shove it in my purse. Just in case.
‘See you, Dad,’ says Jeremy, a small voice with undertones of Oliver Twist. A well-fed Oliver Twist.
‘Bye, son.’
Is he going to offer more than that? No. He’s already transferred his attention to poor Tamarine. As Steve pulls away I notice Martin speaking to her. Whatever it is Tamarine says – and I’d love to know what – Martin quickly turns away from her and trudges back down the street to his Saab.