by Caron Allan
I’m having my last session of physio tomorrow, though it’ll probably just be a chat more than anything as I do all my exercises religiously every morning and afternoon now, and as she keeps on telling me, most of the healing is just a matter of time. My limp is hardly noticeable, unless I’m very tired and my knee doesn’t feel like bending. The physio gal told me I might always have a bit of a limp and that I shouldn’t worry about it or let it make me self-conscious. I’m still working on that though. In my mind it’s a lot worse than it really is, and I panic, thinking that I’m holding people up or that everyone is staring at me, which of course they’re not. And when I’ve got my stick, it only leaves me with one hand free, and I feel insecure and off-balance because of that.
My belly’s more or less as flat as pre-Thomas Sidney, which is about the only good thing I can say about my body at the moment. I can now get back into all my nice clothes again. Not that I much feel like getting dressed up. I’m afraid I’ve rather let myself go—and mainly I just live in jeans and old jumpers. The old me of several years ago just wouldn’t recognise this new timid imitation of myself. No longer so posh, no longer designer-clothes-only, much less starchy and stuffy and polished.
Ah, Matt’s calling me. He wants to go for a walk. I think it’s really his idea of therapy. He knows that left to myself I’d vegetate indoors all day. But the sun’s shining so it will be nice to take Billy and Paddy to the swings for a play. And Tom likes sitting in the swing whilst I push him gently though he doesn’t really have a clue what’s going on—but it makes him giggle. Plus, he loves going out in his buggy and seeing the big wide world. He’s got Matt’s huge blue eyes. He’s a beautiful baby with a permanent expression of astonishment.
Wednesday June 24th—3.15pm
My accident (I don’t know why I call it that—she ran me down on purpose. But somehow it’s just easier to call it an accident.) was on the 31st October last year, and that now seems like half a lifetime ago. With all my injuries on the right side of my body I have felt off-balance, and I still can’t help leaning more towards the left side to relieve the right. But as the doctors constantly tell me, I’m lucky to be alive, and they almost couldn’t believe that Thomas Sidney wasn’t injured or even killed.
Of course I know what they mean, and it’s not that I’m not grateful a) to be alive and b) for all the wonderful help and care from the medical staff at the Infirmary. I am truly grateful for all they did for me—us, I should say.
But everything has changed. I mean, the gloves are now off. I know Monica did this—not that the police have been able to prove anything—they just shrug and say they are continuing their enquiries. She can’t pretend she intended anything other than my death and the death of my baby.
Poor Matt, and Lill and Sid. How much they have all suffered. And the endless, exhausting routine of caring for the children and trying to keep up a semblance of normality whilst answering everyone’s questions, and spending hours at my bedside, hoping and praying that I would come through this. I don’t know how they did it. I don’t want to think about it. My therapist says I’m trying to pretend it didn’t happen. I just feel like saying, “well der!”
Yesterday we had to go and say goodbye to Mavis. She’s moved away. She’s never recovered from her guilt over what happened that night. Her gal-pal Henrietta died quite suddenly of a heart-attack almost three months ago now, just a week before I came out of hospital, so Mavis has gone off to live in a bungalow in St Neots with her ‘baby’ sister, who is a mere youngster of 77. Mavis said she couldn’t bear to live in the village any longer. And I have to say, I know exactly how she feels. I’d quite like to get away myself. Fortunately, with Mavis’s ex-husband Simon ‘dying’ (you’re welcome, ladies) and leaving her all his money under a very old will, Mavis now has enough cash to live comfortably for years but at a not very healthy 84, I don’t suppose she will be around very much longer.
In a way, knowing I won’t have to see her constantly and won’t have to deal with her guilt will be a huge relief to me, but I so wish Henrietta was still here. I used to enjoy our little get-togethers at the pub. Huff. It’s all doom and gloom.
Well, not all. Got Tom weighed at the baby clinic this morning—he’s finally reached the normal weight for his age and I am so proud and relieved! He is perfectly strong and healthy and contented, which is such a blessing. So that’s one less thing to worry about.
One of the hospital nurses—Nurse Nasty at the prem ward—will have to eat her words, I’m glad to say. That woman took great delight in making dire pronouncements about the babies under her care, telling all the sorrowing, desperate parents “once a prem baby, always a prem baby.” And also, “a sickly, delicate baby grows into a sickly and delicate child, and if they’re lucky, then into a sickly and delicate adult.” What a ghoul! And deffo the last thing you want to hear when you’re already up to your ears in fear and anxiety over the poor little mite in the special see-through box.
But all that is behind us. Tom sits happily in his bouncy chair or lays on his blanket and kicks his legs about and does all he can to reach the little toys we all put out for him to gaze at. He is such a calm, happy little chap—I can’t think why! He reminds me a bit of Sid, he seems to just take everything in his stride and doesn’t fret. And already six and a half months old. That’s old! Ooh goody, OJ-and-biscuits break for Billy and me.
Later: 3.45pm
I do wish Matt wouldn’t keep looking at me with that worried expression. I thought he’d stopped doing that. And I thought I was doing all the right things to make my family relax and stop fretting. Must try to be extra light and fluffy to allay any lingering suspicions.
Later still: 4.45pm
I know it’s just that he loves me and I understand completely that he has been through a terrible time—in fact he’s probably suffered more than any of us because he felt so helpless! I wept like anything when I read what he had written at the end of my old journal. Poor Matt.
But as Lill says, “we’re all cogs in the same great chain of life so we’ve just got to do our bit and not worry about the future.” Fortunately, she’s a better cook than she is a philosopher.
At least I still have Madison. In fact, I’m meeting her at the pub in half an hour for lunch. Can’t wait to hear her latest exploits in the world of online dating. I am still a little nervous about going out, but I’m so much better than I was even just a few weeks ago. In fact, better than I was even last week. It’s just occurred to me that it’s happening—I am growing in confidence, life is returning to normal after my long, dark night of the soul (and body). Lill and Matt seem quite excited, though they are trying not to show it. It’s nice knowing they are so happy for me to be out and about. I think I will take Tom with me, he will be as good as gold as always and it will give them a break. Then if I get tired on the short walk home, I can lean on the buggy, so I won’t need to take my stick, which will boost my confidence a hundred-fold.
I don’t look quite as gorgeous as I used to—I used to be so vain about my looks. But now I have to put quite a bit of concealer on over the scars on my jaw and chin. But the hair is okay now it’s grown back over the bit where they had to shave it to go in and tinker with my brain. Or as Matt says, to make sure I actually had one. And anyway, village life is so secluded from the ‘real’ world, no one would even notice if my hair wasn’t exactly up-to-the-minute. Anything from the last fifty years is still very much on-trend for our little neck of the woods!
Wednesday June 24th—11.00pm
Lovely lunch with Madison today—nothing remotely threatening about the situation, so came away feeling a small sense of triumph. Still a bit scared pushing the buggy up the lane back to the house, and found myself on edge as I listened carefully for traffic and spent almost a minute scanning for cars before crossing—which was daft. I know, as there were no cars. I couldn’t hear any vehicle approaching and yet I was still uncertain about stepping into the road and going across to the entrance of o
ur drive. Somehow I didn’t quite trust my own judgment and observations. The whole situation made slightly worse by having Tom with me, so an extra worry and also, was vaguely aware of someone further down the street—it may have been that Vera woman who briefly tried out as a housekeeper/Lill’s assistant last year. I wasn’t sure who it was though, as I didn’t feel brazen enough to actually turn and stare at them, I was just dimly conscious of some old bat a hundred feet away watching me. It all added together to make me feel on edge and full of self-doubt.
At the pub it was relaxing, because Madison had chosen a little alcove tucked away between the pot plants, whilst at the bar there were just a couple of old blokes keeping the barman busy, so I felt I went virtually unnoticed. I was almost relaxed.
So the gossip: she has had a few tentative enquiries from would-be suitors, wandering if she would like to chat online or meet up for a coffee. Once again, I am to go round to scrutinise the applicants and to help her decide which to consider getting to know better and which seem a bit dodgy and should be discarded slash avoided like the plague. I accepted but I’m already wishing I’d been able to think of an excuse not to go round. It’s not that it’s far from where I live, and it will still be daylight, but it’s the thought of that stretch of lane between us and the village—it seems to loom in my mind and has become almost twice its true length simply with me dwelling on it and wondering. Perhaps Matt won’t mind meeting me for the walk back?
Because all I can think is, surely sooner or later she’ll have another go? I mean, she must know by now that her attempt didn’t work as well as she’d hoped? Monica I’m talking about. If only Sid’s mate had some good news for us.
Oh yes, and as expected, Tom was the perfect little poppet. Madison had him on her lap most of the time. I had to tell her through gritted teeth that he is not called Tommy. He is Thomas or Tom. God! Why do people seem unable to understand this simple rule? Anyway he gooed and burbled happily at her, and attempted (though thankfully she didn’t notice) to gnash her bread roll, lying there smothered in butter, and tantalisingly close. Think it’s time to introduce him to some solid food. Am a bit worried he’ll end up with Sid’s waistline—I suppose I must prepare myself for the inevitable. He’ll probably talk like someone from a council estate too. In fact, if Tom had a little less hair, he’d bear quite a striking resemblance to Sid. Poor little bugger. I bet his first word is not Mum or Dad like other babies, but arse or some other Sid-related expletive.
Then this evening, Stephen popped in. I was about to give Tom his last bottle of the evening and get him down to bed, Matt had already bathed him as I still can’t kneel properly to get down by the side of the bath, so Matt does most of the bathing.
Anyway, it was lovely to see Steve—but he was so emotional. He has tried to visit before but I’ve put him off, though we’ve spoken on the phone a few times. He kept saying ‘after all you’ve been through, it’s wonderful to see you getting back to normal.’ And then he had to dab at his mascara. To think I thought him so stuffy and dull when he was still our Vicar.
He’s really nailed the look now, too. Subtle make-up, delicate perfume, nice flared skirt to hide his rugby-player’s thighs, nice little white top under an elegant jacket. Earrings. Sensible heels (clearly men’s shoe size 12 or 13), but not ridiculously high. We had a lovely evening.
So for the last week, I have been making great strides to get back to whatever passes for normal in this house. My friends and family have been wonderful. I am feeling more relaxed, more confident and each new day is slightly less terrifying than the one before. I’m even quite looking forward to going on our hols next month. I doubt I’ll get into a swimming costume, even if we’re somewhere quiet with just our own pool, but at least I can always blame the weather for not quite being warm enough.
Have decided to carry out some good works to increase the happiness of those around me and to build my own self-esteem and confidence. So I am taking on a new project—something good this time. I am going to a) find a nice, broad-minded man for Steve (yes, he wants a man to share his life with now.) and b) a sweet-natured and caring man for Madison; she is not one of your independent, ‘sistas are doing it for themselves’ type of woman, she is as clinging as ivy and with absolutely no backbone. So obviously she needs something resembling a pretty solid oak tree, only, obv with a bit more heart and he’ll have to be sensitive but manly. And rather old-fashioned. Someone to spoil her and make all the decisions, and have pots of cash, and deffo not the ‘wham bam, thank you, ma’am’ sort, someone with manners, who won’t talk about shagging and arse and so on, but will allude politely to ‘relations’ and ‘intimacy’ and admire her 1950s-style femininity. Plus, he needs to really like jam.
Hurrah—a mission!
And with those two humble projects, and with being an ordinary, somewhat battered physically and emotionally, hausfrau, I shall have to be content.
Thursday June 25th—5.15pm
Lill is in a terrible flap! As am I, I hasten to add. She is threatening to go and spend a few days with Leanne to help her through her present marital difficulties. OMG there’s no way I can manage without Lill for two or three whole days!
Have just had a call from Jess in Scotland—she has just become a grandmother for the umpteenth time—you’d think she’s be used to it—but no, she is as ecstatic as if it were her first. I can’t remember all their names, they are mostly girls named after flowers, I think—Lily, Daisy, Rosie, Bella, that sort of thing. Quite sweet really. And the few boys are old-fashioned stalwart names--there’s a George and a William, and possibly another, I forget now. Jack? Something like that. This new one is to be called Reginald. Poor kid.
Anyway—how nice it is to have some happy news once in a while.
This afternoon, whilst Tom was having his nap, Billy and I settled down for a peek through the latest issue of Vogue. She has really missed it, from what Lill has said, and this has underlined all those precious times I have missed over the recent months, and it made me feel angry and vengeful again. And it isn’t just me who has missed out—poor Billy and everyone else have missed their little bit of me-time too. Billy now follows me everywhere even more than she used to. Almost six months of deprivation has made us all a bit clingy I suppose—apart from those times when I just have to get away, and I feel as if I’m suffocating—well, I am still struggling to accept the loss of that time.
So we snuggled into a chair—her with her nesquik and me with my spring water with a dash of lemon juice, and we had a glorious hour with all things accessories. When I finally feel like going shopping, I will purchase a few colourful bangles and hair slides etc for Billy; she will have hours of fun doing her hair—and let’s face it, she’s got plenty of it to try things out on. Have been researching tips for dealing with afro hair, as it’s very dense compared to mine. In fact, I will take her shopping somewhere fabulous once Tom is a little bit bigger and I don’t mind leaving him for longer periods. Have got a horrid suspicion he will be a car mechanic or something of the sort—I keep finding him banging one of Sid’s spanners on things—any surface that makes a noise. Matt suggested he might be a percussionist, but I think we know otherwise, don’t we, dear reader? It’s those robust working class genes finding an out. Therefore, it seems logical to expend most of my hopes on Billy, Paddy is already too far gone, he spends hours drawing cars and bikes—not just the vehicles, but even little bits of engine—oh God, how did this happen to me?
Anyway, yes, back to the possible shopping trip. I wonder if it might be better to go sooner rather than later—Tom already gets around the house enough with his newly-discovered crawling ability—just imagine what it will be like when he can walk! I know Lill, Matt and Sid would be happy to ‘mind’ Tom for a day so Billy and I can go shopping. In fact, one of the boys would no doubt be happy to drive us—I couldn’t go on the train—that would be altogether too nerve-wracking an experience and I don’t like driving—my nerves are shot, and with Billy in the ca
r it would be too scary for words. So yes, I will think about it a bit more and perhaps if I think it will work, then I’ll ask Sid or Matt when they are likely to be available to act as chauffeur slash bag-carrier.
Friday June 26th—2.30pm
Of course when it comes to helping one’s friends to meet that special someone with whom to share their lives, there are absolutely masses of online sites—some of whom have no concerns whatsoever about giving away all your private details to anyone and everyone, and at the other extreme there are sites where, it seems to me, they do everything possible to prevent people actually meeting. Ideally we need to find somewhere between those two—secure but not a virtual prison.
But I can’t really sign up to all these sites on my friends’ behalf, can I? It wouldn’t just be laborious, but my friends might just be a teensy bit upset about my descriptions of them: Madison would be ‘mousy, timid and ineffectual woman, potential earth-mother with culinary skills and Daddy issues.’ She’d be more likely to end up with a job offer as a housekeeper at a boarding school than meet the man of her dreams.
And speaking of men, it seems that men who dress up as women and want to meet other men as a category, opens up a whole new can of worms. All sorts of images popped up on my screen when I typed in ‘middle-aged transvestite’. Even my security software got upset and kept asking me ‘whoah are you sure you want to go there?’ (Pretty sure that’s not even the correct spelling of whoah, either!) Got so fed-up with clicking, ‘yes, proceed to site’, every time the software freaked out, only to get a giant penis emblazoned across the screen. Fortunately, no one came in at that moment. What has that even got to do with middle-aged transvestites anyway?