by Caron Allan
Steve kindly stopped work to chat with me, but I could feel his mind straying back to his work, so after a few minutes I left and came home again, feeling very silly.
Spent all afternoon watching kids’ TV with baby sick all down my top. Matt asked if I was depressed. Why would he think that?
Anyway, we’re about to go off to Madison’s. Am very pleased to find I am svelte and lovely again in LBD from pre-baby days—so am feeling rather boosted by getting into it. It’s a bit over the top for a village do, but we have to make the best of all opportunities, don’t we? Most of the time I try to avoid being around other people, but at the same time I miss the old posh bashes I used to go to with Thomas.
We’re going sans baby tonight—Sid has promised to take care of Tom’s last feed, and it’s only to Madison’s so in the near-impossible circs that Sid and Lill can’t manage, we’re only a five-minute walk away. So glad it’s all bottle feeding—it’s worked out so well. Mind you, the little gannet will be completely on solids any time now, he isn’t particularly fussy about a bottle apart from his last one of the evening. It’s not as if I could have fed Tom myself when I was still in a coma for the first six weeks of his life! And even though he was premature, he was still home before I was—so getting him to me for a feed six or eight times a day would have been a logistical nightmare.
I know I missed out. I pretend for the others’ sakes that I’m okay with it, that it doesn’t matter. But really, I’m not. Who would be? I was robbed of the first seven weeks of my baby’s life. I had a C-section whilst I was in a coma. How is that the wonderful, life-changing birthing experience I can tell him about when he’s older? And I never had the first nappy, first feed, first bath, first smile experiences…
Must just wipe my eyes and repair my make-up before Matt comes back. Must stop thinking about it. Tom’s alive. I’m alive. That should be enough.
Monday July 6th—10.20am
The new vicar is a complete drip. The perfect beau for Madison, btw. I said as much to Lill last night when I got back from Madison’s do. Lill agreed wholeheartedly.
“You’re right, Cressida, ‘e’s what, in my day, we used to call a ninny—which is juss what she needs.”
Sid rolled his eyes and Matt just laughed. But my mission is clear. On my way up to bed, was humming ‘Love Is In The Air’. Quick peek in at babies.
Billy and Paddy snoozing in blissful kiddie comfort. Next door in what is technically the dressing room to Billy and Paddy’s room, Tom was lying in his cot, wide awake but perfectly content—he was staring at his mobile in total astonishment—love his expression—and just kicking his legs about.
He crowed at me when he saw me and we had a nice cuddle in the rocking chair. Kept the lights off and the curtains open so I could see out into the front garden and beyond it the drive and the village street, the one village lamp casting an eerie light and making the few visible buildings appear dreamlike and unreal. I must have sat there for half an hour before I realised Tom had drifted off to sleep, and I was beginning to nod myself. Precious times.
Later: 2.45pm
The Vicar told us to call him Neville. Apparently he doesn’t like his first name, Cecil (who would?) so he always uses his middle name. Personally I would have found it impossible to choose between those two.
Still, Neville seems quite sweet in an irritating, ineffectual way. He reminds me of someone, but I can’t think who—he’s nothing like Steve. I’m sure it will come to me.
Fancied some me-time so I popped into the pub—was a bit surprised at how bold I felt—for months all I’ve wanted to do is hide—but suddenly it seemed the perfect quiet spot for a daydream over a drink. Adrian, the landlord, knows me quite well by now. We always exchange a few pleasantries. As he put the finishing touches to my hot chocolate (I know, I know, I shouldn’t be having all that sugar now I’m not eating for two. But somehow I just can’t seem to help myself. It’s as if I need it.)
Anyway, as he was topping it with cheap and tacky swirls of aerosol cream, he said, “I hear you lost your home-help.”
Home-help is the old name for a personal care worker, and I’ve never had one of those—not quite in my dotage yet—so I preserved an air of incomprehension.
“Your cleaning lady left,” he explained.
The penny dropped. Ah yes, she did. While I was sleeping.
“Yes,” I said, “she went to help her daughter run a cat’s home.”
“Nice. My missus says she’d like to give up all this for a cat’s home.”
His expansive sweep of the arm encompassed myself and Smelly Jim, the incontinent 70-year-old from the council estate, seated in splendid isolation with his solitary half pint that would last him three hours. I almost laughed. Almost. I waited for him to recall his point as he dropped pastel coloured-mini-marshmallows onto the deflating cream of my drink.
“Oh yes, right then, the thing is,” he said, “my youngest has just left school. Got one GCSE in domestic Science. Grade D,” he added as if this was the enticing carrot that would make me forget the stick.
I had a bad feeling. I waited. Big mistake. A fool who keeps his slash her mouth closed is not mistakenly thought wise but a sucker. Before I knew what was happening, I was choking on inhaled chocolate dust from my drink, and somehow had agreed to pay a 16-year-old called Jacqueline (pronounced ‘the French way’, Zhakleen) to work for me for ten hours a week or more if needed.
I’m a bit scared to go home. Not sure Mrs H Lill will be very happy about this turn of events.
Tuesday July 7th—3pm
Lill, clearly dismayed but trying to put a good face on it, accepted the news stoically. I was almost crying by the time I got home. I hope this Zhakleen has a strong constitution, she’ll have quite a bit to put up with. She’s starting tomorrow at nine o’clock.
“I wouldn’t think she’ll be here that early,” Lill said, “teenagers don’t normally surface until at least eleven o’clock.
I concurred, adding, “at least she’s young and fit—you can get her to do all the heavy stuff.” And I know Lill will be glad to have some help really, she’s missed our previous cleaning lady.
Finally, mid-morning, Neville graced us with his New-Vicar-Meeting-Parishioners visit. He apologised for the delay, and I went to great pains to assure him it didn’t matter in the least, we were grateful he could spare us a few minutes of his time, as we knew he must be very busy.
He took that as encouragement to tell me in detail the duties of a clergyman, especially one newly arrived in a parish. Serves me right. he’s all right really. A bit earnest. But it’s nice to meet a clergyman who actually believes in God. And if he’s a bit boring (Neville not God), well, surely that makes him just right for Madison?
I delicately enquired whether he was married—even though we know that he is not, otherwise where has Mrs Vicar been hiding herself for the last week and a half?
He went a bit pink. I’m sure he was embarrassed. But he admitted he was a bachelor. And when I carted in Tom for a drink and a rusk, Nev (as I now call him privately) got all red and fidgety again. I think he thought I was going to whip out a boob. When I settled Tom down on my l with his bottle of milk, Nev’s colour returned to his usual cherub pink and he began to relax.
If you ask me, he’s embarrassed by anything suggesting intimacy—marriage, babies—and you know what that means—he’s obviously gagging for it!
Anyway he wittered on about his collection of fossils (actual fossils not his elderly parishioners) and his stamp albums. He reminds me of an overgrown kid from the 1940s. he’s good-looking in a way, got good skin and nice teeth, not balding, doesn’t smoke and is highly unlikely to take advantage of Madison on a first date. I’d say it’s a match made in heaven.
I will invite Nev and Mads both round for a meal with just Matt and I. Very intimate, with candles and soft choral music, to continue the churchy non-threatening motif. And we’ll talk nicely about things that really matter, like family and the do
mestic hearth, and how important it is to have that special someone in one’s life to share the slings and arrows of outrageous thingy. That should do the trick.
Meanwhile—progress on the Leanne Front—I have come up with a cunning plan. One so simple, I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner. I shall kill Leanne’s ex-husband and those of us remaining shall live happily ever after.
Actually I do know why I didn’t think of it sooner. It’s because I am trying to be a Better Person. I feel a bit like an alcoholic must feel—so tempted each day to give in to the urge to kill someone. It is so hard to see a better or more efficient or convenient way of dealing with this situation. I will give it a bit more thought though, but obviously not too long as I can’t risk another totes emosh scene such as that big one the other day.
Wednesday July 8th—10.40am
OMG! Jacqueline was here at a quarter to nine, in smart black trousers and a white blouse, with a neatly-folded housecoat over her arm. She brought a notebook!
She is modelling herself on celebrity homemakers such as the How Clean Is Your Hotel’s Kitchen people and that woman that’s always wearing a pinny and making cushions. It seems she is keen to become a celebrity housekeeper/domestic engineer with her own TV show. She is eager to absorb every jot of knowledge she can from Lill then she will presumably throw her aside like a dry husk when all her knowledge has been consumed.
First things first, Lill made sure the child knew how to make a decent cup of tea. Notes were taken! I’ve a feeling Zhakleen will go home and practice tea-making for homework, she seems like that kind of person—not a real teen at all.
Next they covered ‘Hygiene In The Kitchen’. More notes, neatly tabulated under headings, carefully underlined with an HB pencil and a small plastic ruler.
Zhakleen knows exactly how to get round Lill, too. She always calls her Mrs Hopkins and manages to sound a little awestruck. Then she stroked all the cats and commented, “very clean and tidy creatures, aren’t they, cats?”
I think Lill may actually adopt her. Sid wisely kept to his shed all morning after popping in for his mid-morning cuppa. Jacqueline made notes in a corner of the kitchen, and when he left, she remarked to Lill, “men are rather grubby and untidy, aren’t they, Mrs Hopkins?”
Lill gave me a look that can only be described as old-fashioned.
I only hope the kid remembers this for the next ten or twenty years.
Thursday July 9th—9.30am
I’m feeling a bit at a loose end. Can’t go and meet up with Henrietta any more—still so sad about losing her—and it’s horrid not having anyone to talk to or take me out of myself. Sometimes I pop down to the graveyard and lay a few flowers on her grave or pull a few weeds out. I think she got the last slot in the place, it’s really rather crowded.
But I can’t constantly be badgering Madison, mainly because she is driving me nuts, she is so excited, like a kid in a sweetshop one minute and listless and sorry for herself the next. Only one chap has shown any virtual-interest in her on the dating sites but she seems to think he’s a bit odd. Which coming from her… I still see her at least three times a week. Will ask Matt if he thinks we could ask her to be a Godmother to Tom. In fact, poor Tom, he’s already six months old and we still haven’t done anything about getting him christened. We ought to crack on with that. Perhaps Nev can rig up something?
So anyway. I’m lonely, I suppose that’s what I’m trying to say. Neville is definitely out of the question, best-pal wise, and Steve’s too busy, we only get the occasional cup of coffee together. Although I must admit, it is wonderful to see him so relaxed and happy—he looks at least ten years younger.
So here I am. Adrift again. Matt says I need a hobby. Of course, the children keep me busy, and I love them to bits, but it’s not the intellectual challenge and stimulus that I’m looking for. All this sitting about lost in my thoughts is playing havoc with my self-esteem, and it’s making me all maudlin and I keep thinking about the past and getting upset.
If only we could get some news from Sid’s mate. But Sid hasn’t heard from him for what seems like forever.
Text from Mother this morning, saying in her own inimitable style, “Hi Drlng hpe all ok yr end, Whspr doing relly well at uni top of hr clss + met wlthy yng mn frm gd bckgrnd. Hpe she lands hm. No mr nws. Luv to drlng matt + tommy and uthr kidz. Mutha xx’
Urgh! Tommy! Mutha! Kidz! Shades of Clarice and all sorts of nasty things here—that one text may well give me nightmares for a dozen different reasons. I deliberately began calling him Tom from day one to avoid just this problem. Well actually it was day 87 when I finally met my own baby! I wanted to do everything I could to make sure no one in the entire world ever called him Tommy. It makes me feel as sick as a parrot, as Sid would say.
I wonder if it’s worth going back to Uni to get a PhD or something? Not that I’ve ever used my BA or MPhil yet. Huff. Life is so effing tedious, isn’t it?
Today Lill is educating MiniMee in the fine art of fairy cakes and scotch pancakes. They have also progressed to making filter coffee. I predict a really tasty elevenses.
Later: 2.25pm
Very excited—Tom has got a tooth! His first tooth! Matt says, with the wisdom of previous parenting, “no wonder he was so fractious yesterday”. Thus spake our resident paediatric expert. But we spent a hilarious hour trying to persuade Tom to smile and show off his precious new tooth for the sake of the camera. Just had to capture this special milestone moment. Even Billy got involved in trying to make Tom laugh and smile by tickling him and pulling faces. And I know we’re going to go through it all again this afternoon when Paddy comes home from school—am quite excited about it.
And this afternoon, Paddy has a couple of little friends coming over for a play date. Fortunately, the weather is fine so if they get too boisterous we can shove them out in the garden to run off some of their energy.
Friday July 10th—11.15am
Listless this morning. Tom was very ‘fractious’ again last night, as Dr Matt would say, so was up to him quite a bit in the night. Obviously Matt didn’t even hear him. Not that I mind—he’s got to go to work, I’m just sitting around the house all day. Then first thing this morning, there it was, another shiny little white tooth right next to the first one. More smiles and photos followed, then Tom and I both went back to bed for a nap.
Monday July 13th—8.15am
That’s it. She’s driving me crazy. Crazier, I should say. Now she’s telling us we should get the cats declawed so they don’t ruin “our nice furniture”. Our, she says! I can’t believe Lill just said a calm, “oh I don’t think we need to do that.” I hope she has a little chat with her damned daughter while I’m out of the room. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.
And because I think Matt, Sid and Lill would frown on me dispatching their own flesh and blood, (sadly), I shall deffo have to remove her ex-husband and hope this inspires her to return to the hallowed vale of Milton Keynes, a very nice distance from here. Because otherwise I can’t be held responsible for my actions.
Now—what to do and when? And how?
When is easy—asap!
How? I’m thinking a toaster in the bath? An oldie but goodie. This might be passed off as depression slash suicide by a coroner who knows nothing about the family.
So I’m going to pack a bag for my trip. It’s a bit too far for popping there and back without having a decent excuse, so I’m thinking of an overnight stay. But I need a plausible cover story.
Ooh I’ve got it—and it’s perfect! I will go and stay with Mavis. My therapist talked at me for an eternity about the need to make peace with the past. I shall do that. Although Leanne’s marital hovel is not exactly on the doorstep, it’s a lot closer to St Neots than it is to here, so…
…I suppose I’d better let her know or rather, ask for an invitation. Not sure how I’ll get round the situation if Mavis says no, though.
Tuesday July 14th—9.50pm
I’ve spe
nt several days hiding away again. Partly because Leanne is driving me mad. But it’s not just her. I haven’t been out, I just don’t feel like it. I’ve mainly been sitting in the garden room, apart from mealtimes and bath-times or when I’ve been in bed.
Earlier this evening Matt came and sat next to me and asked if there was anything wrong, and I stupidly burst into tears. Which was all the evidence he needed. But I just couldn’t pinpoint exactly what was wrong or why. He asked if I was in pain, so I just nodded. It’s easier to let him think it’s pain from my hip or knee. He sat with me for a while until the football or cricket or some other sport came on and Sid wandered out to fetch him.
“You don’t mind, do you?” he asked. “I’ll stay if you want me to.”
I told him it was okay, he could go, he had done his bit to try to buck me up. He’s in there now, I can hear them both, swearing and calling the Ref’s parentage into question.
The children are upstairs in bed, asleep, good as gold, little Tom included. He’s back to his normal happy little self again now his two teeth have come through. And he looks so cute with those two teeth at the bottom, all white and shiny.
I don’t know what Lill is doing. Probably planning her next lecture for Jacqueline. And as for Jacqueline herself—beastly child—she’s so bloody perfect. Sits there, as if at the feet of a guru, drinking it all in, and making her endless bloody notes in her neat and perfect handwriting. I’m jealous really, I know that. No one ever wants to be with me, old whingy-pants. No one drinks in my every word as if it is a profound divine effing revelation.