Growing Pains of a Hapless Househusband

by Sam Holden

  'That's because they're doing their best for you, aren't you, kids?'

  The children nodded furiously. Nevertheless, their fidgeting was getting more pronounced, and the table was shaking as they constantly bashed into it with their swaying feet.

  'It's as though they've got motors inside them,' said the Reverend Sincock. 'Out-of-control lawnmowers is what I call them!'

  Initially I thought it slightly strange that the children should be spoken about as if they weren't present, but I was to get used to that during the week. By now the shaking of the table was growing acute, but the Sincocks didn't seem to notice or care. Again, I would later learn that this was small beer. Had this been Peter and Daisy doing it, they would have got a rocket, and quite possibly been sent to their rooms. This, however, was Michael and Mary's idea of keeping still.

  'And, um, do you, you know . . .' I started.

  'What?' asked Mrs Sincock.

  'Give them medication?'

  'Oh no!' said Mr Sincock.

  'No?'

  'We do not believe in drugs,' he stated, and folded his arms.

  'What do you mean?' I asked. 'Do you not believe in them the same way as I don't believe in God?'

  Cock. Fuck. Poo. Toss. Bugger. Balls. Wank. Shit. Cock again and a bit more fuck. Why did I say that? Was it the lack of dog collar? Or was it because God was on my mind, knowing that Sincock was a vicar, and in my conscious attempt to tread carefully and not mention God, my subconscious had rebelled and decided to have some fun? Yes, probably.

  The Sincocks nodded. Dom looked skyward, or rather heavenward (if there is a heaven of course, which I don't believe, as should now be somewhat obvious).

  'Christ,' I said. 'I'm so sorry.'

  'Just because you are an atheist, Mr Holden, it does not give you the right to blaspheme.'

  'Did I?'

  'Yes. You just said "Christ".'

  'Oh shit, I'm so sorry.'

  Mr Sincock stood up. The children were now cackling away, and Mrs Sincock stared nervously into the endless brown pool of her tea.

  'He said shit! He said shit!' shouted Michael.

  'You're not allowed to say shit!' said Mary.

  'Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!' went Michael.

  'Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!' went Mary.

  'Quiet!' shouted the good Rev.

  They ignored him, and then the table-kicking got worse, and soon our tea was slopping out of our mugs.

  'Keep still!' he shouted.

  After a few more kicks the earthquake under us slowly died away, along with the 'shits'.

  Sincock then turned his attention to me.

  'Mr Holden,' he said. 'You have been invited into our home in order to help us. While you are here, I expect you to behave with respect to our beliefs and our feelings. Do I make myself clear?'

  'Of course,' I said. 'And I sincerely apologise. I assure you that it will not happen again.'

  Sincock studied my face.

  'I pray – literally – that you are right.'

  'Sorry.'

  'Your apology is accepted,' he said, and I breathed out.

  We spent the rest of the day observing and filming the children. I kept my mouth shut, although as the behaviour of Michael and Mary left me speechless, I hardly needed to adopt much self-control. I had never witnessed such scenes of childish Armageddon. Not a minute passed without the children:

  a) shouting

  b) screaming

  c) running

  d) climbing

  e) knocking things over

  f) fighting each other

  g) fighting their mother

  h) fighting their father (when he was around)

  i) all of the above

  j) oh yes, and throwing things

  But there was worse. Not only did they behave – just as Sincock had indicated – like lawnmowers on the loose, but they also refused to listen to their mother. No matter what order she gave out, whether it was harshly put or gently put, they simply ignored it. When she asked them to come to the table they would lie on the floor feigning sleep, or they would lie on the floor having a tantrum.

  By the middle of the afternoon, I was beginning to feel that my nerves were shot to pieces. The constant screaming and disobedience had got to me, and at one point I even joined one of the location assistants for a cigarette. That succeeded in making me feel lightheaded, but I certainly felt a lot more mellow, too. God only knew, literally (although not literally if you're an atheist), how Mrs Sincock coped. It was either the power of prayer, or of a secret stash of Valium that she had hidden away from the vicar.

  But teatime was the crunch. Teatime was the nightmare. Mrs Sincock tried to make the children come to the table, but they refused. Instead they stayed in the playroom, doing one of the few things that kept them relatively peaceful.

  'I wanna watch TV!' shouted Michael.

  'I wanna watch TV!' shouted Mary.

  'I'll take the TV away if you don't come to the table,' said Mrs Sincock.

  Mary started screaming.

  Michael started whining in the same way as Peter does, despite the fact that he is twice his age.

  'I'll give you ten seconds!'

  'No!'

  'Ten!'

  'Nine!'

  'Eight!'

  Still no movement from the playroom. Toby the cameraman poked his lens in, and as I could see from the VT later (notice how quickly I am picking up these TV words), the children just sat on their beanbags.

  'Seven! Six! Five! Four! Three! Two!'

  Nothing!

  'One!'

  Blast-off. Mrs Sincock, perhaps because the Valium was wearing off, stormed into the playroom and dragged the children away. They kicked and screamed, and then Mary took a savage, feral bite out of her mother's left forearm. Unsurprisingly Mrs Sincock cried out, and let go, at which point the children started laughing and ran back into the playroom.

  It was tempting just to pick Mary and Michael up by their collars and help haul them out, but I heeded Dom's words that the observer should not react with the system. Funnily enough, Dom only follows this rule when things are going particularly badly.

  I looked at Mrs Sincock's arm. The little beast had actually drawn blood.

  'Are you all right?' I asked.

  'I'm fine,' she said. 'It's not the first time. Can you see the scars?'

  And sure enough, all the way up her forearms was a network of little white lines.

  'Chri— Blimey,' I said. 'You should wear gauntlets!'

  'I know!'

  'But how do you manage to keep so calm?'

  'I see it as a test,' she said.

  'A test?'

  'That's right. From the Lord. I know that he wants to test me, to see if I am worthy of his love.'

  'Why you?'

  'Who knows?' she said. 'As even you should know, the Lord moves in mysterious ways.'

  I always thought this was a bit of a cop-out by the religious, a rather too easy way of explaining why crap has to happen. Naturally I refrained from expressing my thoughts.

  'Quite,' I mumbled.

  Eventually the children were sort of seated at the table. Mrs Sincock had cooked a nice-looking tea for them, and I was rather tempted to snaffle one of the sausages.

  'I don't want this!' shouted Mary. 'This is poo!'

  'It's not poo, dear,' Mrs Sincock replied. 'These are Fairtrade sausages and organic peas and potatoes.'

  I must confess I'd never heard of Fairtrade sausages, but they looked bloody good. Michael thought so as well, although his method of eating them was positively Cro-Magnon, or perhaps Neanderthal, whichever is worse. He grabbed each sausage with his fist and just shoved it into his mouth. The peas, naturally, were flicked around, which Mrs Sincock ignored. I had thought that serving them peas was asking for trouble, but I suspect, like all good Christians, she wanted to give peas a chance.

  Mary was eating nothing, and Mrs Sincock tried to feed her like a baby.

  'I don't want it!'


  Nevertheless her mother continued, despite the fact that each mouthful was spat out, or in the rare event of it being swallowed, was regurgitated in a semi-masticated lump back onto the table. I caught Dom's eye, and he gave me a covert thumbs-up, as I knew he would. He was merciless.

  After a few more minutes the children simply got down from the table and ran back into the playroom. Mrs Sincock chased after them, and gave them an almighty rocket. My attention, however, was caught by the deliciously plump sausage that Mary had left on her plate. Reckoning that it would only be going to waste, and motivated by greed, I removed it and started chewing it.

  'You can't do that!' hissed Dom. 'You're on a diet!'

  I noticed that he had no moral problem with my small act of larceny.

  'Shh!' I went. 'I'm bloody starved.'

  The sausage tasted delicious, and I was delighted that Mary had left it.

  'I'm definitely going to get some of these Fairtrade bangers,' I said. 'Damn good!'

  Of course, that was the moment that Mrs Sincock walked into the room.

  'I give up,' she said.

  I tried stuffing the sausage into my mouth as quickly as possible.

  'What are you eating?' she asked.

  'Nothing,' I lied, my mouth clearly full.

  'Is that . . . is that a sausage?'

  'Er, yes.'

  'Where from?'

  'Um, from Mary's plate. I thought she had finished.'

  Mrs Sincock looked stunned. (It's just occurred to me that I've been referring to her as 'Mrs Sincock' throughout. It just feels right – some people don't need first names.)

  'You took food from my child's plate?'

  'Um, I didn't want it to go to waste.'

  'But that's outrageous!'

  'I'm, er, terribly sorry,' I said abjectly. 'Just a terrible misunderstanding. It's kind of what I do at home, you know, when the children have finished their food. I was feeling a bit peckish and just thought, you know . . .'

  'No I do not! And how did you know my children had finished?'

  'Well, they, um, got down.'

  I sensed Dom was brewing the most massive 'church laugh', and his whole body was shaking as he tried to control that paroxysm of giggles that was surely about to break out.

  'Just because they had got down, Mr Holden, does not mean that they have finished eating.'

  'I see. I'm sorry.'

  I felt like a schoolboy being chastised by head matron. Mrs Sincock must only have been a few years older than me, but I might as well have been nine. Blimey, I thought, it was only a poxy sausage, which her daughter would have spat out anyway. She looked at me, no doubt evaluating some sort of punishment. What was it to be? Sent to my room? A talking-to from Father? Six of the best?

  'Mr Holden, the whole idea of inviting you into our home was for you to help us with the difficult task of disciplining our children. I cannot see what hope we have if you yourself require that same discipline.'

  Dom's shaking was getting worse, and it was infectious. Toby the cameraman was shaking as well, and soon I found myself starting to make bizarre snorting noises in my throat. There was something so absurd about being lectured by this woman about my pinching a sausage, when the children had spent the entire day behaving like tearaways. On reflection, there was no doubt that she was venting all her frustration on me, but at the time I was too dim – and a little petrified – to appreciate that.

  'I'm, er, terribly sorry,' I repeated.

  I could see her weighing up her options. Would she throw us out for sausage pilfering? If she did that, there would be no money for the church roof, which would be a disaster. On the other hand, why should she have to endure these sniggering thirtysomethings, who were hardly helping make her children behave better?

  'Apology accepted,' she finally said, albeit with marked reluctance.

  'Thank you,' I said.

  Then, out of the playroom:

  'Fuckity poo fuck!'

  'FUUUUUUCK!!!'

  It was inevitable that this high-octane outburst of childish swearing would cause the release of our church laughs, and out they came, our stomachs aching as we doubled up with mirth.

  'I don't see what's so funny!' said Mrs Sincock.

  'I'm sorry . . .' I started to say, but it was impossible. I laughed so hard I felt as if I might rupture a stomach muscle (that's if I have any).

  'I think it's best if you just leave,' said Mrs Sincock. 'I don't see why I have to put up with this!'

  We pleaded. We begged forgiveness. We almost got down on our knees, but it was no use. I even found myself saying 'We promise to behave,' but it was no good. Mrs Sincock wanted us out, and within ten minutes we indeed were. As soon as we were outside by the car, Dom left me in no doubt whose fault it was.

  'For fuck's sake,' he said. 'That's gone and totally fucked our schedule.'

  'So it's all my fault, is it?'

  'Yes it is. First of all you announce you're an atheist. Then you blaspheme. Then you actually steal food from the mouth of their daughter. And, finally, you laugh at her.'

  'We all laughed at her!'

  'I admit that, but by then you had dug us in too deep.'

  Dom had a point. In fact, he had some points. I decided that there was no possibility of defending this particular flank, and it would be easier simply to attack him back.

  'Anyway, they were a totally inappropriate family to use,' I said. 'Those children need a psychiatrist and medication, not a TV crew to take the piss out of them.'

  Dom held up his hands and then let them fall in histrionic despair.

  'Holy fuck,' he said. 'I thought we had been through all this taste shit.'

  'Yes, but now I'm faced with the reality of the situation, and I don't like it.'

  'But you always knew what the reality of the fucking situation was. I bloody told you!'

  'I know, but I've got my doubts.'

  'You're a bit bloody late for doubts. About ninety bloody grand late! If you don't want to do this programme you can simply give me the money back, and I can find someone else.'

  'Oh yeah? Who?'

  'Any number of failed management consultants.'

  This enraged me.

  'So you're calling me a failure?' I asked.

  'Well, generally people who are out of work tend to be failures.'

  'I decided not to go back to work. It was a matter of choice.'

  'That's not what I'd heard,' said Dom.

  'Really? From who?'

  I paused.

  'In fact,' I continued, 'you don't need to answer that. Why don't you go and fuck yourself, and then fuck Emily, in that order. Fuck you both.'

  Dom didn't say anything. Instead, he was pointing over my shoulder, and had the look of a man who had been pointing over my shoulder for a while. I turned round.

  'Hello Mr Holden,' said Mr Sincock.

  In the end, Dom sorted it. He promised another grand for the church roof, and said that I would be on my best behaviour. Mrs Sincock didn't like it, but her husband apparently gave her a lecture on forgiveness, as well as on water damage in thirteenth-century churches. When we turned up the next morning it was as if nothing had happened, although I was suitably apologetic, up to the point at which Mrs Sincock said there was really little need to go on about it, and that everything was forgotten.

  We then spent most of that Tuesday morning watching the children run wild once again, and Dom was delighted with the footage we were getting. As I watched, I decided that the only way to handle the Sincock episode was to treat the whole thing incredibly seriously. These children were unstable, and it was clear to me that Mrs Sincock was not applying the same sort of discipline to them as she had done to me. She had given up ages ago, and when she was confronted by my naughtiness she had really let rip, knowing that I was a (relatively) sane human being, who responds to reason. (Sometimes. Sally would dispute this.)

  At lunchtime Dom, one of the Emmas and I went off for a meeting to discuss how
to handle this family. Much of the air from the day before had been cleared, and as we sat in the pub enjoying a couple of pints and not enjoying the food, I told them that I didn't want to be seen as taking the piss out of a couple of children whose behaviour was a function of a condition rather than of poor upbringing.

  'Nobody is asking you to take the piss,' said Dom.

  'All we want you to be is yourself,' said Emma.

  I supped my pint. As you do. (You never sip pints, you always 'sup' them.)

  'That's the problem,' I said. 'I think that being myself inherently takes the piss.'

  'Out of whom?' asked Emma.

  'Out of them, of course,' I replied. 'The family.'

  Emma nodded.

  'I wouldn't worry about that,' she said.

  'Exactly,' said Dom.

  'You really sure about that?' I asked.

  'Absolutely.'

  Another sup.

  'Anyway, what's your management plan with the Sincocks?'

  'I've been thinking about that,' I said, which indeed I had. 'I want to create a system of proxy incentivisations and disincentivisations.'

  'You mean like carrots and sticks?' Emma asked.

  'Not quite. Carrots and sticks are actual incentivisations and disincentivisations. What I'm looking to create is a system of representational incentivisations and disincentivisations.'

  'I see,' said Emma.

  'You mean sort of pretend incentivisations and disincentivisations?' asked Dom.

  'Exactly,' I said. 'Pretend incentivisations and disincentivisations.' 'What good would they do?'

  'Encourage them to behave, of course.'

  'I see.'

  'I'm a little lost,' said Emma.

  'Why's that?' I asked.

  'Well, I'm not too sure what poxy incentivisations and disincentivisations really are.'

  'Proxy incentivisations and disincentivisations,' I corrected.

  'Fine, but what exactly are they?'

  'Proxy incentivisations and disincentivisations?'

  'Yes.'

  'Well, they're the function of a strategy for implementing a system of non-financial rewards and penalties. In this way, employee performance can be ascertained and improved within the same co-current holistic process, resulting in a potential maximisation of human resources.'

  'Right,' said Emma, who now looked as if she had been awake for two days.