A Different Kind of Happy

by Rachaele Hambleton

  She told me she had hired a small car as a run around, so she could get about and help with the school runs and stuff. I always used to think that seventy sounded really old, but knowing Pat and some of her friends, I’ve revised that opinion enormously and am now dreaming of later-in-life worldwide trips and the spontaneous weekends away that we’re not getting in our thirties. My mum died more than twenty years younger than what Pat is now but before her death, before she got unwell, I don’t remember her having as much positive energy as Pat does now. She blows me away with how techy she is. Nothing seems to faze her and she is just a bundle of happiness without ever getting in the way or becoming ‘too much’. Even when she gets things wrong – like this morning when she said to Belle, ‘I think I might open a social media account now it’s all the rage and join this Facewall,’ and we all just fell about laughing – she laughs at herself too. I feel so relieved she’s here.

  I dropped her off at the car rental place after we had taken the kids to school so she knew where they all went and they were so chuffed that she took them all in and they could show her off to their teachers.

  Ruby has been calmer going into class since she’s been living with us, and Jamie has explained to both her and Will that they’re staying with us full-time for the time being as their mum is poorly. Something switched almost immediately and since then they both seem much more settled and happier. All in all, today has been an excellent day.

  Thursday

  Our house is immaculate. I have never seen it so clean. I mean it’s always clean because I like clean but the little things that I often ignore have been done.

  There are no cobwebs hanging from the high Victorian ceilings in the lounge any more. The salt and pepper grains are no longer scattered on the cupboard shelves as they’ve been wiped clean. The fridge is gleaming with all the contents in an order and the overflowing odd sock basket is finally empty. Cushions are plumped and scattered lovingly and throws and blankets are folded neatly and smell of fabric conditioner.

  When I lived with Mark, our home was pristine. Fresh flowers in every room, not a fingertip of dust visible anywhere and the smell of our home was always divine, with candles burning from the White Company and reed diffusers from Jo Malone in the hallways. I remember telling Pat this when she first came round to my home in Canterbury, as if trying to explain that it wasn’t to the standard it had been when Mark and I were married.

  ‘It’s like shovelling snow when it’s still snowing,’ was Pat’s answer to this, and I knew she was right. Trying to keep a house that clean while raising tiny children was utterly pointless, and I often got a pang of guilt after Mark left at how often I missed out on a toddler group or a reading session at the library so I could clean the inside of the windows or wipe the dust off the skirtings to keep him happy yet I don’t think he even noticed.

  I’m so thankful that Jamie is the total opposite of Mark in terms of how he feels about how the house looks, but also that he pulls his weight equally. It doesn’t matter that he goes to work full-time, he recognises that me being home with the kids and working in the café part-time is hard work, so he comes in and cooks everyone’s tea or gives the bathroom a good clean. It started off with me panicking that he was doing it to ‘have a dig’ because the house wasn’t clean, but I came to realise that actually, he does it because he has total respect for me; our roles are equal and if he sees something that needs doing he will just do it. It’s refreshing, and it makes me love him so much when I see him bringing the washing in off the line while chatting away to Rex, or sweeping down the front steps, pulling the weeds out of the flower bed – mainly jobs that I didn’t even see needed doing until I saw him doing them. I just get a pang in my chest where I think, God, I love you so much, and it’s a good feeling.

  For now, though, he doesn’t have to do any of that because Pat has it all covered – and not in an annoying, irritating, interfering way, or because she’s some kind of martyr. She enjoys helping and she just makes it so easy.

  I got home to find a lasagne sat on top of the hob.

  ‘Just needs forty minutes in the oven, darling,’ she called as I entered the kitchen, ‘and there’s garlic ciabatta and side salad are in the fridge.’

  What it meant was Jamie and I had the time to do the stuff we had been neglecting with the kids. Their homework. Usually this was down to Belle to help and monitor the younger children while we did baths, packed lunches, sort uniforms for the next day. Now, because Pat was there to cover all the mundane stuff that took up our evenings, we could spend more time than usual, reading bedtime stories with the children, and actually enjoying it as quality time rather than just being another job to tick off before we could sit back with a glass of Malbec and prepare ourselves to do it all again the next day. I had the time to lie on Belle’s bed and listen to her tell me about everything that consumed her life right now, or just play with her hair while she scrolled through online stores repeatedly saying ‘Do you like that?’ … and it made me realise that, for her, it is SO important that I’m there to sit and talk to her about everything and nothing.

  She told me about a girl in her year, Molly, who is being bullied and harassed because she got drunk and slept with a lad after a party and then texted her other friend asking if she could get her mum to get her the morning-after pill because she couldn’t tell her own mum. Rather than this girl being a good friend, she screenshot the text and smeared it over social media, so this fifteen-year-old girl is now taking time off school pretending to be unwell because she’s been branded a slag and a slut by everyone, including her so-called friends.

  Belle showed me some of the things people had written about Molly across social media and it made me feel physically sick. She was being called words that I didn’t even understand – a ‘sket’. The ‘c’ word. Dirty. It was horrific and I suggested that Belle contact her – to offer her some love and support. The stuff you see nowadays in the news about the damage social media causes to teenagers and the devastating actions they take because of it made my blood run cold and I had no understanding how, despite this being in the media constantly, teenagers were still bullying each other.

  Belle told me she didn’t really know her and was worried Molly might think she was making fun of her or just being nosey by texting. I asked Belle to pretend she was Molly for just for a minute. To imagine a few hundred people were sending messages slagging her off, name-calling and being vile because she had made a mistake while drunk. I asked her to imagine that she then had the added stress at home of her mum finding out plus the thought of returning to school and facing people, and Belle soon decided to send her a message.

  I continued to feel sick after speaking to Belle about how hard teenagers have it now, growing up in a world where they’re fixated on likes and comments on an Instagram post or seeing what’s being sent around on Snapchat. I felt grateful that Belle was honest with me about what was going on; I told her I always wanted us to be like this and I reminded her of our conversation on the beach that day. No matter what’s going on in her head, what she has done or is thinking of doing, or if she had made any mistakes or decisions she’s ashamed of, I just want her to be honest with me. If she can promise that, then I can promise I will always help her with any situation.

  When you are in those last few years of secondary school, it’s funny how it feels like forever. You don’t see life past spending your days at school and your weekends with the same friendship groups when the reality is those years are such a small insignificant part of your entire being. In years to come, the people sending texts about Molly having unprotected sex will pass her in the street and not recognise her … everybody grows and moves on.

  Some will go on to uni, move away, get jobs, and have a family. As an adult, those last few years of secondary school are something you rarely think of; yet, when you’re in it, like Belle is now, you can’t see past it, and I think it’s so important to educate our children about that so they don’t get ov
erwhelmed with the here and now.

  Sunday

  Jamie and I stayed in a hotel in Devon last night. It was amazing!!

  Pat ordered us to have a night away together and we had the most incredible time. We’ve just never done that – like dated; like a couple. When we met, I had the kids and Jamie had to get to know me while I was being a mum, but at least if he could fall in love with me while he was watching me be that then we’ve got it better than most.

  The hotel was in Exeter, in the city centre, and was converted from an old hospital. The view from the room overlooked all the shops and busy roads and it was funny to stand and watch how life carries on, so busy and fast, despite what anyone else is doing.

  When we arrived, it looked really contemporary – the reception was just a huge round table made from driftwood and glass. There were young trendy staff stood waiting to greet us wearing crisp white shirts and Converse boots. There was a spa and the food in the restaurant was to die for. We had a walk round the shops and cathedral in the day and sat outside a couple of pubs and basked in the sun, sipping on gin and tonics full of berries and ice. It was a glorious day – bright sunshine with no wind at all.

  Today Jamie had booked me a full body massage in the spa and we had a swim before we left for home. On the way we stopped off at a small town called Topsham and wandered round lots of shabby chic shops: my idea of heaven. We had lunch in a pub on the river this afternoon before driving back.

  We spoke about everything and nothing. What staying there showed me is that Jamie doesn’t do anything for himself, to make him happy, and I want to make sure that when things calm down, we find time to be Jamie and Jo, not just Mum and Dad. I think because we’re just so busy day to day and always feel like there must be something we haven’t told the other, we spent the majority of the time talking about the kids. It’s what all parents say, though, isn’t it? That’s what happens when you have babies – you crave time away from them but as soon as you get it, all you do is miss them, talk about them and stalk your camera roll for pictures of them! We have definitely enjoyed the time to reflect, though, on how we have got something a lot of people dream of. Despite biologically not having our children together, they all now live under one roof as siblings, and we get to watch them grow each day – and it kind of feels that this situation is a blessing. We’re happy. Happy and healthy and luckier than most.

  We came home to an ‘incident’ where I found Pat in the lounge with Marigolds on up to her elbows, hunched over a bucket, scrubbing brush in hand. My first thoughts were that Stanley had shit or pissed – or that Belle had got drunk again – but no. No, what had happened is that Ruby had spent her 50p toast money at school on Friday buying a pot of homemade slime off her friend. A pot of luminous pink slime that was now engrained in the cream shagpile overpriced rug and the arm of the sofa. I could see Pat had lost the will to live by now, and when she looked up, shook her head and said, ‘I hope you like pink,’ I knew that it wasn’t coming out.

  I went to the supermarket and bought every stain remover and carpet cleaner I could see but … it’s fucked. We now have an entire pot of pink slime scattered through the lounge; there’s even a blob on the ceiling. Fuck knows what she was doing with it. Of course she doesn’t know how it happened, and after being away for two days I didn’t want to come in and lose my shit, so I was super positive about it all, singing away about how ‘accidents happen’ while wanting to hunt down the person who first put the slime recipe on YouTube and cause them a considerable amount of harm.

  Meanwhile Belle stood gawping at me, open-mouthed, reminding me how I lost the plot last week when she spilt a splodge of chocolate milkshake on her bed sheets that can be easily washed, banning her from eating and drinking in her room!

  Honestly, I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s pointless trying to have a nice home while raising happy kids. It’s one or the other, and I think I’ll take the happy kids.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Proper Family

  Monday

  Pat has taken over the morning school run. I did try to protest but the kids love her taking them and it means I can just walk from home down to the café without taking the car and my mornings are less stressful – and actually, so are the kids.

  Pat has her shit together so well that she stops at the field on the way so they can walk Digby. I mean, I struggle to get them to school on time while they’re scoffing a chocolate brioche in the back of the car, and I’m licking a manky tissue I found in the pocket of the car door to wipe the toothpaste off their faces as they run in as the bell sounds. Pat manages to get them all fed, clear up and then walk the bloody dog. It’s like a scene from The Brady Bunch watching them all take a leisurely stroll out to the car, calm as cucumbers. And instead of knowing that I’ll be coming home to Weetabix-cement-encrusted cereal bowls stacked in the sink or the mounting pile of dirty laundry, now I stroll out the door with the peace of mind that the dishes are dried and put away, and the washing is out hanging on the line or in the dryer.

  When I arrive at the café, Lou still seems really stressed about going away on holiday. She assures me it’s not because she’s leaving me in charge, but I can’t help think that she isn’t completely OK with not being around. Now Pat is here, things will be easier next week; she often pops into the café during the day as she walks Digby down to the beach and ends up pottering about clearing tables and running a dishcloth around.

  I can tell Lou really likes Pat – it’s impossible not to. She has so much wisdom about everything and her opinions come from a place of knowledge and love. I find I learn so much from the talks we have; whether she’s educating me on things I didn’t know about or showing me how to look at things differently – and I suppose that’s because she’s had many years’ more life experience than I have. It makes me see we are never too old to learn or teach.

  Pat told me she has concerns about Lou. She doesn’t say why she has concerns, and I imagine she thinks she’s maybe lonely. It’s true that Lou doesn’t do a lot besides run the café and tend to the boys and her home, but when she left the café that day, Pat took my hand in hers and whispered to me to ‘be her friend, always – and if you can, make her a part of our family’.

  When we got home later that day, Belle had bought her new friend Molly home from school. I instantly felt a little panic when she introduced us, then I felt guilt. The panic was because I immediately worried about what type of girl she was, what influence she would have over my daughter and what they would get up to, then the guilt that followed was because I realised how judgemental I was being, and hypocritical since I was the one who had actually encouraged Belle to reach out to her and be a friend.

  Molly wasn’t a slag or a slut, and in the four hours that I spent in her company this evening, I realised she was a really intelligent, kind girl. In my mind, before meeting her, I had decided she came from parents with ‘issues’. Maybe drugs or alcohol, maybe they lived in poverty. I realised how wrong and judgemental I had been, and who was I to talk anyway? Molly’s mum was a solicitor in a firm across town and she didn’t have a dad. When I asked if her parents had split up, she just answered really casually that she had never had a dad and didn’t know who he was.

  It was clear that Molly didn’t want to ask her mum for the morning-after pill, but that wasn’t because she would get beaten by the drunken father I had pictured or spat at by her alcoholic mum – it was because she had absolutely no relationship with her mother because she had been raised by a series of nannies.

  It made me realise that any child can choose the wrong path. It doesn’t matter what upbringing they have, whether they’re raised in extreme wealth or desperate poverty. All our kids are at risk of being one decision away from destroying their lives, and it made me more determined than ever to keep my promise to Belle and build an open and honest environment at home for all of the kids. They needed to know how much Jamie and I loved and supported them. I can’t bear the thought of an
y of them going to a friend’s parent for support because they can’t speak to us.

  As I walked up the stairs to put Belle’s clean washing in her room, I heard Molly say, ‘I wish I had your mum and dad. They’re so nice. You’re so lucky you all get to eat together round the table as a family and that they want to talk to you.’

  I had never even thought of that; in fact, most nights I dreaded mealtimes. The half hour spent eating dinner together round a table where Rex would be so tired Jamie would ask why I was spoon-feeding him when he was ‘capable of feeding himself’ and I would bitch it’s ‘just easier AND he’s tired out’. Belle would either be in a silent hormonal rage or over-the-top happy – and be loud to the point she usually then made the others hyper. Art and Will would argue over who has the best team on FIFA, and Ruby would cry that she hated whatever meal was served.

  Jamie and I would play referee between all the kids where we would usually stick together and be united, but I spent some evenings wishing family meals were quickly over. Sometimes, though, like tonight, someone would tell a tale about something that had happened at school or ask a question that would make us all debate, and we would have a family meal where I would catch Jamie’s eye and we would hold each other’s stare and I knew he was sat at that table thinking the same as me – that we were so lucky to have this. This crazy chaos full of love and laughter … and when I heard a fifteen-year-old girl, who had only spent a few hours in our home, pointing that out to my daughter, it made me feel really quite proud at what we’ve created and it was sad that she didn’t have that.