This Holey Life (24 page)

There’s a baby in the cot.

Oh.

For a split second my heart raised heavenwards in what I can only describe as joy. But it is Imo. Someone has put her down for a nap. Of course it is Imo. And how I hate myself for wishing it
wasn’t. She is here, living and breathing and yet the joy has gone as quickly as it came.

I make myself go to her and take her in. Her chubby form. Her delicate beauty. On her front, bottom slightly in the air as if she is practising crawling in her sleep. She is angelic and
gorgeous. I pull her cover up around her and my hand knocks against something hard. A rattle or something. I pull it out. It is Steve’s mobile phone.

‘You found it?’ Steve says, coming in the room, his sermon notes in hand, glasses perched on head.

‘Looks like St Tony came up trumps.’

He laughs and tells me Martin and Claudia have gone to the shed for a chat. I picture Martin and Claudia in our shed and can’t quite imagine a happy outcome.

I sit on the chair, shift the cat onto my lap, and feel his comforting warmth. ‘Carry on,’ I tell my husband, the vicar. ‘I’ll try and stay awake and you can practise on
me.’

I listen to his words of surprising wisdom and make myself forget that downstairs is my family, my extended family. I try and forget the kids are playing virtual games instead of out in the
fresh air on bikes and pogo sticks like we once were. I try and forget that my brother is being his usual pompous self, outwitting his wife in my shed. I try and forget my mother would be here
sharing Mothering Sunday if only people had taken more care. I try and forget Thomas would be here if only I’d woken that night and gone in to check on him. I try and forget.

Thoughts for the Day:
If I was allowed to believe in reincarnation, I would wish to come back as a cat in South London. Failing that I would come back as a behemoth.
No-one would mess with Vicky the Behemoth.

Chapter Twenty-Eight:
Thursday 6th March

Natasha has been absent from playgroup all week and I am fighting the fear that I somehow gave her food poisoning last Sunday, but when I asked Shelley yesterday, she said
Karolina has got flu and can’t manage to get to playgroup. So that is what brings me to their flat early this morning, armed with flowers, Lemsips and homemade chicken soup. That is when I am
surprised to see the state Karolina is in and why I insist on phoning the doctor.

‘No. No doctor,’ Karolina is emphatic. Emphatic as she can be languishing on the sofa, under a duvet, surrounded by mountains of discarded tissues, screwed-up crisp packets, grubby
toys, dirty tights, magazines, dog-eared books. ‘Doctors do nothing for me. I must wait and I will be better.’

‘Then let me take Natasha to playgroup. Give you a break.’

Karolina looks suspicious but cannot muster the energy to resist. ‘Okay but do not give her sweets.’

I ignore her lack of gratitude and assumption that I will ply her daughter with sweets, reminding myself she is a dentist and too ill for niceties. But however ill I was, I would never let my
home – even a home-from-home – slump into such a slovenly state. Really it is quite disgusting. The carpet, the patches of it that can be glimpsed though the rubble, is hairy and
mouldy-looking. The hair – white and short – must come from Karolina because presumably they don’t own any pets, living as they do on the third floor of this block of flats. I
dread to think where the mould came from.

The coffee table is covered with the detritus of illness and general living: six mugs, four plates and an assortment of cutlery; Polly Pockets who reside in a world of chocolate wrappers (now,
now, Karolina, cavities); junk mail, flyers, take away menus, nail varnish bottles, matches, lighters, joss sticks, tobacco, Rizlas, CDs, broken CD cases, orange peel, empty grape stems, broken
pencils, earrings, coins, a mobile phone, an odd sock, toe nail clippings and a packet of pills.

I try to surreptitiously scan the label of the packet but Karolina spots what I am doing and, with a surge of energy, swipes them from the debris, saying, ‘From the doctor, for my flu,
antibiotics.’ Hmm.
Doctors do nothing for me
.

Shelley is surprised to see me turn up with Natasha and Olivia. Not as surprised as I am, that both Natasha and Karolina have agreed to this arrangement. Or that I could do
such a Christian act. Maybe Steve’s goodness is rubbing off on me. Or Amanda’s. Or maybe I am not such a bad person.

I watch them from the door on my way out. Olivia bypasses the cutting and sticking table, steadfastly ignoring her celebrity demons, and heads instead for the comfort of the book corner, pulling
Natasha along with her. Once there, Olivia sits her new friend down and reads her
Spot the Dog
. She even allows her to lift a flap.

Seeing the confidence of Olivia, I can’t help wonder how Thomas would have been as a boy. Would he be a noisy, messy six-year-old? Or quiet and pensive? At three months old it was
impossible to say except that he was beginning to show us his personality.

‘Where’s the baby?’ Shelley asks, knocking me out of my daydream.

‘The baby?’

‘Your little girl.’

‘Oh. Yes. She’s with Steve’s parents.’

‘You’re lucky to have them,’ she says. She knows nothing. I’d rather have my own mum. But I can’t be bothered to say anything. ‘Yes, I’m very
lucky.’

Luck? Is that what this is all about?

I want to tell her all about Thomas, all about the ambulance, the hospital, the aftermath of the funeral, having to cope with Rachel missing and mourning her baby brother, with Steve, my rock
who was eroding into rubble day by day.

And me, I was Strong Vicky. I was Capable Vicky. I was Isn’t-she-amazing-the-way-she-carries-on Vicky. I was coping. And then one day Steve gets a call to go to Dartford and our lives,
which have already been thrown up in the air and scattered into the winds, fall back down to earth and land in a different pattern, the holes that were there before bigger, the gaps deeper and more
treacherous, liable to widen at any second and topple me in, swallow me up and down. Down, right down until there is nothing.

Only, when you get to that point of nothingness, you start to kick your feet and push with your arms. You start to pull yourself up towards the light until one day you are breathing air again.
You begin to live and make plans and try new things and have more babies. But that doesn’t stop you yearning backwards or wishing yourself forwards. It doesn’t help you live and enjoy
each moment. It doesn’t stop you wondering what if... ?

I should be telling Steve all this but he knows it already. We were in it together, only we came out of it differently. He found his life. A new life. And sometimes I hate him for it. And then I
hate myself for hating such a good man. I don’t tell Shelley. I don’t tell anyone. I’ve only just got round to telling myself.

Later, a rare hour on my own at home, after I have cleaned the loo and done the washing and am about to hoover the stairs, there is a ring at the door. There’s something
about the ring that suggests Amanda. When I approach the door I can see an Amanda-shaped head through the frosted glass.

‘Hello, Amanda. Come in.’

‘I will if you don’t mind, Vicky.’

She bustles through the door, scarves swaying, bringing in a bundle of cold with her.

We go through to the kitchen where Amanda accepts a glass of water after much persuasion. She asks after the feeding and I reassure her it is going fine, just the one at bedtime now since Imo
has discovered the delights of strawberry porridge for breakfast. But I don’t think that is why Amanda is here.

‘Is there anything in particular I can do for you, or is it just a social call?’ I join her with a glass of water only I indulge myself and have a splash of Ribena in it.

‘Actually, this is a pastoral visit.’

‘Oh?’

‘I wanted to check all’s well with you.’

‘I’m fine. The kids are fine. Steve’s fine.’

‘Where’s Imo now?’

‘Out with Roland and Dorota.’

‘It’s good that you let them help.’

‘Why wouldn’t I?’

‘Well, I know you found it hard to let people take care of Olivia when she was a baby.’

‘I liked looking after her.’

‘We all need a break.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘That’s good. Only, how’s the whole... curate’s wife thing. I mean, I know it can be a bit of a culture shock.’

‘I’m still trying to get used to it. There’s a way to go.’

‘A marathon not a sprint.’

‘Something like that.’

‘And Steve. Is everything alright with him?’

‘In what way alright?’

‘Well, you know, it’s hard, this new life,’ she sips at her water. ‘You must let me know if I can help. And make sure Steve talks to Desmond if he gets in too deep with
anything.’

‘In too deep?

‘Some parishioners can be overbearing. They can demand too much attention.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘Just watch who you spend time with.’

I remember the young girl that haunted Amanda and Desmond’s early marriage. I remember the warnings but that was then, a different time. ‘I don’t think either of us would put
ourselves in a vulnerable position.’

‘Well, then,’ she says. ‘That’s good.’ She finishes her water, the hedonist, and wafts back down the hall, off on another mission. On the doorstep, she turns and
says: ‘Don’t let the Devil get to you.’

I look at Amanda for a moment; her earnest rosy face. ‘He’ll have to join the queue.’

She manages a smile and then is gone, swaying down the street in a haze of clashing colour.

When I return to the kitchen I notice one of her scarves draped across the seat. I pick up it up and fold it neatly. The smell of Charlie is so overpowering I feel quite nauseous.

Thoughts for the Day:
Do I leave a smell behind me when I leave the room? Is it Harpic? Flash? Cillit Bang? Is that my legacy?

Martin has gone to tea with Heidi. He brushed his hair because Heidi’s parents are posh and live in a big house in Blackheath. Heidi’s mum does French cooking
because she is French and they are having orange duck. We are having shepherd’s pie (my favourite!) and there will be more to go around. Hurray.

Heidi’s dad came to pick Martin up. He beeped his horn. Mum said ask him in but Martin said there wasn’t time and ran out the house. Mum, Dad and I watched out of the window as
the car pulled away.

Nice motor, Dad said.

He should have introduced himself said Mum. He couldn’t wait to get off.

Martin has fallen on his feet there, Dad said.

Mum went into the garden to empty the potato peelings.

Chapter Twenty-Nine:
Monday 10th March

The story according to Steve:

It should have been like any other Saturday. A day off from plumbing, unless I got an emergency call-out. Vicky would usually have a list of jobs for me
–
a
wobbly door handle, a blocked waste. Then we’d go out somewhere. The park. Swimming. A trip to Bluewater. We hadn’t done much of that yet, what with a new baby, but we could always
manage the park. Pushing Rachel on the swings, feeding the ducks. Crystal Palace or Greenwich. Sometimes we’d drive over to Dulwich and see Martin and Claudia but that could be stressful.
Martin was always pleased to see me, some job he needed doing, too tight to call out a plumber and pay the going rate. I didn’t mind. He’s family. I just wished he and Vick didn’t
argue so much.

Sometimes we’d go down to Worthing for the day, though that would usually be on a Sunday. Saturdays were better off staying in London where we only had to battle with local traffic and
we could do all the stuff that needed doing
–
shopping, washing, all of that. Vick was on maternity leave but I did my fair share. It’s not easy with a new baby and a
three-year-old but we were getting into a routine. Thomas was great, fitting into our family, and we were chugging along quite nicely.

We woke up late. I was checking the time on the bedside clock – 8.43 – when Vick sprung out of bed like a ghost was after her. She leapt from the room, her feet barely touching
the carpet, the door rattling behind her, an empty coat hanger on the back of it. I hate that; the clanging gets you right in the stomach. A few seconds later and I heard her scream. A terrible
noise. Far worse than any stupid coat hanger. Animal-like. It went on and on and I never want to hear that sound ever again, as long as I live. But what was to come... I found her in the box room,
the pink nursery. I was supposed to paint it. Blue for a boy. It was on the list. I’d almost made a start the week before but got a call out to Lewisham. A leaky loo. Not an emergency at all.
It could just have easily waited till the Monday but it was an old dear and not wanting to make a drama out of a crisis I fixed it in ten minutes. But then there’s your travelling time, there
and back, and sorting your stuff out, getting changed and washed up. It all takes time, precious time, so I never got started but we decided, because he was doing so well, we’d put him in the
room anyway, in his cot, and we said the painting can wait, let’s go with it, go with him on this one. And as I went into his room that morning, I was telling myself I’d make a start
today, I’d make it all right, all good, but then Vicky’s scream was still echoing, colliding off the pink walls and I saw her, standing there but her face belonged to someone else and
she was holding someone else’s baby. A blue, still, dead baby. Not our Thomas. It couldn’t be him. Surely he was still sleeping in his cot. I couldn’t help myself: I looked in the
cot. It was empty. Did I really have to touch the place where he’d been lying? Did I have to pull back the covers and check he wasn’t there, hiding? I went to Vick instead, and touched
the boy in her arms and he just lay there. Not the usual gurgle or frog-kick of a leg. His eyes were all wrong, half-open and staring at nothing.

I can’t even bring myself to talk about the next part. Except that Vick had calmed down somehow. She handed him to me and went to phone an ambulance because that was what had to be
done, she knew that somehow. He was cold. Lifeless. It was clear that Thomas, the Thomas we were getting to know, had left his little body behind and gone somewhere else. And in the slow, agonising
days that followed, that was the part that was killing me: I had no idea where he had gone.