This Holey Life (6 page)

After getting over her initial disappointment that Jeremy is not with us, Claudia pulls herself together and becomes the hostess-with-the-mostest. She would make an admirable
vicar’s wife. If she believed in God.

‘Nice shoes, Olivia,’ Claudia says, showing us into the vast kitchen at the back of their double-fronted Victorian villa. She clacks across the slate floor in her own expensive
shoes. I think they are called kitten heels.

Olivia’s new shoes shine as she skips after her auntie, deeper in love with her than before. But, as is her nature and her age, she cuts to the chase. ‘Why is Uncle Martin living
with us?’

The question bounces around the echoey kitchen like a runaway tennis ball. I can feel my arms straining to catch it and hide it away, though Olivia has a point. Why is Martin living with us?

Claudia might also be taken aback by this question but she doesn’t show it. She touches Olivia on the shoulder and says: ‘Because your mummy is a great big softie.’

‘Believe me, Claudia,’ I say. ‘If he hadn’t brought Jeremy as some kind of human shield, my brother would be confined to a Travelodge right now.’

Claudia smiles grimly and puts the kettle on the Aga as if Dulwich Village were not actually in South London but somewhere in rural Devon.

I sit at the enormous distressed pine table but leave Imo strapped firmly into her bucket, next to my chair; she’d crack her skull open on these unforgiving tiles. Olivia’s skipping
is on the verge of mania and I can visualise a trip to Kings College Hospital. She needs distraction. She needs television. Martin owns the biggest set in Christendom so that should do it.

‘Olivia, why don’t you ask Auntie Claudia if you can watch the TV?’

Olivia considers this idea and asks in her sweetest voice: ‘Have you got
Pimp my Ride
, Auntie Claudia?’

‘Oh dear,’ says Auntie Claudia, blushing, recognising Jeremy’s hand at work. ‘How about you go up to my room and try on my shoes?’

Olivia disappears sharpish before her auntie overcomes her guilty conscience. Claudia meanwhile busies herself making coffee, grinding beans and frothing milk with gadgets I didn’t know
had been invented. Finally, she joins me at the table, offering posh organic biscuits as a softener.

We talk about her mother, where she has been staying since Boxing Day until finally returning home last night. (Claudia’s mother is quite possible royalty; she lives in a palace; I have
seen the photos.)

Then we talk about Jeremy.

Claudia says she misses him like crazy but she doesn’t feel she can let Martin off the hook where his son is concerned. I ask her if she wants to talk about what happened. Three cups of
coffee later – boy, this family likes its caffeine – and I have all the major details:

Martin is a pain in the arse to live with (nothing I didn’t already know). He has long since broken all their wedding presents, including the Dartington champagne flutes, which
didn’t even make it to their first anniversary. He is loud. Takes over any conversation whenever they have a dinner party – on the rare occasions he agrees to one. He is facetious. He
is patronising. He is a pig.

Martin is having a mid-life crisis. He downloads ‘silly music’ for his iPod and has grown ‘that disgusting excuse for a beard’.

Martin worries over his job and takes it out on Claudia, belittling what she does. Claudia believes the world wants to know about Posh and Becks. She is fulfilling a need. Martin says she is
vacuous and facile.

Martin moans about Jeremy going to Dulwich Prep. Claudia believes Dulwich Prep is the best place for a boy as ‘sensitive’ as Jeremy.

Jeremy saw Martin with a younger woman. A student. In Starbucks. I ask if that is really a reason to suspect him of adultery. Apparently that isn’t the only time he’s been spotted
with her.

‘So I’m sorry, Vicky,’ Claudia sniffs, the tip of her pretty nose tinged pink. ‘I can’t have him back. Not after what he’s done. Not to mention the attempted
break-in.’ She sits up straighter in her chair. I know her well enough to see there is something else. Something that will affect me. ‘Actually, I’ve agreed to go to LA to cover a
story. A two-week trip. It’ll be great for my career. And great for me.’

Ah.

‘Do you mind?’ she asks, a little sheepish.

Yes. I mind. I mind very much. But I am the Good Auntie. ‘No, of course I don’t mind.’

‘Another coffee?’

‘Best not. I’m still feeding Imo.’

‘Gosh, Vicky. How old is she now?’

‘Only six months.’ I hoik Imo out and plonk her on my lap. She weighs a ton.

‘What a devoted mother you are,’ Claudia whispers, tears crowding her eyes. Then she actually starts crying. Really snotty, dribbly, mascara-running, shoulder-shaking crying.

I pat her hand. I do a lot of hand-patting in my new role. I may not have been on a course but hand-patting usually does the trick.

Claudia’s sobs recede and she gives her nose a good blow on the clean hanky I always have up my sleeve. ‘Maybe it’s because you have girls,’ she says, then looks
horrified. ‘Oh, sorry, Vicky, I didn’t mean... well, it’s just that Jeremy’s so like his father. He’s so... big. So... bulky. He takes up too much room.’ She
searches for understanding while I snatch a look around the vast kitchen – the Aga, the hulk of an American fridge, the army of cupboards and acres of granite worktops – wondering just
how much room a three person family needs. Wondering why so many human beings, plus a cello, are crammed into my poky terrace. ‘Why can’t he take after me?’

I look at Claudia. Petite, refined, delicate Claudia. Jeremy can wade his way through Middle Earth on the Playstation-DS-Nintendo-Wotnot, but he will bang into door frames as he passes through.
That is, when he actually manages to get himself vertical. When he’s not sitting on the new leather sofa watching
Cribs
– which, I have discovered, has absolutely nothing to do
with the Baby Jesus.

Yes, Claudia’s right. Thank Heaven for my little girls. But it’s harder to be thankful for my little boy. How can I be?

Thoughts for the Day:
I wish I lived in Middle Earth? Anywhere but here and now.

Chapter Eight:
Sunday January 6th Epiphany

Sunday. Traditionally a day of rest. In our world there’s not a whole lot of rest going on. It’s a whirr of to-ings and fro-ings and trying to keep the children
quiet and smiling and small talk and roasting parsnips and tea and hand-patting.

Being a curate’s wife doesn’t come easily. Being a curate’s wife wasn’t what I signed up to all those years ago when I said: ‘I will’. What I meant was: I
will go out to work and help pay off our mortgage. I will share the cooking and washing-up but am more than happy to do the bulk of the cleaning because that’s the way I like it and I know
you, Steve, are much happier, and more proficient at, wielding a power tool. I will have your children if and when the time comes – which it did, on four occasions. That’s what I
meant.

I didn’t mean this. I didn’t mean Steve to swap his copper pipes for a surplice. I didn’t mean to swap my old life for this one. I was happy being a teacher, a mother, a
plumber’s wife.

But how could I say no to Steve? I promised him, didn’t I? Said I would stick with him for better, for worse. And while he believes this life is better, I still have to be convinced. And
it’s going to take nothing short of a miracle to do that.

Not that it’s all bad. Sometimes I open the front door to find a package left by a good-intentioned parishioner. A marrow. A jar of chutney. Once, generously and anonymously, a voucher for
a day’s pampering at The Sanctuary (which I still haven’t used, surprise, surprise). And sometimes, when I pop into the church to polish the lectern – it’s really tricky
with all the engravings and twiddly bits – I feel something surround me. I’d like to say it was God’s love. His peace and understanding. But it’s probably the silence that
is so elusive at home.

Jeremy has agreed to come to Sunday School. He actually agreed quite readily which surprised me as I assumed he’d be as resistant as Martin – a worshipper of
Richard Dawkins – to the idea of a loving God. Or, perhaps like the rest of us, he wants some space from his father who has been acting strangely since his dealings with the long arm of the
Law. He is spending a lot of time with Jeremy for one thing. Just the two of them. Playing chess. Going to the park. Golf. Even shopping for clothes. Martin hates shopping for clothes. He’s
always left that to Claudia. He always left everything to Claudia. And now that he’s actually rising to the challenge, I am shocked. And I am suspicious.

St Hilda’s is like many of its regular attendees: grey and dusty, which, I know, is not a Godly thought for me to be having. But then God knows that I’m not exactly
His whole-hearted follower. Unlike my husband.

I have to admit I am sort of proud watching Steve perform, at my sparkling lectern, speaking to his flock. But then I used to be proud of him when he lay with his head under the sink twiddling
his ratchet. He is a good man who does a job well. It’s me that’s struggling.

Today I have to sit on my own – on a less than perfectly polished pew seeing as they are Amanda’s responsibility – trying to keep four fidgety children quiet while Desmond and
Steve do their double act. We’ve sung the embarrassing children’s song with actions. Jeremy was strangely enthusiastic about it, waving his arms about like a Charismatic. It was quite
infectious. Even Rachel, known for her disdain of anything infantile, joined in a little. I actually caught a glimpse of a smile hanging about her lips. Olivia was more interested in flaunting her
new shoes, which haven’t been off her feet yet except for bath time. Now we just have to get through the children’s talk. This is when I always struggle to keep my lot from
heckling.

Today isn’t so bad because some of the drama group are doing a sketch and at least the kids can focus on something. Like Mr Maynard’s shoes which, according to Olivia and commented
on in her loudest voice, are like Jesus’ shoes. I pretend I have dropped something vital on the floor so that I can duck down behind the pew. It is warm down by the heating grill, with the
comforting smell of beeswax. I’d like to stay there for the rest of Mr Maynard’s amateur dramatics, in fact for the duration of the service, possibly for the rest of the day but alas I
am a grown woman and must act accordingly.

At last: relief. The children file out to Sunday school and I can lug Imo to the crèche. (She’s definitely fat. Must go to clinic and be reprimanded by health visitor.) Soon I can
creep back into the rear of the church and concentrate on important matters i.e. my list of things to do for tomorrow. For tomorrow is school.

I had every reason to be suspicious. The reason Martin has been spending all this so-called ‘quality time’ with his son is so that he can toughen him up. And why?
In order to send him to a new school. Martin is taking Jeremy out of Dulwich Prep and sending him down the road to St Hilda’s C of E. He’s been in to see the Head and, using his
connections to Steve and his overbearing powers of persuasion, has wangled a place. And to make things worse, Claudia is clueless on the other side of the ocean. He’s had this planned for a
long time, gave the correct amount of notice so he didn’t have to pay the term’s fees. That’s the money he was going to be coming into. The flow of cash. He is calculating and
despicable. And very stupid. Does he really believe this will help win Claudia back? If I know Claudia, this is the very thing that will stop dead any chance of mediation.

I am telling all of this to Steve in the brief respite we have late Sunday afternoon, me at the ironing board, with a heap of white polo shirts, Steve going over his preparation for the evening
service.

‘Do you think we should let Claudia know?’ he asks me, gripping his pen the way Rachel grips hers. All wrong.

‘I’ve been trying her phone on and off all day. There’s no ring tone.’

‘We could leave a message at the hotel asking her to call,’ he suggests.

‘I don’t want to worry her. She’ll think something dreadful’s happened.’

‘From her point of view something dreadful has happened.’ He shuffles his revision cards and takes off his glasses.

‘I don’t know what to do, Steve. I’m not sure I want to get involved.’

‘We are involved. They’re your family.’

‘But I didn’t choose that family. I chose this one. You and the girls.’ I look at Steve in his dog collar and try to remember what he used to be like in his overalls. I feel
tears wash my eyes and I’m not entirely sure why.

‘I’ll have a word with Martin if you think that’ll help,’ Steve suggests. ‘Otherwise, you’re right, there’s not a lot we can do for now.’

‘He won’t take a blind bit of notice. I’ll speak to Rachel’s teacher though. Get her to keep an eye on him.’

‘Rachel’s teacher?’

‘They’re going to be in the same class.’

‘Well, that’s a God-incidence for you.’

‘A what?’

‘A God inspired coincidence,’ Steve beams. Life is simple for him these days. He hands over his worries to God whereas I gather mine all around me like a class of small
uncontrollable children. ‘Stop fretting, Vick. It’ll work out. Trust in the Lord.’ Then he pats my hand and it is a real struggle not to let the tears fall.

Thoughts for the Day:
Should I go on a counselling course? Or should I go into therapy? And just what is an epiphany exactly?

I hate school. Mr Harris, my teacher, has grease marks on his trousers. They must come from his hair, which looks like it would catch fire if you got near it with a match.
Only one more year at this dump and then I will be going to another dump. Martin is at the Grammar but I didn’t get put in for the eleven plus because I am not brainy like him. It is so
unfair. I work much more than the lazy slug but he always gets ‘A’s. Even when I try really, really hard, the best I get is a ‘B’.

Heidi goes to a private school because her Dad is a financier, whatever that is. Heidi met Martin at a public speaking competition. Martin’s team won of course. Heidi said his speech on
the rules of cricket was inspiring. She is a big fat liar. Martin told her she looked like Olivia Newton-John. He is a big fat liar too. Heidi looks more like Dolly Parton. I wish someone would
tell me I look like Olivia Newton-John. I look more like Leo Sayer. With a brace.