him were shining white.
‘Vicky? Are you alright, dear? You look a little peaky.’
Maybe anaemia’s catching. Maybe I need a stint in hospital, being looked after, being cared for. Three meals a day. But no. I’d never sleep. Not in the knowledge there were deadly
germs all around me, waiting to pounce.
‘You need a pick-me-up,’ Amanda proffers a plate of Rich Tea.
‘I need a double gin and tonic.’
Amanda laughs, worried.
‘But I’ll make do with a biscuit and cup of tea.’
‘You must come for lunch soon. And bring that clever brother of yours,’ Amanda blushes.
I need that G and T now.
On the way home we collect a subdued Rachel from school.
‘Can we go to the sweet shop?’ she asks, a long shot.
‘No, it’s not Friday. But there’s some delicious homemade shortbread from Mrs Gantry. You could have one with a glass of milk.
‘Alright,’ she says, no fuss.
‘Are you okay, Rach?’ She normally puts up more of a fight. ‘Bad day at school?’
‘Yes. No. It’s just sort of like, weird, without Jeremy. I kind of got used to having him around and stuff.’
‘We all did, darling. But you can see him soon. Wednesday probably. I expect Uncle Martin will bring him back here after school.’
‘It’s not the same, though, is it?’
‘No, Rach. Things change. It’s just part of life.’
She winces and my stomach pulls. It’s a hard lesson to learn but an important one. You go along in life and you get used to it, the way things are, day by day. And then gradually, little
by little, bit by bit, things change and it’s only when you look back that you see those changes. Like your hair growing. One day you step out of a salon, all sleek and groomed and coloured
and you manage to keep it up, the sleekness, the grooming, the colour, and then one day you look in the mirror and your hair has got away from you. It is a wiry, straggly mess (actually, bad
analogy; my hair’s always like that). But sometimes change comes more quickly. Unexpected and out of the blue. One day something happens and your life changes forever.
Rachel slips her hand in mine. For a second. Long enough to get my attention. ‘Can I have Nesquik in my milk?’ she asks.
Steve is out. Another meeting. Martin and I are in the kitchen. He is battering his laptop with his fat fingers. I am ironing cassocks. If I could have prophesied this as a
young woman at college...
‘I miss him,’ Martin cuts into my reverie. I almost scald myself on a jet of steam I am so taken aback by this revelation. Not just that he misses his son but that he should confess
this human frailty to me. Wise words are needed.
I breathe deep, move the iron back and forth. ‘Well... maybe you needed this to happen so you could get to know him.’
Martin stares at me, deadpan. I’m not sure if he has heard me or if he is even aware I have spoken. But then I notice his fat fingers twitching on my table, like the hairy fat legs of a
tarantula, and it dawns on me that he is angry.
‘What?’ he says, almost spitting at me. ‘Maybe I needed to be turfed out and move in here?’ He shoots a venomous look at his surroundings. At my MFI sale kitchen fitted
by my husband who could turn his hand to anything, whose wife never in a squillion years thought this would extend to weddings and funerals. ‘High life living in Penge?’ My brother
pronounces the ‘P’ explosively.
‘Oh, shut up, Martin.’ One squirt of steam in the eyes and he’d be sorry.
He abandons his laptop, standing up and throwing back his chair in a way my floor will not appreciate. Then he announces that he’s going to the pub. ‘Don’t blame me if I get
very drunk,’ he says, petulant, harvesting a wad of notes from his wallet and stuffing them in his back pocket as he heads out the door.
‘No, of course I won’t, Martin. Cos you getting drunk would be my fault, wouldn’t it?... Martin... I said, “Wouldn’t it’?”’
My question lingers in a swirl of
‘Vicky? Are you alright, dear? You look a little peaky.’
Maybe anaemia’s catching. Maybe I need a stint in hospital, being looked after, being cared for. Three meals a day. But no. I’d never sleep. Not in the knowledge there were deadly
germs all around me, waiting to pounce.
‘You need a pick-me-up,’ Amanda proffers a plate of Rich Tea.
‘I need a double gin and tonic.’
Amanda laughs, worried.
‘But I’ll make do with a biscuit and cup of tea.’
‘You must come for lunch soon. And bring that clever brother of yours,’ Amanda blushes.
I need that G and T now.
On the way home we collect a subdued Rachel from school.
‘Can we go to the sweet shop?’ she asks, a long shot.
‘No, it’s not Friday. But there’s some delicious homemade shortbread from Mrs Gantry. You could have one with a glass of milk.
‘Alright,’ she says, no fuss.
‘Are you okay, Rach?’ She normally puts up more of a fight. ‘Bad day at school?’
‘Yes. No. It’s just sort of like, weird, without Jeremy. I kind of got used to having him around and stuff.’
‘We all did, darling. But you can see him soon. Wednesday probably. I expect Uncle Martin will bring him back here after school.’
‘It’s not the same, though, is it?’
‘No, Rach. Things change. It’s just part of life.’
She winces and my stomach pulls. It’s a hard lesson to learn but an important one. You go along in life and you get used to it, the way things are, day by day. And then gradually, little
by little, bit by bit, things change and it’s only when you look back that you see those changes. Like your hair growing. One day you step out of a salon, all sleek and groomed and coloured
and you manage to keep it up, the sleekness, the grooming, the colour, and then one day you look in the mirror and your hair has got away from you. It is a wiry, straggly mess (actually, bad
analogy; my hair’s always like that). But sometimes change comes more quickly. Unexpected and out of the blue. One day something happens and your life changes forever.
Rachel slips her hand in mine. For a second. Long enough to get my attention. ‘Can I have Nesquik in my milk?’ she asks.
Steve is out. Another meeting. Martin and I are in the kitchen. He is battering his laptop with his fat fingers. I am ironing cassocks. If I could have prophesied this as a
young woman at college...
‘I miss him,’ Martin cuts into my reverie. I almost scald myself on a jet of steam I am so taken aback by this revelation. Not just that he misses his son but that he should confess
this human frailty to me. Wise words are needed.
I breathe deep, move the iron back and forth. ‘Well... maybe you needed this to happen so you could get to know him.’
Martin stares at me, deadpan. I’m not sure if he has heard me or if he is even aware I have spoken. But then I notice his fat fingers twitching on my table, like the hairy fat legs of a
tarantula, and it dawns on me that he is angry.
‘What?’ he says, almost spitting at me. ‘Maybe I needed to be turfed out and move in here?’ He shoots a venomous look at his surroundings. At my MFI sale kitchen fitted
by my husband who could turn his hand to anything, whose wife never in a squillion years thought this would extend to weddings and funerals. ‘High life living in Penge?’ My brother
pronounces the ‘P’ explosively.
‘Oh, shut up, Martin.’ One squirt of steam in the eyes and he’d be sorry.
He abandons his laptop, standing up and throwing back his chair in a way my floor will not appreciate. Then he announces that he’s going to the pub. ‘Don’t blame me if I get
very drunk,’ he says, petulant, harvesting a wad of notes from his wallet and stuffing them in his back pocket as he heads out the door.
‘No, of course I won’t, Martin. Cos you getting drunk would be my fault, wouldn’t it?... Martin... I said, “Wouldn’t it’?”’
My question lingers in a swirl of
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