dawns on her that maybe she will be missing out on
something too but then one of the assistants asks who wants to do some cutting and sticking. She turns away from me, grabbing the assistant’s hand with surprising fervour. (Does she realise
messy glue is involved?) Then, throwing me a scrap of a smile, she is gone.
As I’m putting the shopping away, the door goes and I know straightaway it’s not Steve back from his Monday prayer run. ‘Martin?’
He creeps into the kitchen in a most un-Martin-like way. Imo is delighted to see her uncle, banging her highchair like a deranged member of parliament in a frenzy of adoration. ‘I’m
glad you’re here,’ he says, ignoring her.
‘Oh?’
‘I’ve had a phone call.’
‘Jeremy?’
‘No. Not Jeremy. Why would it be Jeremy?’ Martin waves his arms about, perilously close to a vase of flowers on the dresser. He can see I’m waiting, a clutch of Pot Noodles in
my hands. ‘It’s Dad.’
‘Is he alright?’
‘He’s in hospital.’
‘What?’ I hold on tighter to the Pot Noodles and feel my face grow hot.
‘Nothing serious. A fall.’
‘A fall? Where? Has he broken something?’
‘His wrist. Stop getting all worked up. We should just go and see him and then we’ll be able to assess the extent of the damage.’
‘The extent of the damage?’
I am about to launch into a rant about his legalistic choice of words when Steve comes in, all sweaty and puffed-out, looking like Steve of old back from the gym. But this is the new Steve who
combines running with praying for his neighbourhood as he paces the streets of Penge. Steve, the rock, the peace-maker. Steve who listens calmly, telling me to breathe. Who says he will collect the
kids from school and give them tea and for us to get going and not worry. It will be alright.
‘But what about Olivia?’ I think of my daughter waiting to see her mother’s face appear at the door of the church hall. ‘I have to collect Olivia. She comes out soon and
I promised her I’d be there. I can’t let her down. She might never believe anything I say to her ever again.’
‘We’ll all go,’ Steve says. ‘We’ll take both cars. You can say hello and then get straight off. Just give me five minutes to have a quick shower.’ And
he’s gone, leaving a sweaty Steve smell behind him.
Martin gets himself a glass of water and sits down, watching me pack up the changing bag with nappies, wipes, water, spare clothes. He uses his stunning scientific mind, gathering hard evidence,
to fathom what I am doing. ‘Are we taking her with us?’ He looks at his niece, sitting in her highchair, wearing her lunch of mashed banana.
‘Of course.’
‘In my car?’
‘Of course in your car. We’ve only got the Espace, remember? Steve’s going to need it.’
‘Can’t you leave her with Steve?’
‘No.’
‘He can give her a bottle, can’t he?’
‘No.’
Steve could give her a bottle. It’s about time he gave her a bottle. But I’ll decide when we give her a bottle. Not Martin. ‘Your precious leather seats can always be
wiped clean, can’t they?’
He looks at my daughter, doubt all over his face, the way banana clings to hers. ‘Well, bring a towel then,’ he says, grudgingly. ‘A large absorbent one. I’ve only just
had the Saab valeted.’
I resist the temptation to bash Martin repeatedly over the head with a Pot Noodle and concentrate on wiping down Imo as quickly as possible so we can get to see Dad. Poor Dad, down in Worthing
all on his own. I wish Mum were here.
‘You might want to get changed, Victoria,’ he says, offhand as he heads for the back door for a quick smoke.
‘Why, what’s wrong with this?’ My Tesco’s economy jeans and old top might not be up to Claudia’s fashion standards but Steve’s not on plumbing wages anymore.
Clothing is not a priority.
‘You look like you’re entering a wet tshirt competition,’ he says. ‘You’ve got two circles around your –
something too but then one of the assistants asks who wants to do some cutting and sticking. She turns away from me, grabbing the assistant’s hand with surprising fervour. (Does she realise
messy glue is involved?) Then, throwing me a scrap of a smile, she is gone.
As I’m putting the shopping away, the door goes and I know straightaway it’s not Steve back from his Monday prayer run. ‘Martin?’
He creeps into the kitchen in a most un-Martin-like way. Imo is delighted to see her uncle, banging her highchair like a deranged member of parliament in a frenzy of adoration. ‘I’m
glad you’re here,’ he says, ignoring her.
‘Oh?’
‘I’ve had a phone call.’
‘Jeremy?’
‘No. Not Jeremy. Why would it be Jeremy?’ Martin waves his arms about, perilously close to a vase of flowers on the dresser. He can see I’m waiting, a clutch of Pot Noodles in
my hands. ‘It’s Dad.’
‘Is he alright?’
‘He’s in hospital.’
‘What?’ I hold on tighter to the Pot Noodles and feel my face grow hot.
‘Nothing serious. A fall.’
‘A fall? Where? Has he broken something?’
‘His wrist. Stop getting all worked up. We should just go and see him and then we’ll be able to assess the extent of the damage.’
‘The extent of the damage?’
I am about to launch into a rant about his legalistic choice of words when Steve comes in, all sweaty and puffed-out, looking like Steve of old back from the gym. But this is the new Steve who
combines running with praying for his neighbourhood as he paces the streets of Penge. Steve, the rock, the peace-maker. Steve who listens calmly, telling me to breathe. Who says he will collect the
kids from school and give them tea and for us to get going and not worry. It will be alright.
‘But what about Olivia?’ I think of my daughter waiting to see her mother’s face appear at the door of the church hall. ‘I have to collect Olivia. She comes out soon and
I promised her I’d be there. I can’t let her down. She might never believe anything I say to her ever again.’
‘We’ll all go,’ Steve says. ‘We’ll take both cars. You can say hello and then get straight off. Just give me five minutes to have a quick shower.’ And
he’s gone, leaving a sweaty Steve smell behind him.
Martin gets himself a glass of water and sits down, watching me pack up the changing bag with nappies, wipes, water, spare clothes. He uses his stunning scientific mind, gathering hard evidence,
to fathom what I am doing. ‘Are we taking her with us?’ He looks at his niece, sitting in her highchair, wearing her lunch of mashed banana.
‘Of course.’
‘In my car?’
‘Of course in your car. We’ve only got the Espace, remember? Steve’s going to need it.’
‘Can’t you leave her with Steve?’
‘No.’
‘He can give her a bottle, can’t he?’
‘No.’
Steve could give her a bottle. It’s about time he gave her a bottle. But I’ll decide when we give her a bottle. Not Martin. ‘Your precious leather seats can always be
wiped clean, can’t they?’
He looks at my daughter, doubt all over his face, the way banana clings to hers. ‘Well, bring a towel then,’ he says, grudgingly. ‘A large absorbent one. I’ve only just
had the Saab valeted.’
I resist the temptation to bash Martin repeatedly over the head with a Pot Noodle and concentrate on wiping down Imo as quickly as possible so we can get to see Dad. Poor Dad, down in Worthing
all on his own. I wish Mum were here.
‘You might want to get changed, Victoria,’ he says, offhand as he heads for the back door for a quick smoke.
‘Why, what’s wrong with this?’ My Tesco’s economy jeans and old top might not be up to Claudia’s fashion standards but Steve’s not on plumbing wages anymore.
Clothing is not a priority.
‘You look like you’re entering a wet tshirt competition,’ he says. ‘You’ve got two circles around your –
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