A Thousand Tiny Disappointments, page 21
Martha hadn’t yet answered her – because she wasn’t sure what to say. She’d been feeling guilty about the dog – it was such an imposition on Alice, even though she seemed happy to have him. But Sharon, Alice and Gracie were already squeezed into a two-bedroom flat – it couldn’t be easy having a yappy little Jack Russell there as well, however much they’d grown to love him. Every time Martha thought about them, it made her realise how lucky she was, to have such a big house with so much space. Even though, with Joe gone, it was now the emptiest place in the world.
Thinking about it, since Joe was only going to be back home at the weekends, maybe she could offer to have Nipper? Simon would still hate it, but there was plenty of room and the garden was bigger than anything the dog had been used to. He would also be company for her, with Joe away. It was probably the most practical thing to do, but Martha wasn’t sold on the idea; she’d never been a dog lover.
She would have asked Patrick what he thought, but he hadn’t given her a chance to get a word in – as usual. He wouldn’t particularly care what happened to Nipper, but – even if he didn’t want the dog himself – Martha could imagine he’d insist they take him away from Alice, just for the hell of it. It would be another way in which he could exert control over the situation and remind the girl who was in charge.
Suddenly, Martha knew exactly what to do about this latest unanswered text. She picked up her phone:
Hi Alice, would you like to keep Nipper permanently? We’ll contribute towards the cost for the next few months, but I’m sure he’ll be happier with you. Besides, I know it’s what Mum would have wanted x
She laughed out loud as she pressed send; this would really piss off Patrick. Good. It was definitely the right thing to do, Judith would have been pleased.
On the way home she pulled into a garage to fill up with petrol. There was a line of people in the kiosk, waiting to pay, while a woman up at the front had first one bank card, then another, declined. A toddler was clinging to her legs, screaming in frustration at not being able to get her mother’s attention. The woman was pink with embarrassment, trying to quieten the child, while searching through her purse for a different card and apologising to the cashier. The people in the queue were shuffling from one foot to another, sighing loudly enough to make sure she was painfully aware how inconvenient this all was.
Martha wasn’t in any hurry: there was nothing for her to rush home for nowadays. As she watched the woman frantically pushing her hair away from her face, she thought of Alice, although there was no obvious resemblance. Where was this woman going home to? How many other children were waiting for her there? She imagined a large family crowded into a small house, single beds lined up in a noisy bedroom full of clothes and toys and chaos. Then, out of nowhere, she suddenly pictured Gracie in the back bedroom of the bungalow. It was such a strange thought. What would that little room look like if the yellow walls were covered with bright finger paintings and drawings? How much space was there on top of the chest of drawers for rows of soft toys? The bed – where Martha had spent those two uncomfortable nights when Judith was rushed to hospital – wouldn’t seem so hard and forbidding if it was covered in a colourful, patterned duvet.
God, she’d hated that bedroom and everything it stood for. The thought made her catch her breath. She’d hated the whole bungalow, in fact. There had been nothing comforting about being in that place: it was her mother’s home and she had always felt awkward there.
The woman finally managed to pay for her petrol and dragged her screaming toddler back out to the car. But, as Martha moved forward in the queue, she was stunned by what had just occurred to her. She didn’t want the bungalow, or anything in it – that wasn’t such a surprise. But she suddenly realised she would rather it wasn’t sold either. Judith had wanted Alice and Gracie to live there, so that was what must happen.
On the drive home and for the rest of that evening, she argued with herself. Even if she never wanted to see the bungalow again, she did need the money they’d get from selling it. When the estate agent’s estimate had come through, Patrick worked out that – even after paying inheritance tax – he and Martha stood to gain about £300,000 each from the sale. It was a huge amount, especially considering how much she and Simon were going to have to find from now on, to pay Greenways’ fees.
If she decided the money was the most important thing, she needed to do nothing at all. She could just sit back and let the smarmy estate agent do his bit, wait for a buyer to be found and look forward to the money eventually landing in her bank account. Financially that was the only sensible option, and Simon would think she was completely crazy if she suggested anything else. In fact, he’d be furious with her.
And yet. Was it really money she ought to have? Martha had always presumed it was, but her own mother hadn’t thought so.
39
When Martha was about eight or nine, her mother fell out with a close friend. At first, she wasn’t sure what had happened, but came across Judith sitting on the sofa one afternoon, sobbing. Horrified she ran up and threw her arms around her; she’d never seen her mother this upset before, and was shocked. She tried to wipe the tears from her cheeks, holding her mother’s damp face between her small hands and planting kisses on it, desperate to make everything all right again.
‘I’m fine,’ Judith had sniffed. ‘Honestly, it’s nothing.’
Then, later that evening, there had been shouting in the kitchen and Martha crept down and sat on the bottom of the stairs, watching her father through the crack in the door. He was on the phone to someone, gesticulating with his free hand, his neck flushed.
When she was told they wouldn’t be seeing Aunty Jean any more, Martha understood immediately that all these events were connected. Her mother’s friend, Jean, had lived in the next road for as long as Martha could remember. The women shopped together, drank tea and wine together, went to the cinema together. Jean had spent Christmas with them, had gone on family holidays to Cornwall with them. Then suddenly, there was no more Jean. It left a gaping hole in their lives. Martha missed Jean’s cackling laughter and the smell of her flowery perfume as she bent down and scooped her hair away from her face, kissing her on the forehead and telling her she was the prettiest princess in the world.
She asked her father where Aunty Jean had gone. ‘We won’t be seeing her any more,’ he said. ‘Don’t speak to your mother about it, she’s still very upset.’
So, they didn’t mention Jean’s name again. Martha caught sight of her once, a few months later, standing at the end of an aisle in the large Tesco superstore outside town. Jean had one hand on a trolley and was holding a packet of rice in the other hand, studying the label. For some reason, the sight of her had scared Martha. She’d moved away quickly, before Jean saw her. Years later she’d asked Judith what had happened, and her mother dismissed it with a wave of her hand. ‘Oh that,’ she’d said. ‘Jean had a new boyfriend and we didn’t take to him. It was something and nothing.’
It hadn’t seemed like something and nothing at the time, and Martha knew Judith had been more upset than she cared to admit. Now, more than thirty years later, she had fallen out with her own friend, and she finally understood how devastating it was.
What had happened with Claudia last Friday night was still so raw, that at the moment she mostly felt nothing but fury when she thought about it. But every now and then, she’d remember something they’d done together – a trip to the seaside when the boys were just a couple of months old; a meal out with Adam and Simon to celebrate her birthday last year; a New Year’s Eve party where they’d all dressed up as pirates. They had been so close and Martha hadn’t realised how much she’d valued the friendship, and how special those memories were, until the person who featured most prominently in them let her down so badly.
Now, if Claudia’s face flashed into her mind, it was like someone had punched her in the stomach. Martha had no idea why Claudia had done this, or what she’d been hoping to achieve. One thing was for certain, she didn’t believe the texts, claiming she’d been so pissed she didn’t know what she was saying. They’d all had a lot to drink, but when Martha stared at her friend across the shattered glass on the carpet, there had been something cold and calculating in Claudia’s eyes. She had known perfectly well what she was doing when she told the other women about the codicil. So, it followed that she had deliberately set out to hurt Martha. For whatever reason, she wanted to humiliate her, bring her down a notch or two.
It was bewildering. Had she done something to upset Claudia? Had there been a sign their friendship had changed in any way? Maybe she’d said something thoughtless that had offended her, but she could think of nothing at all.
There had been no more texts since Sunday. Martha was relieved, but had also now – ridiculously – started feeling guilty for not accepting the olive branch. Maybe she’d been building this whole thing up too much? It had just been a stupid misunderstanding – Claudia hadn’t meant to hurt her: she’d just shown she was hopeless at keeping a secret. They both needed some time apart now, but Martha was coming round to thinking this was probably something they could talk about at some stage, and try to put right.
Then, just as she was leaving for work on Wednesday morning, a huge hand-tied bouquet had been delivered by a girl from the local florist. As she held out her hand to accept it, Martha’s heart leapt. Simon had already gone to the office, but these had to be from him. Beneath his newly cheerful façade, he must be missing Joe as well, so had ordered these to show he understood how she was feeling. What a sweetheart; she’d been too harsh on him.
Then she read the card: How many more times do I have to say sorry? Please let’s move on and forget all this x. She took the flowers through into the kitchen, kicked open the bin and thrust them down into it.
‘No more bloody times,’ she muttered as the petals broke and stems snapped amongst the dirty food packaging. ‘You don’t need to say sorry any more, Claudia. I. Don’t. Want. To. Hear. It!’
She hadn’t told Simon about Friday night. It was yet another thing to add to the list of major events in her life she was keeping from him. Although none of it felt deliberate – there was just never the right time. With Joe safely delivered to his new existence in Wiltshire, Simon was still more cheerful than he had been a couple of weeks ago, but a different sort of distance had developed between them. Without their son to base their lives around, they’d already both settled into new routines – but it was as if they were operating in two separate bubbles which never came close enough to touch, burst and join together.
Although this was only day three of their new normal, Simon had been late back on Monday, then out at football training last night. Martha had no idea whether he’d be at home this evening, but she doubted he’d be waiting around to find out what her plans were. She still hadn’t been to the gym after work, even though she took her kit with her when she left the house every morning. She couldn’t face the idea of going somewhere new, exchanging pleasantries with strangers and pushing herself out of her comfort zone. Embarking on something so different seemed like too much of a challenge. She hated being on her own in the house, so much so that she’d volunteered to work every day this week, pretending to Clive she was keen to make up for the time she’d taken off before the funeral.
At precisely 5.25pm, Janey started tidying the papers on her desk and powering down her computer. ‘Doing anything tonight?’ she asked.
Martha smiled and shook her head.
‘Rob’s taking me out for dinner,’ said Janey. ‘He won’t tell me where, it’s a surprise. But I have a feeling it’s that place out in Aldermere – you know, the pub with the Michelin star?’
‘That will be lovely,’ said Martha. Janey had had another blazing row with Rob on the phone yesterday morning, so this was clearly a make up meal. Poor Rob; she’d never met the man, but being married to Janey must be stressful and extremely expensive.
Martha was one of the last to leave. It was extraordinary: just a week ago, she would have been racing Janey for the lift, keeping to a tight schedule of picking up Joe from nursery and getting him home and fed. She wasn’t used to having all this time on her hands and had no idea how to fill it.
They were short on milk so she pulled into Sainsbury’s on the way home, picked up a basket and wandered aimlessly down the aisles. She found herself at the far end of the store, staring at the wine section, row upon row of red, white and rosé. She still hadn’t replaced the wine the girls had drunk on Friday night, so put a couple of bottles in her basket. She would get organised and do a proper shop soon, but this would keep them going for now.
The prospect of opening one of these bottles when she got home and filling a glass with the cool, straw-yellow liquid, was enough to cheer her up, even though that wasn’t a good thing. She generally tried not to drink during the week but, since losing her boy, she’d spent the last three evenings lying on the sofa, her hand curled around a glass, literally drowning her sorrows.
She felt so lost.
Waiting at the checkout, she pulled out her phone and began to flick through her emails.
‘Hey, Martha! How are you?’
She turned, not recognising the voice. Dan was standing behind her in the queue, Johnny asleep in the buggy, a wire basket balanced on the handlebars.
‘I thought it was you!’
‘Oh, hello,’ she said, her heart suddenly racing. ‘How are you?’
‘Good, all good,’ he said. ‘We missed you at music therapy this morning. It was quite a low-key session, that woman Liz wasn’t there either and Suky had a cold, so she wasn’t in the best mood.’
Martha stared at him.
‘How’s Joe? He’s not ill, is he?’
She opened her mouth to reply, but found she couldn’t speak.
In front of her, the smile dropped from Dan’s face and he looked first startled, then horrified. There was a strange high-pitched wailing coming from somewhere, and she suddenly realised she was the one making the noise.
40
‘Here, get that down you.’ He put a mug of tea in front of her and slid into the seat opposite, taking his own mug off the plastic tray and pushing it to one side.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Martha, blowing her nose again. She’d stopped crying, but knew she must look a sight: her eyes were puffy and the skin underneath her nose was raw. ‘I’m sure you ought to be getting home. You’ll need to be getting Johnny ready for bed.’
‘That’s fine,’ said Dan, pulling the buggy closer to the table. Johnny was still asleep, his glasses pushed slightly to one side, his cheek squashed against the frame. ‘He’ll wake up in a bit and be bouncing off the ceiling until midnight. We don’t keep regular hours I’m afraid. He’s never slept well, so I just go with the flow.’
The woman behind the café counter was looking over at them, not even bothering to disguise her curiosity. Martha wiped her eyes again then picked up the mug with both hands and sipped at the tea. There was too much milk in it, but she didn’t care. ‘This is so kind of you,’ she said. ‘The last few days have been horrible and when you mentioned Joe, it just set me off.’
‘When did you take him to this new school?’
‘Sunday. It’s ridiculous to be like this, I know. I should be happy about it. I am happy, because it’s such an amazing place and we’re lucky he’s got in there. It’s going to do him so much good.’
‘But it’s still hard,’ said Dan.
She nodded. ‘It’s awful. The house is so quiet without him. I’m doing idiotic things like walking into his room and rearranging all the toys on the shelves, just so I can spend time in there. Do you know, every night I’ve gone in and drawn his bedroom curtains, then I’ve opened them again the next morning. How bloody stupid is that?’
‘Oh, Martha, you poor thing. It’s not stupid at all; any parent would be the same. I’d be devastated.’
Not every parent, thought Martha: Simon didn’t appear to be in the slightest bit devastated. She could never have admitted to him that she was opening and closing Joe’s curtains as if their son was still at home. He would have laughed at her.
‘Is this school permanent then?’ asked Dan. ‘I mean, can he stay there long-term or are you just trying it out for a while, to see if it helps him?’
‘I guess it’s permanent,’ said Martha. ‘I’ve not really thought about it, to be honest. I haven’t wanted to. The staff didn’t make us any promises, but some of the sensory stimulation they use has had remarkable results, although mostly with children who have other issues – neuro-cognitive disorders or severe autism. Joe’s disabilities are so advanced we’ve been told he may never be able to talk or understand what we’re saying to him. We’re not expecting miracles. I guess it just feels as if this place can give him such an amazing standard of care, and the therapy can’t do any harm.’
She hadn’t spoken in this kind of detail to anyone else, other than Simon. None of her friends really wanted to hear how extreme and untreatable Joe’s disabilities were; if she did speak about what was happening, she soon became aware of their discomfort – they would shift in their seats, fiddle with their hair, play with their mugs of coffee on the table, look around for their own children. She knew part of that was guilt; they had healthy, happy, normal children – she didn’t. But there was also a reluctance to find out more. Joe’s condition and diagnosis were messy and awkward; he looked normal but he didn’t behave in the right way. He made strange noises that scared other children; he moaned, his body sometimes shuddered involuntarily, his limbs jerking of their own accord. Other parents found him embarrassing to be with. They didn’t understand, and they didn’t really want to.
