A Thousand Tiny Disappointments, page 9
It hadn’t taken Martha long to work out that Janey’s marriage was one of those relationships which thrived on conflict. She learnt to ignore the heated phone conversations and sudden tearful exits from the office. It was a relief; as much as anything, coping with someone else’s emotional turmoil was too draining. Martha had enough of her own crap to deal with – she didn’t need to set aside sympathy for anyone else’s disintegrating life.
Janey slammed the phone down now and sighed deeply.
Martha didn’t react.
Janey blew her nose and sniffed loudly.
‘Who wants a tea?’ Martha called out, pushing back her chair and looking round the office.
Having lined up empty cups in the little kitchenette next door, she threw teabags into them with more force than was necessary. Janey’s selfishness was unbelievable. She was the one whose mother had just died. She was the one whose bloody marriage was in crisis. Not that anyone else knew that; for once, Martha wished she was the sort of person who was able to share whatever was going on in her life. Everyone had been very kind when she came back into work yesterday, but after asking a few obligatory questions and making sympathetic noises about the shock of it all and the challenges of organising a funeral, they had drifted back to their desks and office life had carried on as before.
Martha knew they were taking their lead from her: she was giving the impression she was coping well. Unlike Janey, she had never been outwardly needy, so her colleagues presumed she was just getting on with it and dealing with the loss of her mother with dignity and self-control. It was the habitual tough outer shell thing: the capable persona Martha had worked so hard to establish over the years. And now it was pride that was stopping her from stepping out from behind that pretence and letting anyone know how much she was hurting.
Clive had been kind. ‘You don’t have to be back in here yet, you know,’ he’d said, when she got to work. ‘You’re entitled to compassionate leave.’
‘I know.’ She’d smiled at him although, as usual, he was looking at a point over her shoulder, not meeting her eye. ‘But to be honest, I’d rather be here. It helps to keep busy. There will be a lot to sort out in Surrey, so I may need to change some of my days around in the next couple of weeks.’
Clive had nodded and turned to walk back to his office. ‘Just ask,’ he said, over his shoulder. ‘If you need some time off.’
What a lovely man. However many times Martha tried to thank Clive for being so understanding, it would never ease the guilt she constantly lived with, about letting him down, not pulling her weight in the office. She had worked here for eight years, so was already part of the team when she got pregnant. But Clive had been unfailingly supportive after Joe’s birth. As someone who closely guarded his own privacy, he never sought to invade hers, but let her know that he valued her as an employee, and the job would always be there for her. She had lost count of the number of occasions he’d cut her some slack – from the numerous times she’d had to leave the office early to collect Joe, to the last-minute crises when she’d been called away to rush her son to A&E. He was a kind, sympathetic boss and, without his support, she doubted she would have been able to continue working after Joe was born.
As the kettle boiled, Martha’s phone started to ring. Alice’s name came up on the screen.
‘Hi!’ Martha said, her voice bright. She suddenly realised she hadn’t thought about Alice in the last couple of days. The girl had been so upset when she heard the news about Judith, but Patrick had made sure they shooed her out of the bungalow in a matter of minutes, giving her no chance to ask them any questions. It must have been such a shock. Martha bit the inside of her lip: she really ought to have called her yesterday, or at least sent a text. ‘How are you?’ she asked now. ‘I’m sorry everything was so rushed on Sunday.’
‘I’m okay,’ said the girl. ‘What about you?’
‘Fine,’ said Martha, nodding although Alice couldn’t see her. ‘I’m fine.’ As she spoke, she suddenly realised there was a lump in her throat and her eyes were filling with tears. She wasn’t fine at all.
‘I just wanted to give you a call, to say that Nipper’s doing well,’ said Alice. ‘I was worried he’d be missing Judith, but we’re keeping him busy and taking him out several times a day. Gracie and Mum are walking him when I’m at work.’
Martha closed her eyes. Damn: she’d been so wrapped up in everything else she hadn’t thought about the dog either. It had been such a relief when Alice offered to have him, but she should have been the one to call and ask for an update. Wrong-footed again.
‘Thank you,’ she said, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice. ‘That’s very good of you, Alice.’
‘Also, I popped into the bungalow earlier, just to check on the post,’ the girl carried on. ‘I didn’t know if you were planning on coming back down here at any stage. There wasn’t anything urgent there, just some circulars, but if something important arrives, I can forward it to you.’
‘Yes, that would be useful, thanks. I’ll text you my address.’
Now Martha could feel irritation prickling in her scalp. She ought to feel grateful, of course: Alice was helping her out in ways she hadn’t even thought about. But it seemed intrusive. If only she’d thought to ask her to check on the bungalow – then it would still have been a favour carried out, but Martha would have been the one in control of the situation. Right now, it felt like Alice was running this relationship; she knew it really didn’t matter and she should be grateful for any help she could get, but it was strangely annoying.
‘Mum says she’s happy to carry on cleaning the bungalow, if you want her to?’ the girl was saying now. ‘She goes once a week, for a couple of hours, but she can do a bit less if you’d like?’
‘No, that’s fine,’ said Martha. ‘Let’s just carry on with that for now, if she doesn’t mind. I hadn’t thought about it, to be honest with you, Alice. But it’s probably a good idea.’
Don’t push me! she wanted to scream. I can’t make these decisions at the moment.
‘I just wondered…’ the girl hesitated. ‘Whether you’d made any plans – you know, about a funeral? It’s just that we – me and Mum – we’d very much like to be there. I know you might want to keep it to friends and family, but we were both so fond of Judith. If you don’t mind, we’d really like to come. I’m sorry, I know you’ve got a lot to do, so I don’t want to hassle you. But I hadn’t heard anything, so…’
‘Alice, of course you must come!’ It hadn’t occurred to her that the girl would wait to be invited. ‘I haven’t organised a date yet, because we need to get the coroner’s report back. But as soon as I know what’s happening, I’ll be in touch, I promise.’
‘Thank you, I’d appreciate that. This is all such a shock, Martha. You know how I felt about Judith, she was such a lovely woman and so kind. I still can’t believe she’s gone, to be honest. It doesn’t seem real.’
‘I know, I feel the same.’
‘Please let me know if you need me to do anything at all,’ continued Alice. ‘It must be hard for you, living so far away. But I can keep an eye on the bungalow or run any errands that need doing. I used to spend so much time at Judith’s, it seems odd not to be doing that any more. She was such a good friend to me.’
As she stood stirring milk into the row of mugs, Martha tried to quell the resentment rising in her stomach. She was being ridiculous – and paranoid: Alice wasn’t deliberately stepping on her toes or taking over. She was just kind and thoughtful; she’d loved Judith and was now just trying to do what she could to help out during a traumatic time. Martha ought to be grateful.
But it was still bloody irritating.
15
‘The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round! Come on, everyone, you can do better than this! Louder!’
Suky was staring straight at her. Martha forced a smile and sang, her hands clasping Joe’s and making circular motions with them as he lay heavily against her. His bony little bottom was digging into the top of her thigh and she tried to shift herself without making him slide off.
‘What’s next?’ Suky was saying. ‘How about “I’m a Little Teapot”? We all know the words to that. Right, off we go…’
Martha bent her left arm towards her waist in the shape of a handle and gently tipped Joe to the right, dutifully pouring him out. During these sessions, she often wondered if anyone else here hated Wednesday mornings as much as she did. It never looked like it. The other parents were smiling, singing loudly in a disharmonious medley, grasping their children tightly as they mimed actions and moved small limbs in time to the music. They all looked like they were having a good time. Mind you, she was doing the same: an outsider coming into this room wouldn’t notice anything different about Joe’s mummy; she wasn’t obviously letting the side down. So, either she was the only callous cynic who was wondering why she bothered to come here every week, or they were all accomplished actors, doing a fantastic job of pretending to enjoy themselves.
‘We’ve got time for a few more!’ called Suky. ‘Any requests?’
The speech and language woman at the nursery had recommended music therapy. ‘It’s a marvellous stimulus and really helps develop communication and social interaction,’ she’d told Martha. ‘And it will be fun for you too!’
These weekly groups weren’t fun: Martha felt duty-bound to take Joe to them, because it was the sort of thing a good mother would do for her disabled son. But she hated every minute. It wouldn’t be so bad if Joe seemed to get anything useful from these sessions, but Martha couldn’t kid herself that was the case. They’d been coming here for four months, and her son, floppy and heavy on her lap, showed no more signs of understanding what was going on now than he had done at their first session. The whole thing made her feel even more of a failure.
Today it was harder than usual to pretend to be enjoying herself. She wanted to stand up and yell, ‘My mother died on Sunday!’ Partly to shock them, partly to get their sympathy. Mainly because it felt so strange to be following her normal routine when something so momentous had happened in her life. But there was no point; even after all these months, she didn’t know any of these other parents well enough to share that sort of news.
‘How about “Row your Boat”?’ called out a woman in a bright pink jumper. Martha knew her daughter was called Chloe, but couldn’t remember the woman’s name, even though she was sure she’d introduced herself, ages ago. There were nods of approval and one of the children, a little girl with Down’s syndrome, started to clap enthusiastically. The grown-ups laughed and gamely embarked on the next song, pushing their children backwards and forwards on their knees, pretending to row a boat through choppy waters.
She felt something bang against her foot, and turned to find that the man sitting beside her was trying to get up. ‘Excuse me,’ he whispered. ‘We need the bathroom!’ His son was younger than Joe, possibly three, and looked up at her through a pair of thick, round glasses, grinning. ‘Poo!’ he said.
Martha hadn’t seen them at the group before. She grinned back at him. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I can smell it!’
The dad snorted with laughter. ‘Sorry,’ he whispered. ‘It might be a false alarm, this boy farts for England. But I can’t risk it.’
Martha laughed and shifted sideways to let him shuffle out between their chairs, before continuing to row her boat with Joe.
‘Poo!’ the boy was yelling, as his dad carried him towards the doors at the back of the hall. ‘Poo! Poo! Poo!’
Twenty minutes later, as they packed up at the end of the session, the man leant across to her. ‘I’m Dan,’ he said. ‘And this stinky boy is Johnny.’
‘Hello stinky Johnny,’ said Martha. The child screamed with laughter, throwing back his head and kicking his legs as his father strapped him into a buggy. ‘I’m Martha and this is Joe. First time here?’ she asked, as she hoisted Joe onto one hip and pulled his wheelchair towards her.
‘Yup,’ said Dan. ‘Not sure we’re going to shine. Neither of us can sing, can we, Johnny?’
‘I wouldn’t worry about that,’ said Martha. ‘I don’t think any of us have voices to write home about. I mime the words most of the time.’
Suky bustled up with a sheet of paper. ‘Great to see you, Dan,’ she said. ‘Glad you both could make it. I just need you to sign some forms for me.’
Martha smiled at the man and gave a small wave as she started to push Joe towards the door, and Johnny waved both arms back at her. ‘Bye!’ he yelled.
The other adults were strapping their children into buggies and wheelchairs and pushing them down the front ramp; Martha said goodbye to familiar faces, feeling like a fraud. These heroic mothers and fathers smiled and chatted and laughed. She tried to do the same, but felt hollow and inadequate alongside them. She invariably drove away from these sessions filled with a dejection that lasted for the rest of the day. She adored her gorgeous little boy and was fiercely protective of him and determined to do what was best for him. But Wednesday mornings were a reminder that things were never going to get any better.
Joe fell asleep in the back of the car on the way home, so Martha left him in there, with the door open, while she made a cup of coffee and took it out into the front garden, sitting on the grass in the sunshine while she checked the news on her phone and replied to a couple of texts she’d not seen earlier.
There was a missed call from a landline she didn’t recognise, but she thought it might be her friend, Nancy. As she scrolled through her contacts, to check Nancy’s office number, another name flashed up before her. Her heart billowed inside her chest. How many times had she tapped on this icon, Mum, and put the phone to her ear, listening as it rang at the other end and waiting for her mother to speak into the empty space.
Judith had always sounded slightly breathless – even if she hadn’t run to answer the phone – the intonation rising slightly at the end of ‘Hello?’ then, when she heard it was Martha, warmth would flood through her voice: ‘Darling, how lovely to hear from you!’
Staring down at the name and number on the screen of her phone, Martha wondered if her mother had been like that with other people. It had never occurred to her before, because she’d presumed that warmth was special: just for her daughter. But maybe she’d greeted Alice in the same way?
She found herself pressing the number and putting the phone to her ear. Judith’s mobile didn’t ring at the other end – Martha knew it wouldn’t; it was out of charge, sitting on the worktop in the kitchen of the bungalow in Surrey. But the answerphone clicked in immediately and she breathed in sharply as she heard her mother’s familiar voice: Hello, this is Judith’s phone. I can’t take your call at the moment, but please leave a message and I’ll get right back to you!
There was a long beep, then an echoey silence. Martha shut her eyes and listened to the sound of her own breathing.
16
‘What I must emphasise is that it’s not just a case of finding out whether Greenways is right for Joe. It’s important that he is right for us, too.’
The principal was an attractive woman in her fifties, with beautifully cut hair and immaculate make-up. The hands clasped in front of her on the desk looked as if they’d been professionally – and recently – manicured, and Martha twisted her own fingers out of sight in her lap, embarrassed by nails that were bitten to the quick.
‘That’s why we would like him to come and spend a day with us, before we decide whether it’s appropriate to offer him a place.’
Martha nodded, and Simon shifted in the seat beside her. ‘That would be fine,’ she said. ‘We can bring him whenever you like.’
She wasn’t sure how easy that would be: it had taken them nearly two hours to get here in early morning traffic. But they could think about the logistics later. Right now, she was just glad they’d been able to rearrange their missed appointment so quickly, and was amazed by what they’d seen: this place was extraordinary.
During their hour-long tour of the facilities, there had been so much that was positive and inspiring, from the bright classrooms where teachers worked one to one with the pupils, to the modern art suite and vast soft-play area. They had also been introduced to Betsy, the therapy dog. ‘Medical research has shown that therapy dogs can reduce anxiety, fatigue and depression,’ explained the principal. ‘They also provide great emotional support for all the children, especially those with poor verbal communication.’
In the fitness suite, Martha and Simon had seen a boy being helped to do exercises on an area of matting, then they watched two physios in a therapy pool, supporting a young girl. Floating on her back, she was kicking her legs and screaming with delight as the water lapped against her. ‘She suffered an extensive intracranial haemorrhage six months ago,’ explained the principal. ‘The consultant told her parents it was unlikely she would regain any speech or movement.’
Upstairs, they had walked along softly carpeted corridors, where individual bedrooms were painted in primary colours and daylight flooded in through large windows. Past the open doors they could see teddies on pillows, framed photos of laughing families on side tables. It was warm and welcoming, and felt safe.
