Free This Holey Life by Sophie Duffy

find somewhere quiet to feed Imo while you fill in Dad on
what’s been happening.’ I plonk Imo in her bucket and bend down to Martin’s ear. ‘Otherwise,’ I whisper into it, ‘I will.’
    Martin staggers across the forecourt of the petrol station towards the car, loaded down with Coke, crisps, sweets and an air freshener. He chucks the junk food in my lap and
proceeds to hang up the smelly-tree-thing from the mirror so his Saab looks like a minicab. And now the banana has finally worked its magic, it smells like a mini cab, after a long Saturday
night.
    He leans across to retrieve some aftershave from the glove compartment. Squirts it all around so we can’t breathe at all. It’s a shame he doesn’t worry about the cleanliness of
my house as much as he cares about the cleanliness of his car.
    ‘I thought aftershave aggravated your eczema?’
    ‘Jeremy gave it to me for father’s day. I couldn’t say anything. So I keep it in the car. For emergencies.’
    I’m not sure I can follow Martin’s logic. It’s been a long day. But it makes me think of Jeremy.
    ‘I hope he’s alright,’ I say.
    ‘So do I.’ Martin must be tired too. For a second there, he sounded like he cared.
    When we get home we walk into the front room to discover we were right to worry. Jeremy has been crying. There are scrunched-up damp tissues all over the new leather sofa, the
TV has been muted and Steve looks exhausted, like he always does after a marathon counselling session, the twinkle absent from his eyes, his skin grey to match his hair. But it is Jeremy who is
really suffering. Jeremy has had a horrible day, plunged in at the deep end of change. Too much change in one go. He is drowning.
    I gather up the tissues while Martin takes him into the back room in an attempt to get him to bed.
    Steve shrugs helplessly, lost for once, as we listen to our nephew cry. I wish I could hear what Martin has to say to his son but the only words I catch are ‘zed-bed’ and an
adjective that isn’t suitable for ten-year-old ears.
    But that’s not all. Claudia has phoned and Jeremy has told her everything. She is catching the next flight home. This might work out after all.
    Thoughts for the Day: Why is Dad anaemic? Is there some underlying problem he has not told me about? What is the best way to clean a leather sofa?

Chapter Eleven: Friday January 11th
    Claudia did not catch the next flight home. Instead I managed to speak to her and persuade her to finish the assignment. We’d sort things out at the weekend.
Jeremy’s place at the prep school would still be there if he wanted to go back. Of course he’ll want to go back, she had said. He’ll never survive at that grotty
school . At which point I felt myself bristling and sticking up for that grotty school which is good enough for my children and all the other children living down our street. I was beginning to
feel some sympathy for Martin’s cause. Shock, horror.
    It was only when I put the phone down that I realised I could have let Claudia get on that plane and then Jeremy and his cello would have been out of my hair. Then it would only be Martin to get
rid of.
    Olivia does not go to playgroup on a Friday. This is her favourite day. On a Friday she comes to St Hilda’s and helps me with the cleaning. Steve is working on this
Sunday’s sermon at the kitchen table but he said he would keep an eye on Imo who is sound asleep in her cot. I make sure he can hear the baby monitor and tell him to bring her to the church
if she wakes for milk.
    ‘She’ll be alright till you get back. You can normally do it in under two hours. Can’t you?’ He tries not to betray the anxiety I know he’s feeling at the prospect
of lugging an inconsolable hungry baby down to the church. I know he thinks she’d be fine on the bottle but he wouldn’t tell me that. Unlike Martin.
    It’s peaceful kneeling in the nave, polishing the pew ends, the brass umbrella stands. The smell of Brasso.