This Holey Life by Sophie Duffy Read Free Book Online Page A

old is she now?’
    ‘Only six months.’ I hoik Imo out and plonk her on my lap. She weighs a ton.
    ‘What a devoted mother you are,’ Claudia whispers, tears crowding her eyes. Then she actually starts crying. Really snotty, dribbly, mascara-running, shoulder-shaking crying.
    I pat her hand. I do a lot of hand-patting in my new role. I may not have been on a course but hand-patting usually does the trick.
    Claudia’s sobs recede and she gives her nose a good blow on the clean hanky I always have up my sleeve. ‘Maybe it’s because you have girls,’ she says, then looks
horrified. ‘Oh, sorry, Vicky, I didn’t mean... well, it’s just that Jeremy’s so like his father. He’s so... big. So... bulky. He takes up too much room.’ She
searches for understanding while I snatch a look around the vast kitchen – the Aga, the hulk of an American fridge, the army of cupboards and acres of granite worktops – wondering just
how much room a three person family needs. Wondering why so many human beings, plus a cello, are crammed into my poky terrace. ‘Why can’t he take after me?’
    I look at Claudia. Petite, refined, delicate Claudia. Jeremy can wade his way through Middle Earth on the Playstation-DS-Nintendo-Wotnot, but he will bang into door frames as he passes through.
That is, when he actually manages to get himself vertical. When he’s not sitting on the new leather sofa watching Cribs – which, I have discovered, has absolutely nothing to do
with the Baby Jesus.
    Yes, Claudia’s right. Thank Heaven for my little girls. But it’s harder to be thankful for my little boy. How can I be?
    Thoughts for the Day: I wish I lived in Middle Earth? Anywhere but here and now.

Chapter Eight: Sunday January 6th Epiphany
    Sunday. Traditionally a day of rest. In our world there’s not a whole lot of rest going on. It’s a whirr of to-ings and fro-ings and trying to keep the children
quiet and smiling and small talk and roasting parsnips and tea and hand-patting.
    Being a curate’s wife doesn’t come easily. Being a curate’s wife wasn’t what I signed up to all those years ago when I said: ‘I will’. What I meant was: I
will go out to work and help pay off our mortgage. I will share the cooking and washing-up but am more than happy to do the bulk of the cleaning because that’s the way I like it and I know
you, Steve, are much happier, and more proficient at, wielding a power tool. I will have your children if and when the time comes – which it did, on four occasions. That’s what I
meant.
    I didn’t mean this. I didn’t mean Steve to swap his copper pipes for a surplice. I didn’t mean to swap my old life for this one. I was happy being a teacher, a mother, a
plumber’s wife.
    But how could I say no to Steve? I promised him, didn’t I? Said I would stick with him for better, for worse. And while he believes this life is better, I still have to be convinced. And
it’s going to take nothing short of a miracle to do that.
    Not that it’s all bad. Sometimes I open the front door to find a package left by a good-intentioned parishioner. A marrow. A jar of chutney. Once, generously and anonymously, a voucher for
a day’s pampering at The Sanctuary (which I still haven’t used, surprise, surprise). And sometimes, when I pop into the church to polish the lectern – it’s really tricky
with all the engravings and twiddly bits – I feel something surround me. I’d like to say it was God’s love. His peace and understanding. But it’s probably the silence that
is so elusive at home.
    Jeremy has agreed to come to Sunday School. He actually agreed quite readily which surprised me as I assumed he’d be as resistant as Martin – a worshipper of
Richard Dawkins – to the idea of a loving God. Or, perhaps like the rest of us, he wants some space from his father who has been acting strangely since his dealings with the long arm of the
Law. He is spending a lot of time with Jeremy for one thing.