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

Just the two of them. Playing chess. Going to the park. Golf. Even shopping for clothes. Martin hates shopping for clothes. He’s
always left that to Claudia. He always left everything to Claudia. And now that he’s actually rising to the challenge, I am shocked. And I am suspicious.
    St Hilda’s is like many of its regular attendees: grey and dusty, which, I know, is not a Godly thought for me to be having. But then God knows that I’m not exactly
His whole-hearted follower. Unlike my husband.
    I have to admit I am sort of proud watching Steve perform, at my sparkling lectern, speaking to his flock. But then I used to be proud of him when he lay with his head under the sink twiddling
his ratchet. He is a good man who does a job well. It’s me that’s struggling.
    Today I have to sit on my own – on a less than perfectly polished pew seeing as they are Amanda’s responsibility – trying to keep four fidgety children quiet while Desmond and
Steve do their double act. We’ve sung the embarrassing children’s song with actions. Jeremy was strangely enthusiastic about it, waving his arms about like a Charismatic. It was quite
infectious. Even Rachel, known for her disdain of anything infantile, joined in a little. I actually caught a glimpse of a smile hanging about her lips. Olivia was more interested in flaunting her
new shoes, which haven’t been off her feet yet except for bath time. Now we just have to get through the children’s talk. This is when I always struggle to keep my lot from
heckling.
    Today isn’t so bad because some of the drama group are doing a sketch and at least the kids can focus on something. Like Mr Maynard’s shoes which, according to Olivia and commented
on in her loudest voice, are like Jesus’ shoes. I pretend I have dropped something vital on the floor so that I can duck down behind the pew. It is warm down by the heating grill, with the
comforting smell of beeswax. I’d like to stay there for the rest of Mr Maynard’s amateur dramatics, in fact for the duration of the service, possibly for the rest of the day but alas I
am a grown woman and must act accordingly.
    At last: relief. The children file out to Sunday school and I can lug Imo to the crèche. (She’s definitely fat. Must go to clinic and be reprimanded by health visitor.) Soon I can
creep back into the rear of the church and concentrate on important matters i.e. my list of things to do for tomorrow. For tomorrow is school.
    I had every reason to be suspicious. The reason Martin has been spending all this so-called ‘quality time’ with his son is so that he can toughen him up. And why?
In order to send him to a new school. Martin is taking Jeremy out of Dulwich Prep and sending him down the road to St Hilda’s C of E. He’s been in to see the Head and, using his
connections to Steve and his overbearing powers of persuasion, has wangled a place. And to make things worse, Claudia is clueless on the other side of the ocean. He’s had this planned for a
long time, gave the correct amount of notice so he didn’t have to pay the term’s fees. That’s the money he was going to be coming into. The flow of cash. He is calculating and
despicable. And very stupid. Does he really believe this will help win Claudia back? If I know Claudia, this is the very thing that will stop dead any chance of mediation.
    I am telling all of this to Steve in the brief respite we have late Sunday afternoon, me at the ironing board, with a heap of white polo shirts, Steve going over his preparation for the evening
service.
    ‘Do you think we should let Claudia know?’ he asks me, gripping his pen the way Rachel grips hers. All wrong.
    ‘I’ve been trying her phone on and off all day. There’s no ring tone.’
    ‘We could leave a message at the hotel asking her to call,’ he suggests.
    ‘I don’t want to worry her. She’ll think something dreadful’s happened.’
    ‘From her point of view something dreadful has