Locked Out of Heaven Read online

  “To calm down? Are you for fucking real? Our relationship is over, do you not get that?”

  His face hardened. “Our marriage never meant as much to you as it should have. Not after that bastard, Damo—”

  “Oh, not this again. I put everything I had into us, Terry. If you don’t want to believe that, then don’t.”

  There was a long silence, through which I prayed Terry would leave.

  “I take it Susie and Willie don’t know.”

  I snorted. “How’d you work that one out – the digestive biscuits, was it?”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “Oh, Susie talked herself into believing that you just had a one-night stand and that I should get over it for the sake of the kids. I’m letting her think she’s right. It’s easier that way. You’d better pray this never comes out, Terry. If my parents find out what you really did with your three-month-old right beside you, I wouldn’t be surprised if they killed you with their bare hands.”

  “They won’t find out if you don’t tell them!”

  “And what if the woman I saw you with tells someone?”

  “She won’t. She has too much to lose if this comes out.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Oh, great. She’s married and hiding the truth from her family as well, I suppose? This gets better and better! And for all I know, there could be ten other women like her in your life.”

  “Of course there aren’t! Trust me, Holly, nobody’s ever going to hear about this. Mind you, you’re not helping – you’re drawing attention to us, getting up and leaving like this.”

  “Are you actually trying to blame me for the mess we’re in? You disgust me, Terry!”

  He argued and defended himself for another good hour before finally getting the message that I wasn’t for turning. But that was only the end of round one. He left amid declarations that he’d never give up on trying to win me back and one day I’d realise just how sorry he was. I stood outside for a long time after he left, replaying our conversation in my head and wondering what in the name of God I was going to do next.

  Chapter 4

  One week later . . .

  A Day in the Life

  4.45 a.m.: Baby Oran wakes up. Slide out of bed – no energy to get out any other way – and crawl to cot. Retrieve a Berocca Boost energy tablet from bra – the only safe place I can keep it for immediate access to much-needed energy upon awakening – and place it on tongue before lifting Oran.

  5 a.m.: Bottle demolished. Baby asleep. Flirt with the idea of exercising, but pelvic floor is too weak to do jumping jacks without needing the jacks after one jump. Besides, way too much to do – Sarah’s starting school tomorrow. Sneak downstairs and make a reluctant start on the ironing mountain.

  7 a.m.: Bad idea. To-do list of forty items has ballooned since I picked up the iron. 41) Sew missing buttons back on. 42) Buy sewing kit. 43) Buy buttons. Et cetera, et cetera.

  Further NB addition: Never iron again.

  7.10 a.m.: Hear the patter of footsteps. My daughter, Debbie, has arisen.

  “Mommy, I don’t feel well. Can I have Rice Krispies for breakfast to make me feel better?”

  Repeat the word “No” over and over again. Am sure Debbie even mentions the word “fortified” as Oran wakes up too, but must be imagining it. She’s three.

  7.20 a.m.: Sarah’s joined the party. Debbie greets her with a flick of Weetabix. Put Oran down and haul Debbie off to the time-out area. She kicks, she screams, she whimpers and throws herself on me. Untangle myself and return to a crying Oran and a Weetabix-flecked Sarah, who’s unfolding my ironing, scrunching it up and throwing it back on the ironing pile because “it misses its family”. Am too busy worrying that the ironing represents Terry to care about my undone hard work – although there’s satisfaction in the unbidden image of me ironing Terry’s head.

  9.00 a.m.: Susie and Willie have left the house. They don’t have plans – they just had to get away from us. Realise I need to go to a cheap supermarket and spend just enough to keep us alive. Used to do all of my shopping online, but the delivery charge is a luxury I can’t afford any more. In fact, eating is a luxury I can’t afford any more. I have no cash. Terry has cancelled all of our joint cards in a bid to get me to come home.

  I can’t apply for social welfare’s One-Parent Family Payment until I’ve been living apart from Terry for three months, according to the social welfare office. I’d applied for a general social welfare allowance, but was still waiting for my application to be processed. I can’t sort out separation terms with Terry when he’s refusing to accept that I’ve left him, so I’m going from day to day. I’m living off a personal credit card he couldn’t cancel and I’ve no way to pay it off – Terry pays all the bills. No idea how to work out the logistics of three children in the supermarket either, but I’ll worry about it when I get there.

  9.30 a.m.: It’s time to worry. Okay, so Oran and Debbie can go in the trolley. Sarah can walk alongside me and knock things off the shelves. Of course I’d prefer if she didn’t terrorise the shelves, but I’m nothing if not a realist after the last week or so.

  Sarah asks to go in the trolley, too. I refuse, which prompts a toddleresque down-on-the-floor tantrum. Walk away and throw a packet of Groovy biscuits into the trolley, feeling reckless about my expenditure but unable to stop myself. Turn into the next aisle and count to ten.

  When I go back, she’s gone. Entire body lurches.

  Run up and down each aisle with the trolley. No sign of her. Run faster than I thought I was capable of, trolley and all, to the exit.

  At first, all I see are cars whizzing in and out of the car park, potential death machines. And then I see her by the trolleys. She’s playing with a trolley chain and whimpering slightly, looking like she has the right to be upset about something but can’t quite remember what it was.

  Scoop her up and plaster her head with kisses before starting a rant, a half-hearted attempt because I’m feeling so guilty. Wondering when I can get away with leaving it at that, when a finger taps my shoulder.

  “You didn’t pay for those.” The security guard points to the trolley.

  “I made them. And what are you talking about? I’ll be paying for them for the rest of my life! School, college, electronics addictions . . .”

  “The Groovy biscuits, not the children.”

  9.37 a.m.: Convinced the security guard that I wouldn’t risk a criminal record for a packet of Groovy biscuits. Am back in the store, even though I’d prefer to be anywhere else – but we need food. Sarah, unrepentant, is now in the trolley, too.

  Throw in everything that’s cheap. Had great intentions of making up dinners in my head as I went along and buying ingredients for same, but I’m too frazzled now. Who says orange segments don’t taste nice with packet couscous, anyway?

  As the trolley gets fuller, Sarah throws stuff out onto the floor. She stops when she discovers chocolate biscuits. Let her have some if she promises to stop throwing things out. She eats a few biscuits and immediately recommences the food chucking. Try not to cry.

  Finally make it to the till. Purchase countless shopping bags because I’ve forgotten to bring any. At last, the misery that’s been this shopping experience is almost over, bar the really miserable part – paying. Stick in my credit card and put in my PIN.

  “Sorry . . . your card has been declined.”

  No. No. No. It can’t be at capacity already.

  Try to look haughty as I put the PIN number in again.

  Declined again.

  “There must be some mistake.”

  “From experience, there isn’t, I’m afraid.”

  Lady behind till gives me the look you’d give abandoned puppies covered in fleas. She feels sorry for me, but she wants me to go away now. She knows I’m penniless. She hands me my card back.

  “I need this food,” I say in a small voice. “Can I just try it one more time?”

  The sad look hardens. Lady behind till looks pointedly
at the queue behind me.

  “I’ll need to let these people go. We’re short staffed . . . I’m afraid if you don’t have cash, you won’t be able to purchase these products.”

  Really want to cry now. Sigh deeply before taking the children out of the trolley. Am about to walk away, when I hear the lady’s voice again.

  “Sorry, could you unpack that trolley before you go? As I mentioned, we’re short-staffed . . . And don’t forget to pay us for the opened biscuits the next time you’re in.”

  11.00 a.m.: Stop at newsagents near home. Wake up Oran because I don’t want to leave him on his own in the car. He screams incessantly. Buy extortionately priced goods for Sarah’s lunch box with ten euros amassed from the glove compartment of the car and the backs of car seats while Oran screams in my ear. Get the kids settled in their seats, only to remember there’s no milk at home. Take the kids out again.

  12.00 p.m.: Bring Sarah’s new school uniform downstairs to try on. I bought everything in a hurry last week when the personal credit card wasn’t quite so maxed out. The shop was heaving with people, so we didn’t even have a chance for her to try them on – Oran was crying, Debbie was complaining and the crowd in the shop wasn’t helping our stress levels. Put her shirt and pinafore on (her, not me) and sigh with relief when I see that they fit perfectly. Pull out her cardigan, confident that nothing can go wrong now – and then I see a bulge in the neck. A security tag was left on.

  1.00 p.m.: No parking spaces left even remotely near the door of the shopping centre. Haul the kids out and jog through the rain to the front door. Debbie complains that all that running has bounced her stomach around and she feels sick. I murmur something that I hope sounds soothing while simultaneously pushing forwards. Instantly regret coming out – surely nobody would even have noticed the security tag, really? – but remember that it would most likely be uncomfortable on Sarah and keep going.

  Get to the shop. Christmas Eve-esque queue at the uniform counter. Debbie extrapolates on her stomach complaints, saying it currently feels like a washing machine. Sarah runs up and down an aisle on a mission to crash into as many people as possible. Try to balance the fine act of pretending she’s not mine as she crashes into somebody’s crotch with keeping a hawk eye on her.

  Get to counter. Call Sarah back and explain the situation to the lady serving me.

  “Do you have a receipt?”

  “No, it’s gone.”

  Anything that isn’t relevant to immediate survival hasn’t a hope in our current cramped living conditions.

  Lady nicely points out that security tags are always taken off clothes before purchase, and clothes with security tags on them and no receipt could be considered shoplifted.

  I not so nicely point out that this is their mistake and not mine, and if they imply shoplifting antics again I’ll bring legal action on them. Lady reluctantly takes off security tag while muttering “anger management” to nobody in particular. About to leave, when I hear a retching sound. Turn just in time to see Debbie projectile vomit all over a rack of clothes.

  “Mummy, can you clean up this mess, please?”

  5.00 p.m.: Is it time to go to bed yet? Debbie’s vomiting bug has escalated into full-blown gastroenteritis since we came home. She’s refusing to wear a nappy because she’s a big girl now. It’s a matter of time before Mum’s washing machine burns out from overuse – another thing I need to save money for.

  Thankfully, there’s a more pressing concern to divert my thoughts – the possibility that Sarah will get this bug and vomit (or worse) everywhere on her first day at school. Not only do I not want my child to be emotionally scarred for life, but I also can’t afford the uniform if she has to start at another school owing to aforementioned emotional scarring – and besides, I can never set foot in that uniform shop again.

  Susie has fashioned something that looks like a SARS mask out of a hankie and a rubber band. She’s talking to Willie about escape plans for the evening. Willie, who wouldn’t normally set foot inside a bingo hall, sounds inordinately excited about the possibility of winning the jackpot this evening.

  9.00 p.m.: All plans to have reassuring chat with Sarah about school gone out of the window. The poor child has fallen asleep on the couch waiting to be put to bed. Lift Sarah up and carry her upstairs to her camp bed, guilt-ridden – camp beds were the only way we could fit everyone into the house fast and cheaply when we moved here. Go downstairs to take washing out of the machine and put in the next load, seething with Terry all over again. He mightn’t have been around much because he spent most of his time running the pubs, but at least he was another pair of hands when he was.

  11.00 p.m.: The house reeks of Dettol, but that beats what it reeked of earlier. Susie and Willie arrive back. Willie’s in a mood because he didn’t win anything at bingo and Susie declares that I’ve destroyed her house with that Dettol shite. Stop myself from telling her that it was about time her house was introduced to Dettol and the place is cleaner now than it’s been in years – it’s not true, but I’d like to say it all the same. Decide to go to bed to prevent an argument.

  11.01 p.m.: Pop in to check on Debbie before I go to bed. The smell hits me from the hall.

  Why, in the name of all that’s holy, didn’t I force her to wear a fucking nappy?

  Take a deep breath – through my mouth – and brace myself for the task of waking her.

  11.59 p.m.: Debbie’s bedding has been changed and she herself has been sponged washed to within an inch of her life. Thank God I found a pull-up nappy in a bag.

  Brush my teeth, change into pyjamas and get into bed. Then remember I meant to text Carol, one of the Sorrento Hill mothers from my old life, to wish her daughter, Amy, good luck on her first day at school tomorrow. Amy had been Sarah’s friend before we moved and they were supposed to start school together until our circumstances changed.

  In the last week, I managed to get a place for Sarah in a relatively new Educate Together school in Blackbeg. I never in my wildest dreams envisaged that she’d be going to a school in the area where I grew up and yet I can’t bring myself to let her go to a Sorrento Hill school when I know I’ll have to take her out of it eventually. The only logical conclusion for where I find myself now is that I’ll end up living on this side of town long term, where things are cheaper. The school has a good reputation and seems a far preferable option to the national school I went to.

  As for Carol, I only told her last week that Sarah wouldn’t be going to school in Sorrento Hill and that I couldn’t explain the full story right now but that I’d be in touch when the dust settled. If Carol was keen to know more, she didn’t push me and I was grateful to her for that. Carol was a very busy doctor and I always got the impression she was too busy keeping all the balls in the air in her own life to be overly interested in what others were getting up to.

  We weren’t friends, but she’d always been pleasant – which was nice for me when I didn’t really feel comfortable around a lot of the women in the area in which we lived. And luckily in my current predicament, we knew her from a local mother and baby group, not from preschool or the area we lived in, so she wouldn’t be telling anyone else I knew that Sarah wasn’t going to go to school in Sorrento Hill any more.

  12.03 a.m.: Hi, Carol. Just wanted to wish Amy all the best on her first day at school tomorrow. Are you all set?

  My conscience clear, I get under the duvet. There’s no chance Carol will reply. She gets up every morning at five to go for a seven-mile run and will be asleep by now.

  Am pulling the duvet under my chin, when I hear the beep.

  Hi, Holly.

  All set now but close call with the schoolbooks – ordered them online two months ago, only delivered today. Just finished covering them with that awful sticky plastic stuff.

  Stared at the phone for a long time. Covering books? Sticky plastic? What was she talking about?

  Carol: I remember sticking wallpaper on my copybooks years ago and covering a geo
graphy book with a poster of that early nineties singer Chesney Hawkes. But sticky plastic . . . ?

  Carol: Oh, Holly, don’t tell me you haven’t covered your books! The teacher will take all of the schoolbooks tomorrow and they should be covered with Clearseal first. I can’t believe nobody told you – they must have assumed everyone would know. It’s kind of the done thing.

  Text continued, advising me to go to the teacher in the morning and explain that I’d been in the dark about the importance of Clearseal’s role in my child’s education. If I grovelled, the teacher would probably be nice enough to let me keep the books for another day – teachers understand that not every parent is as organised as some. I should probably bring a box of chocolates along to offer as an apology.

  Thanked Carol for ruining my night – stopping after the word “thanks” – then panic set in. Would my perceived negligence reflect badly on Sarah? And she’d been so badly abandoned earlier when I’d been taking care of Debbie and Oran . . .

  Picked up the phone.

  “Holly?” Angela, my cousin, sounded desperately worried to hear from me. As she should.

  “Ange, do you know what Clearseal is?”

  Angela yawned. “I should do. I’ve been up to my tits in it all evening. The schoolbooks were only delivered at five o’clock today, can you believe that?”

  So it was true. Shit.

  “And did you know that you can buy plastic covers now instead of using this rubbish? Some people say it’s cheating, but I don’t care – if I never see Clearseal again, it’ll be too soon.”

  “Do you have any left?”

  12.30 a.m.: Run out of the house to the car, still in pyjamas. Susie effed and blinded at me so much for waking her up to tell her I had to dash out that the safest thing was just to get out of there rapid before she woke the now settled kids up with her castigations. I remember the days when she used to be thrilled to bits if I told her where I was going and when I’d be back.