This Holey Life Read Online Free Page A

backing onto the railway track.
Not long enough to stop the back windows juddering (double-glazing would fix that – must get Steve onto it), but the toot-and-chug of a train at night is reassuring, knowing that other people
are working, making a go of things, carrying on, while the household sleeps.
    Though I’m more often than not awake, breastfeeding. I don’t mind. I like feeding Imo, the two of us alone in the small hours. The screech of a fox. The cat-flap banging on
Sock’s re-entry. Steve’s nose whistling a chirpy tune. The fridge humming. The house creaking... Though this closeness is tinged with guilt. That I am with her. And Thomas is gone.
    So... the shed. Steve’s pride and joy, lovingly constructed a few years back when he was still a Corgi gas fitter, before his Dartford moment. Finding time for DIY is not so easy now he
has to care for the souls of the parish. That’s a big ask of anyone, especially someone as conscientious as Steve.
    ‘Jeremy? It’s Auntie Vicky. Are you alright in there?’
    Nothing. The wind howls its way up the track, wrestling the scrubby trees that back onto the cutting. Looking up the garden at the house, I realise that all the lights have been switched on.
Every one of them. Our poky terrace could be seen from outer space. Maybe an alien will come down and kidnap Martin and beam him away to another galaxy. If he ever gets back from the pub. And
where’s Steve? What can the Ladies possibly be talking about at this hour? What previously undiscovered gifts have they unearthed?
    It’s late. Jeremy should be in bed. I knock tentatively on the shed door. ‘Jeremy? Can I come in?’
    Shuffling. The door swings open. His face appears, backlit by a torch, ghoul-like. ‘Alright,’ he says, retreating into the shadows.
    As my eyes adjust I can see that he has made the shed into a kind of nest. He has stowed a stash of prawn cocktail crisps and a packet of Penguins in a flower pot. He has found a sleeping bag
from somewhere and a cushion from the armchair where Socks likes to sleep. He slumps onto it, banging his head against the wall as he does so. He doesn’t flinch; he’s used to crashing
into things, having inherited the clumsy genes from Mum, via Martin. Mum was always stubbing her toe, dropping her keys, spilling her tea. Dad used to joke about it, there she goes again ;
Mum would roll her eyes, a quiet smile playing at her lips. And although Martin can catch a cricket ball at a running dive, he might just as well pour his food straight onto the carpet without
bothering to attempt to eat it first.
    Jeremy is looking at me, waiting.
    ‘I should watch your asthma with that cushion, Jeremy. It’ll be covered in cat hairs.’
    ‘I’m alright with cats,’ he says, solemnly. ‘It’s dogs that like make me sneezy and that. Which my allergist says is unusual.’
    ‘I’m sure it is.’ I reach up for the camping chair that hangs from a nail and sit myself down, trying to sound casual when I say: ‘I didn’t know you had an
allergist.’
    ‘Mum made me go and see this woman.’ Jeremy picks the dirt out of his nails with a bit of twig. He may be able to pluck deftly away at his cello but he is likely to cut himself and
get lockjaw.
    ‘A doctor?’
    ‘A voodoo doctor Dad called her.’
    ‘I see.’
    ‘What’s a voodoo doctor, Auntie Vicky?’
    ‘I shouldn’t worry about that, Jeremy. Dad was probably only joking.’
    ‘Mum didn’t laugh.’ He starts snapping the twig into little pieces. I take it off him.
    ‘No, I don’t suppose she did.’
    A train rumbles past, vibrating the wooden floor. When it’s gone, I suggest we go in for a snack.
    ‘Please may I have a Pot Noodle?’
    I have to resist the temptation to say yes you can have a Pot Noodle. I can’t believe we actually have Pot Noodles in our house but they have started appearing in the pantry.
    ‘How about some nice toast and jam?’
    He looks doubtful.
    ‘It’s homemade jam.’
    ‘Did