Love Is a State of Mind: Nobody's Life is Perfect (17 page)

I remember you lifting him out of my arms, as if he was a Fabergé egg.  I was sitting in the back seat with him (before the days of compulsory car seats) and you walked so proudly with him up the garden path.  He was wrapped in one of those blue blankets with little holes all over it and you laid him down in his cot.  We both stood there, gazing down at him, hardly believing he was ours, that we had made something so incredible, after years of trying.  We thought we’d never have a second child. 

He was calm and awake and staring up at us with his piercing eyes, his mop of black hair sticking up – so black against the white sheet.  Holly put a little blue rabbit next to him that you and she had bought the day before.

I remember you saying to me, “Thank you,” and me saying, “What do you mean?” and you saying, “Thank you for giving me a son.”

You had tears in your eyes and we held onto each other, crying with joy.

Do you remember that?

*

The Tuesday before the end of term, everyone is summoned to the staffroom after school.  I know what’s coming and I’m dreading it.  I’m secretly interested, however, to see how much people have coughed up for the voucher – I know when other staff have left in the past, I’ve rather resented having to give money.  It seems you’re always having to fork out for someone or something in that staffroom.  I wonder how many people felt the same way about me and just chucked a fiver into the pot, without much thought.

Our deputy head quietens everyone down – David is standing to his left, looking embarrassed.  I scan the room for Suzie and she’s keeping a low profile right at the back, head down.  Thank goodness David isn’t going to do the little speech – that would have been excruciating.

“So, we’re all gathered here today, to say goodbye to one of our best-loved members of staff – (certainly not best loved by your headmaster, I add)
– one who will be sorely missed by both her pupils and her colleagues.  She has been at the school for many years and her commitment and dedication has been second to none.  Not only has she got hundreds of pupils successfully through hundreds of exams, but she has attended many extra-curricular activities and counselled girls and boys through times of trouble.  She has been a truly wonderful teacher and I for one, will miss her …”  Pause for applause.   Everyone does indeed clap and there are a few muted ‘here, here’s’.

I hate this sort of thing, and I’m standing there, looking as embarrassed as David.

“As you all may know, Anna is taking early retirement and we wish her all the luck in the world with her future.  Rather than giving her a traditional clock to stare at from her bath chair – (loud titters all round) – we have all clubbed together to buy you a voucher from M and S – we hope you will buy something either beautiful or practical, which will remind you of your time here with us all.  Hip, hip … hooray.  Hip, hip … hooray.” 

Everyone cheers, as I come forward to accept the envelope and then we all stand around wondering when we can escape. 

After enough time has elapsed, people start to drift off, some of them coming up to me and either hugging me or rubbing my back, saying things like, “Good Luck” or “Enjoy!”.  (Why have people adopted that annoying expression?)

Some of the wittier ones try comments like, “You’re only as young as the man you feel” (which under the circumstance is rather inappropriate) or “Life begins at 55”; the head of French, whom I’ve hardly ever spoken to, says, “In the words of Groucho Marx, ‘There’s one thing I always wanted to do before I quit…retire!’” and with that, he gives me a big, slobbery kiss on the lips. 

Quite honestly, I just want to bolt through the door; David is already heading that way, without a word, or a look.  I’m beginning to feel slightly tearful.  I’m not sad about leaving the school, not one bit, but I’m sad at what this day means: that I’m old enough to retire, that my life has fallen apart, that I live on my own and … yes, I will miss this.  The routine of it, the chaos of it, the noise of it, the smell of it, the
life
of it. 

Have I made a terrible mistake?

Soon, Lisa rescues me and we go and sink a few drinks in the local pub.  Some of the younger ones come too and it turns into a bit of a drunken do.  I drink far too much and get slightly morose, so Lisa drives me home.

I fall into the house and lurch into the sitting room.  I look around, my eyes only just focussing.

One more day at school, three more days in this house.

I flop onto the sofa and Gaz comes to join me and licks my hands, which are salty from the copious amount of crisps I’ve consumed.  Through my somewhat tipsy haze, I realise I haven’t, as yet, opened the card with the voucher in it.  I tear it open.  The card says
We’re so sorry you’re leaving
(oh yeah?) and there are signatures all over it.  The voucher is for £300 which, on the face of it, is quite good, but then I work out there over a hundred staff and it doesn’t seem so great, after all.  £3 average per member of staff – the price of a lifetime of teaching.  God, they must have had to actually find change – surely it would have been easier to chuck in a fiver?

There’s something else – a voucher for the Theatre Royal, for two tickets.  Nice – shame David won’t be coming with me.  Shame I’ve got no one to go with.

I throw both vouchers on the floor and reach for the remote. 
Have I got News for You
is on – the audience finds everything Ian Hislop and Paul Merton says, hilarious.  I’m afraid I don’t – I’m too drunk to understand the jokes, anyway.  I flick through about twenty channels: cookery programmes, Top Gear, dating programmes, My Great Big Fat Stupid Horrendous Gypsy Wedding … has the world gone completely MAD? 

I switch it off and throw the remote on the floor, too.  I sit back and close my eyes … the room spins gently round; when I get to the top of the circle, I open my eyes quickly, with a lurch.  I feel sick.  I also feel desperately sorry for myself.

Gaz tells me I should be more grateful.

You’ve got me, you know.  Would you like to join me on the sofa for the whole night?

I lie down and put my arms around him; he breathes loudly in my left ear and I close my eyes,  enjoying the comfort of his warm skin.  This time, I drift slowly, slowly … I should be grateful, shouldn’t I?  I’ve got a roof over my head … sort of … two beautiful children, who are hundreds of miles away … no job … All those with a job, step forward.  Why are you moving Anna McCarthy? 

Laugh out loud …

You’ve got a big, black, hairy, friend
, mouths Gaz into my ear. 

Tomorrow … is another day.

That’s true, Gaz.  That’s true
. 
I fall asleep.

Chapter Fifteen

The final day at school goes by in a blur – some of the kids seem genuinely sad to see me go; I get lots of cards and little presents from them. 

When it comes to actually leaving, I feel as if I’m in a dream, leading someone else’s life.  I’m there, but I can see myself, as if from above, walking down the corridor and going through the doors at the front of the school, for the final time.  I wait for some kind of emotion – either a lift of my spirits or a sadness … or something … but nothing comes.  I feel numb.

I was half expecting David to come and say something to me or wave me off the premises, but he keeps well clear.  I can’t say I blame him.

When I get home, I don’t let myself dwell on it and start packing, in earnest.  I make a point of taking all the family photos with me – I wrap all the frames lovingly in newspaper and it feels symbolic – as if I’m finally packing away my past.  That phase of my life has gone and all I have left of it, is a few photographs.   

David, what have you done?  Do you feel any regrets at all?

I thought I knew you – the David I
thought
I knew, would surely miss his family?  Miss …
me
?

*

The day arrives and I’m up at five; I haven’t slept at all and it’s a relief to finally get out of bed.  I draw the curtains and look out onto the street below.  Everywhere is still, the street lamps are on and I can see frost glittering on the tarmac.

I can’t believe this is the last time I’ll get up, in this bedroom; it’s unreal.  I go down to the kitchen to make a strong coffee and the hot liquid hits my empty stomach with its bitterness.  It just adds to the feeling I have of nervous excitement mixed with fear, sadness and alienation.  I’m at a crossroads that has been imposed on me, not of my own making, and I have to face it head-on, or sink like a stone.

Gaz stares at me from his bed. 
Why on earth are you up so early?  Not like you at all. 
“You’re going to get a big surprise today, Gaz – you’re moving house, old chap,” I say to him, but he ignores me and goes back to sleep.

I’m surrounded by boxes and I keep adding to them, until the removals company arrives at 8.30.  I don’t need a very big lorry, as half the stuff is staying – the reality hits me when I see it pull up outside and two rather jolly men come up the path, whistling.

I oversee the proceedings; I can’t believe how quickly my life is packed away and put in the back of a vehicle.  Stan and John are great workers and it all goes smoothly – soon we’re ready to go.  Gaz, by this time, has decided the best place to sit is by the front door; I asked him to move, politely, several times, as he was getting in the way, but in the end, I hauled him to one side and there he sat, making sure I didn’t make a getaway without him.  Stan, particularly, loves him and despite tripping over him on several occasions, he pats him every time he walks past him (when he’s not carrying some huge thing.)

The guys leave and I do the final checks round the house.  It doesn’t feel like my home any more and of course, it isn’t; it’s soon to be invaded by my successor.

I’ve already got Gaz in the car – it’s the only way to give him peace of mind and that way, I know where he is.

“Good riddance, then … I thought I liked you, but I don’t any more,” I say to the house.  The walls don’t answer, they just stare back at me with off-white blandness. 

“Goodbye, then …” I say as I close the door, “thanks for nothing.”

*

Stan and John are very discreet; they don’t ask me what’s going on, but in the end, I volunteer the information.  It’s pretty obvious that something pretty devastating has occurred, so I say as I unlock the door to my new abode, “Well, here we are … my new home, having been superseded by a younger model …”

The two guys look at each other in an embarrassed way and Stan, the more outgoing of the two, says sympathetically, “Well, I really like the look of this place … I think you’re going to be very happy here.” 

I hope he’s right.

During the course of the afternoon, I tell them everything – Suzie, retirement, Australia, the lot – it feels good to get it off my chest to complete strangers.  I suppose this is par for the course for them – they must see all sorts of happy moves, but also people like me, being forced to move for reasons beyond their control, be it financial, career or … divorce.  Maybe other people don’t share everything with them but, it feels good and I’m sad to see them do their final trip out to the van.

“Good luck, then,” says Stan out of the window from the driver’s seat.  “Have a great time in Australia … I’d love to go, one day.  The missus says we can’t afford it but … one day!” and with that he pulls away, smiling and waving.

I turn back and walk in the front door to my new flat.  Gaz is in his bed, surrounded by boxes; he looks as lost as I feel.  Stan and John’s chatty presence is sorely missed.  They’ve put all the main pieces of furniture in the right places and even helped me put the bed up, but it’s now up to me, and me alone, to unpack everything and get it away in cupboards.

My mobile beeps. 
Hi Mum.  Hope it’s all gone ok today?  Have been thinking of you.  Will ring tonight.  Holly xxx

Once again, Holly has texted me at just the right time, she seems to have the knack.  It’s almost like telepathy or something.  Just to know that she’s been thinking of me cheers me up and I start looking through the boxes marked ‘Kitchen’ for the kettle, instant coffee and the remaining litre of milk I rescued from the fridge.  I make a mug of coffee and then settle down to unwrapping everything and putting it all away.  I feel like I’m playing at life, rather like a young girl with a doll’s house, placing things in the correct cupboards and on the perfect shelf.

Stan had helped set up the TV and after an hour of unpacking, I go through to the sitting room to see if I can get the six o’clock news.  It works fine and I watch the normal depressing rundown of political unrest, bombings and murder and decide I need to get out for some fresh air.  It’s already dark outside and freezing cold, but I have Gaz for company and he definitely needs to lift his leg on a few lamp posts.

It seems so weird to be in the heart of Bath as I come out; I love that I’m surrounded by people and life.  Cars whizz by us as we walk along; a group of teenagers pass, shouting and laughing; the amber of the street lights give a warm glow to the cold scene.  Christmas lights wink and flicker from windows.