Pete has to go away for work, for five days, unexpectedly, at the start of the following month.
“Oh Pete,” I wail, when he tells me, “that’s just a couple of weeks before you go on holiday to Skye.”
He is booked on a photographic trip to the Scottish island organised by a specialist company; the group will be taken by minibus to all the good locations, where they will leap out and set up their equipment. “Doesn’t that mean you all end up with the same picture?” I ask, puzzled, when he first describes this, but apparently it does not.
Having known about the trip for some time, I have painstakingly arranged for people to come and stay while he is not here. Now—now I face having to do it all over again, with shorter notice, and everyone’s plans already in place.
“Do you have to go?” I ask Pete.
“Well, yes I do. I’m sorry about the lack of notice, I can’t help it. This sometimes happens, with work.”
“But—does it always have to be you? Don’t they realise you have caring responsibilities? I don’t know—supposing you had a sick child or something …”
He looks away. He has not, of course, said anything at work, or only in the most general terms. “Well, I could say that, I suppose, but I would rather not. Anyway, you are not as bad as you have been.”
And this is true. Barring accidents, provided with food, and with a creative approach to when and how I do the washing up (the kitchen sink being by a window that faces south, and the blind only a partial barrier), I can function here, in the house, on my own. I do not need a carer. What I need is something more abstract and intangible: a human presence about the place, occasional company when I have to go into the black; company that understands my situation and cares enough to observe the protocols, waiting till I’m out of the room and closing the door prior to turning on overhead lights.
The next afternoon, I pick up the phone to my mother with a heavy coldness in my stomach.
“Mum, you know you were going to come and stay when Pete goes on holiday—”
“Oh yes, don’t worry—it’s in my diary, I’ve moved my pupils—it’s all arranged. I’m coming for the first part of the week—I’m really looking forward to it—and then Sam’s going to do Thursday night and Friday, and I think you’ve got Celeste coming at the weekend?”
“Yes … that’ll be great … it’s just … unfortunately—well, Pete’s just told me he’s got a five-day trip for work, two weeks before.”
“What … you mean the sixth to the tenth?”
“Yes.”
“The sixth to the tenth next month?”
“Yes.”
“I wish you’d told me sooner. I’ve got pupils doing exams, and it’s my recital on the fourteenth. I suppose Sam might be able to come, depending on his schedule. Isn’t there anyone else?”
And there’s the rub.
I hate this situation, this having to ask and plead. Faster than anything else, it makes me feel a total failure. Somehow, in my life before, I should have been more charismatic and popular, so that people, now, would cross counties to babysit me. I should have judged better, spread myself more thinly, not spent my time on intimate friendships that would not stand the test.
“How did you get on with your mum?” Pete asks, when he gets home from work.
I shrug hopelessly and my eyes fill with tears. “I think I’d prefer to cope on my own,” I say. “I’m sure I’ll manage. I just wish your holiday wasn’t so soon afterwards.”
“You know I have to have my holiday,” says Pete. “If I didn’t, I’d probably beat you up.”
He would not, of course, but I know what he is trying to say.
Pete does not emote much. He very rarely shows anger or frustration at me or our situation, being more likely to get cross if the table is sticky, or I have left a mess of paper, books and mail-order packaging all over the living room. But it has to come out somewhere; he needs to go off and do stuff, and I have to let him.
His trips are a mini-holiday for me as well—having different people to stay means I consult different tastes regarding meals; use garlic and spices, on which Pete is not keen; eat later in the evening; sometimes even leave the washing up entirely, which Pete is constitutionally unable to do; watch other people’s TV programmes; play piano duets and cards.
In the end, Sam comes for a couple of days, instead of coming when originally planned. I book an Alexander technique lesson for one morning, with my lovely teacher who comes to the house. Two telephone friends agree to phone. In case of emergencies, I have the number of the neighbour who is good at DIY (once, one of my visitors, conscientiously drawing the curtain, ripped the entire curtain rail away from the wall).
Pete phones me every day, sometimes more than once. “Can you hear that?” he says one evening. “I’m just beside the sea.” From the handset comes a regular whoosh and rasp, like a giant’s heavy breathing.
I am transported.