A Bit of This, That and the Other

Martha Sudbury was watching the box, sat in the comfort of her favourite and sole armchair, waiting for the kettle to boil. If she wasn’t so absent minded then she would’ve been nervous, for she would have been distracted by the thing, the other thing, but she didn’t want to think about it, so she wasn’t. The television helped as a distraction. She watched it a lot in truth. It provided her with the invaluable knowledge that got her through the days; saw her past life’s little trials. It was to a certain extent her main source, and, almost, the very light of her life. The only other two things that meant as much to her as watching the television were her house, and her garden. Both were impeccable. A result of course of the superior knowledge she had gained from watching countless episodes of home improvement programs over the years. She would watch anything going, planning her schedule so that she could fit as many in as possible. The only reason, for instance, that she would miss ‘Home Front’ or ‘Green Fingers’ or ‘Changing Rooms,’ would be because ‘House Doctor’ or ‘Home from Home’ was showing on another channel. There was no other excuse. She was devout.

Currently she was watching a program where contestants swap their house with each other and redecorate the others’ house with the help of a suitably esteemed expert in the design field. Martha enjoyed this particular program as it provided one with the opportunity to indulge the imagination as to how one would change somebody else’s home, something that everybody instinctively did anyway. She was no different, and was thus pondering how she would change the houses involved, when the kettle boiled. Now, Martha’s tea ritual was not that of an uneducated sloth. She had a modern kettle that filtered the water and boiled only the exact amount needed; the little dial on the side reading, as always, ‘ 1 cup.’ She had an array of different teas too; green, chai, fresh camomile, fruit teabags. All decaffeinated, and she never took sugar. She opted this time for green tea, spooning the leaves into a strainer and plopping it in the water. She drank it from one of her authentic Japanese earthenware cups. The rustic sort with no handles don’t you know.

She returned to her armchair blowing vacantly over the rim. She was still slightly nervous, her day had not been exactly what it should’ve been, she’d been interrupted, her routine that kept her stable had been sullied, and she dwelled on what else she had left to do. She had been unemployed for years and this afforded her the chance to indulge herself in creating the life of leisure she most desired. She was all but solitary in her freedom, choosing to have as little correspondence with either friends or family as possible, and as a result, was largely house-bound. She only ever ventured outside to go to the shops or to the gym, both of which she did almost daily, and so they became part of her routine. She knew now that discipline above all counted, so she maintained a routine based on these various rituals and thus divided her time quite unevenly between watching television, exercising, tending to the garden, putting the house in order, and, of course eating.

Martha was a great believer in healthy eating. She kept a ready eye on her calorie intake, her saturated and non-saturated fats, her carbs, fibre, proteins, vitamins, minerals; in short everything. She devoured all the governmental and expert advice on how to maintain a healthy diet and believed strongly in adhering even to advice that the normal person would consider of marginal significance to their health. It wasn’t because she was over weight. That was a poor reason to start dieting in her opinion, only based on sad vanity. Martha felt there was substance to her dieting, as it was all part and parcel of her mental and physical well-being. She hadn’t always lived like this you see, and part of her present motivation was to eradicate the traces that her earlier life had left. She’d lived in a council flat in a rancid town called Bridgewater, one of Somerset’s smelliest armpits. Whilst there she’d been utterly depressed, stuck in a job she hated, working in a school canteen, with no outlet, no joy at all. Her diet, her flat’s décor, and her health reflected her situation. Or that is what she believed now anyway. But when her only son Andrew, came into some money, a lot of money, he offered to buy her a new home. So she leapt at the opportunity, choosing a nice old farm house in a small village a good distance away form Bridgey, where the air was clean and the people kept to themselves. She resolved to eat and live well, in comfortable, peaceful surroundings. And it worked out for her. She felt happy. Happy that everyday she woke up as a new person, and not as the person she was.

For the person she had been was, although not overweight, incredibly unfit, both spiritually and bodily. Everything from those years reminded her of what she was running away from, why she was trying to better herself. So she actively avoided Bridgewater and all of the friends and colleagues she had there. To her the town, and its’ people seemed to embody everything she despised about herself and her past, and her little farmhouse everything about her future happiness. It was a lovely little cottage, with a thick thatched roof that had to be done on occasion, and ivy crawling up the walls. It was small, with only one full sized bedroom, as it was very old, from the 18th century according to the estate agent, but it was perfect for her purposes. It was on the main road through the village, so there was no front garden, but out the back the old yard had been converted into a lovely garden, with a semi-circular limestone patio and a rectangular lawn lined by flowerbeds and daunted over by two old elms that made a magical little bower on the far side. Martha thrived in this environment, and she spent her time and energy on forming ever better design plans and strategies for which flowers to plant, and where, and when, and which ones to include next season. She firmly believed that a garden could be in continuous bloom, and it was only laziness that prevented it. Discipline could make a garden evergreen. It was an ideal Martha pursued.

She’d also been pursuing an ideal of physical fitness all as part of the same coin; rejecting her former lifestyle. After moving in she’d had to register with a new GP as a matter of course, and he’d told her strait off the bat that she had high blood pressure and overall was not very fit. From then on she had resolved to maintain a level of fitness that corresponded with the new person she perceived of herself. Already she’d joined a gym and feverishly attended countless classes in almost anything she could; Thai boxing, rape defence, aerobics, she’d even gone to a class for pole dancing, all the big names in America were doing it apparently, she’d only gotten bruises from it though and decided it was not all it was cracked up to be. Also, Martha had installed various pieces of equipment in the spare room. There was no need to keep it in stasis in case of a rare visitor because she intended to have none. So there was a small bench for weights, a bike, an elliptical machine, a jogging machine, and a rowing machine. She used this room quite often although it wasn’t quite the same as a real gym, there wasn’t the same atmosphere of people finding themselves through working out, at home it was more personal, although still dedicated to the same pursuit of well-being, but it was like the connection to the television, or the microwave; it was private. Thus the separation between her daily rituals was between those that reminded her she was doing well, she belonged, and those that demonstrated her security, her safety. She felt assured and almost self righteous.

Today she had woken early and eaten a high-energy breakfast with chai tea, tidied the house, and then gone almost immediately to the gym. She’d worked out and then gone for a short swim, nipping into the sauna briefly afterwards, only briefly because it often mad her feel quite faint after too long. She’d felt close to the person she wanted to be as she left, her hair wet and smelling of chlorine and her muscles aching. She was known at her gym and both her instructors and the other members seemed to have a certain degree of respect for her and she would smile and say hello to all the familiar faces and they would always smile and say hello back. It was simple and shallow, and she knew these weren’t necessarily her people, her friends, but they were like-minded, inasmuch as they all respected their bodies and strove for contentment through working out. After leaving the gym Martha went to the shops. There was a route she had over time engrained into her subconscious so that now she passed almost thoughtlessly through Bridgewater town centre, in and out of the shops, Argos, WH Smiths, Intersport, shoulder to shoulder with numberless replicas of the person she used to be, and the families, and the children, the youngsters like her son used to be before he moved, all fuelled with hatred, prejudice and cheap drugs, cigarettes and beer. She felt nothing all the while, she disappeared into her present, recreating herself glimpse by glimpse by imagining her home and her within it, and the things she had to do to preserve the status quo, and her essential well-being and fitness. She just needed a few things to keep her going, that’s all Bridgewater was to her now; she imported from there.

After again leaving Bridgewater Martha had driven over to B&Q to pick up various minor supplies for her garden, she happily went through the aisles and collected some grass seed, a new trowel, and a new basil plant for the herb garden, all according to the plans she had in her mind. However, when she tried to pay for the items she realised that she hadn’t enough cash on her, and upon trying to run the bill on her debit card, she found out that, to her great surprise and anguish, her account was all but empty. She’d turned a bright pink colour and came over all faint when the prospect of being penniless finally sank in. She’d composed herself using the kind of self control and discipline that she had learnt recently, however it’d been quite a blow, and inside she was stunned. Had her son neglected to pay the money into her account? She considered the possibility that he may have lost his, well, his job, for want of a better word. Suddenly Martha was staring blank and in disbelief at the idea that she was once again poor, once again reduced to living a measly, wretched existence. She might be able to keep her house, her lovely, perfect little castle, but it was unlikely as the mortgage still had to be paid every month. What would she do if she had to move back to Bridgewater? She could imagine no worse fate than retracing those sad steps back to the Sydnam estate, and those endless rows of terracotta brick terraced houses. There was only one thing for it, she would have to break a promise, a promise she’d made to herself, something she had vowed never to do again if she could help it. But these were desperate times, she just could not bear the very thought. She had no choice but to call her son again.

‘Hello.’ Her son’s voice jumped over the line, unaware that it was his mother, who he had only seldom spoken to over the past six years.
‘Hello Trevor, it’s me, mum.’ A high pitched silence ensued, for five, maybe six, seconds.
‘Mum. This is about the money ain’t it? I thought you’d call sooner or later. Wondering where it all is are you?’
‘I don’t like the tone of your voice Trevor Bradford. Since when are you disrespectful to your mother?’
‘I’m right though aren’t I?’
‘Fine. Yes you are. What is going on?’ She was being abrupt, he had insulted her, he was taunting her and when she was so fragile too. He’d always been an uncaring boy; cold and meticulous, always if he thought something would be good for him, then he would do it, but he was selfish, and deep down Martha did not like him. The only reason she ever spoke to him now was to arrange him giving her money. For in a way even Trevor reminded her of how she used to live, and she wanted a safe distance from him too. The main reason why she wouldn’t talk to him though, or promised herself not to, was because the other thing, Trevor’s job, his money spinner, appalled Martha.

Trevor had never meant for his mother to find out how he made his money. He always told her owned part of a club and that that was why he made so much. But when she’d visited him for the first time at his new plush home in Swindon, she had found out the truth. And she’d been so impressed with him; so proud. It was a lovely house, very tastefully furnished, if a little haphazardly. And all day she was singing his praises, enraptured by how far he had come in the world, what a good son he was, much better than his father (but the less said about that the better). She’d been sipping on a cup of green tea (her first ever taste, her son introduced her to a lot of things) when Trevor received a call on his mobile. It’d been strange as he’d used a different mobile to the one he used usually. After making his excuses he’d gone upstairs to take the call, saying it was important, it was a business matter. And Martha had believed her son. But upon being left alone she’d realised she was in need of relieving herself, so took the opportunity to go to the toilet. She’d gone out of the front room and up the stairs, and she could hear her son talking. And for some strange reason had decided to eaves drop a little, just out of simple curiosity, the instinctive act of peering into somebody else’s business when there’s little chance of getting caught. She’d regretted it ever since. ‘…Yeah mate, no worries. Just call that number and talk to her and arrange a time to go around. She’s one of my most popular girls. She’s right kinky, but a class act as well. Do anything you might fancy for the right price. But it’s fifty quid for…’

She’d gone to the toilet and just sat there with the seat down in a state of disbelief, her heart racing. My son, this is where he gets his money… our money… this is what he had to do to get out… get away, he had to… he didn’t have to go this far… this is wrong. She’d pretended that she’d heard nothing and he was none the wiser, he seemed not to notice a thing. But she couldn’t stay, not in his house, not near to him, knowing what he did for a living. On the way home she’d vowed never to see him again, to pretend like he didn’t exist, this horrible version of her son. He would just be a nightmare, a bad memory to bury over and try to forget, to erase in time, with discipline, by surrounding herself with nice things, by taking her mind off it. But now she needed him. He’d forced the situation. She’d not returned his calls in six years. All this time she had worked hard to keep him at arms length, out of sight, whilst all the time taking his money. I won’t let him ruin my life… he’s not going to take away my freedom… take away my beautiful home… my health… my fitness… my garden… I’ve worked hard for all of this… why is he doing all of this… it’s not fair.

‘I was going to ask you the same thing mum, but we never talk, or hardly. And every time I ask to come around you claim to be busy. And what’s it been, 18, 20 months since we last spoke?’
‘I’ve just been busy. And I don’t want to butt into your life. We see each other when needs be.’
‘Why won’t you tell me what you’re thinking mum? What have I done to you? It’s like all I’m good for now is a few quid. I mean, you’re only calling now because I’ve stopped giving you money.’ Trevor waited for an answer but it never came, only an obstinate, insulted silence. Through pursed lips Martha changed the subject back to her interests.
‘So are you going to leave you mother penniless now? Is that what you want?’
‘Mum I just want an answer. What have I done to deserve the silent treatment like this?’
‘You’re going to leave me bankrupt until I answer you?’
‘Fine. Yes mum. I’m not giving you another penny until you tell me what’s what.’

Would she go back rather than confront this? Sydnam, the Bridgewater town cramps again locking her into depression, and the bleak view, where nothing happens, the air only gets more and more stale, nothing pure and fresh ever enters, there is nothing green, nothing new, only stagnant people revolving around stagnant hopes and weekend self-obliteration. Would she go back or tell him? Tell him she hated him for making her life impure, for being the shadow on her wall, her dream, her paradise sullied forever, and no matter how beautiful her garden was in a dewy summer’s morning, or how good she felt staring up at the twinkling stars from her kitchen window at night, his name, his face was always plague to it, even though he paid for it all. Perhaps that was what made it all worse; the fact the he had given her the taste, the hope, and now she clung to the perfection he had shown her, then with amazing cruelty snatched away. How could she explain all this?

‘I don’t like it Trevor.’
‘What? This? What are you on about mum?’
‘Your money. How you make your money. It’s wrong. I don’t like it.’
‘But, I get it from the club mum, you know that, what, what do you mean? I don’t get what you mean.’
‘I know all about the girls, you know selling the girls, for, for a bit of, of the other.’
Suddenly she hung up. She didn’t want him to answer, to explain himself. Somehow it would be worse to hear him admit all the wrong he did, all the sin, the dirt he cast into the already heavy world. She just wanted him to know she knew, but nothing more. She didn’t care what happened now. Money or no, she was not going to talk to him, she couldn’t. Whether she went back to her old council house on Sydnam estate or not, she was still trapped in the grime, only there she would see it, that was the only difference now. She waited by the phone for half an hour in unbearable anxiety, expecting Trevor to call her back. But he didn’t. The call never came. And she realised that she’d been right, and there was no excuse, all that she held dear, everything, in the mire. That night she slept but didn’t dream, and in the morning she couldn’t bring herself to get out of bed. For the first time in years she spent the entire day in bed wrapped wilfully beneath the sheets, refusing to let the world penetrate. The next day she exited the house only to go to the bank, she had to check, she had to see what Trevor meant to do. There was three thousand pounds in her account.