Or was she just projecting her own insecurities and frustrations onto someone who was happy being them? After all it was Fiona’s life and Babs had no right to interfere or judge. But she couldn’t help herself otherwise Fiona would end up with a Pete-clone for a husband, and Babs wouldn’t wish that on anyone.
Pete. Now there was where the true, deep-rooted problem lay and as she passed St Mary’s, glanced across in the hope she might spot Robin. Babs had to wrestle with a choice – to think about her husband and their marriage or stuff it into the recesses of her handbag with the Mars bar wrapper and the spare Twix she carried for emergencies.
It was too late, the niggle had been set free and was determined not to be ignored so with a sigh, Babs gave in.
They were at the end of the road, her and Pete. There was nothing there. They may as well have been brother and sister. Siblings who annoyed the hell out of each other but would come to the rescue out of familial duty and love. The kind of love you have for a friend, not what you should have for your spouse.
Did she feel sad? Yes.
Did she think it could be salvaged? Maybe.
Did she want to try? No.
And that was the shocking crux of the matter. That over the past months, in the weirdest of circumstances Babs had begun to find herself. She used to think that saying was cringey, but it wasn’t, because she and many other people did get lost.
Lost in their lives, their jobs, buried under paperwork and piles of ironing, dirty nappies, and potato peelings. Beneath the duvet they wanted to stay wrapped in all day, hiding from the black cloud that hovered over their heads because they’d simply lost sight of themselves and a way-out sign.
Babs was desperate to find the exit.
Pete wasn’t a bad person; he was just selfish and ignorant. He loved his kids as long as they looked after themselves and didn’t expect anything from him apart from a Christmas and birthday present. Pete wanted to live life his way and was happy to let you live yours as long as it didn’t interfere with his.
In his head he was an easy-going, good bloke who provided and therefore deserved. On paper and to his mates, down the pub, at pool and football, he passed the test; whereas if anyone asked Babs, she’d say he’d failed miserably.
And lately he’d become a bit mean. Babs was the catalyst, she accepted that. But how she was, how she felt, was not of her own making. It was the consequence of a chemical imbalance going on inside her body, something she had no control over. It hurt like mad that he didn’t understand that. He hadn’t even tried to.
Babs saw the menopause as nature’s cruel joke. When you’re little more than a child, menstruation hits – and in her case it really did feel like a curse having to endure painful periods for years. So your body is preparing, becoming a useful vessel to procreate. Good job, well done.
And then suddenly, your body and the universe no longer needs that magical part of you and all those hormones that kept you useful for half your life start to leave your body.
With no regard, or respect, you begin to dry up like an old crinkly leaf, not just your skin on the outside, but on the inside too. Your bones shrink and crumble, and just for a laugh, a cheeky encore in case you’re not already truly pissed off with life, nature sends you half mental, too.
Not that she’d said all that to Pete, but shehadtried to explain to him how she felt, that she was struggling with her mood swings. That it wasn’t her fault if she disturbed him in the night after a hot flush, then had to get up and have a shower and change her nighty in the middle of winter.
Or that sex was really painful and made her sore for days after, and it wasn’t that she was going off him either. She wouldn’t want to make love to anyone, not even George sodding Clooney! He’d taken the huff over that, not the sex bit, the fact he never knew she fancied a man she was never likely to meet, ever. Let alone drag him under her second-hand duvet set.
His answer to her problem was simple – go to the doctor and get some pills. Apparently he’d heard about them on the radio, while he was driving. There was stuff for women like her and it worked wonders. Thank you, Dr Pete, for that kindly given advice.
Babs power-walked along, the anger at remembering the conversation fuelling each stride. Well, unbeknown to dear well-informed Pete, Babs had finally seen the doctor, a very nice young man with a kind face and manner that she’d actually burst into tears in his surgery, such was her relief at his understanding and sympathetic nature.
And yes, Pete, she had in fact got something for women like her and gradually they’d made her feel so much better, inside, and out. Not that she had any intention of telling him that because there would be no more bunk ups, not with Pete and if she was honest, not with anyone. Hanky-panky was the last thing on her mind. What took precedence over everything was what to do next, about her life, the future and Pete.
CHAPTERTWENTY-EIGHT
They were in the kitchen.She was seated at the table while Pete made himself a pre-tea ham sandwich and Babs feigned interest in what he was saying. She was more interested in not smudging her nails and admiring the cherry blossom pink varnish that Fiona had bought her. Currently Babs had very nice nails and she was determined to keep them that way. She’d bought extra thick Marigolds for that very purpose.
‘So I said to Calvin, “Calvin mate, we need to get this holiday thing sorted whether Barry and Sheryl want to go or not. Just because he’s too scared to go I don’t see why we should be penalised.”’
Pete looked at Babs who stared back in belligerent silence but still he ploughed on, ignoring her lack of input.
‘Anyway, Calvin said he agreed with me and after what we’ve all been through lately, especially the likes of us key workers, we deserve a bloody good holiday in the sun and he’s right. So he’s going to have a word with Barry and see if he can persuade him and if not, ring the travel company and see if he can alter the booking… Babs, are you listening?’
After replacing the brush inside the varnish bottle, she began turning the lid, screwing it on tightly as she looked up and replied. ‘Yes, I heard you, but you obviously didn’t hear me the hundred times I told you that I’m not going on holiday with them ever again so, could you tell Calvin I want a refund too. And one for our Demi.’
The slam of the knife as it hit the worktop cut through the silence that followed her statement that was met with a look of horror from Pete.
‘Why do you insist on being awkward? I thought you were just having one of your narky days when you said you didn’t want to go. What the hell is wrong with you? We need a holiday, Babs. Surely you can see that. It’ll be good for us.’
A minuscule glimmer of something ignited in Babs heart because it was the first time Pete had alluded to there being the need for anything in their marriage, that he might want to sort things out even if she didn’t. Or could she still be persuaded?
