This Holey Life Read online

  Sophie Duffy lives in Teignmouth on the south coast of Devon with her family. She has been writing for over ten years and is the winner of the Luke Bitmead Bursary and the Yeovil Literary Prize, as well as being shortlisted for the Harry Bowling Prize. Sophie’s debut novel The Generation Game was published by Legend Press in 2011.

  Sophie is interested in what family is, and how our past shapes our here and now. Memory, childhood, loss and love are recurrent themes in her novels. Sophie taught in primary schools in London for 14 years and is now a full-time writer and volunteer youth worker in Devon.

  You can visit Sophie at:

  www.sophieduffy.com

  sophieduffy.wordpress.com

  Legend Press Ltd, 2 London Wall Buildings,

  London EC2M 5UU

  [email protected]

  www.legendpress.co.uk

  Contents © Sophie Duffy 2012

  The right of the above author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available.

  Print ISBN 978-1-9087759-7-9

  Ebook ISBN 978-1-9087756-3-4

  Set in Times

  Printed by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  Cover design by Gudrun Jobst www.yotedesign.com

  Author photo © Fiona Riches

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  Praise for Sophie Duffy

  **Winner of the Yeovil Literary Prize**

  **Winner of the Luke Bitmead Bursary 2010**

  **Shortlisted for the Harry Bowling Prize**

  ‘Sophie Duffy has written a powerful first novel and shows huge promise’ Katie Fforde

  ‘One book I shall certainly be recommending this summer is Sophie Duffy’s This Holey Life... By turns deeply moving and funny, the narrative zips along in an appealing and spirited voice. Duffy is particularly good at describing the power of family scripts, the way contact with parents and siblings can have us all travelling back in time to howling childhood, no matter how grown up and competent we look on the outside.’ Kate Long

  ‘A warm, moving, wonderful read’ Wendy Holden

  ‘An extraordinary story... A born storyteller with a gift for characterisation, she writes with warmth, lovely earthy detail and a pathos which keeps a lump lodged in the throat... echoes of Victoria Wood and Laurie Graham, it is a cracking first novel’ The Daily Mail

  ‘Sophie Duffy explores grief and the vagaries of inter-family relationships with her usual blend of warmth, wit and wisdom. A triumph.’ Margaret Graham

  ‘a brave, bold, warm, rich, amusing, engaging novel which sits well alongside more established authors like Kate Atkinson’s Behind the Scenes at the Museum’ Hello Magazine

  ‘Deftly written, very moving’ The Bookbag

  ‘A book you just can’t put down’ Western Morning News

  Reader reviews

  ‘So glad I had this recommended to me... I enjoyed every bit of this book, the characters are excellent, the local references (I live in Devon), the highs and lows, it was so gripping and easy to read I found myself carrying it around the house with me, literally unable to put it down! And the ending... well, you have to read it for yourself... Highly recommended!’ Miranda

  ‘I loved this book. The characters were well drawn and likeable. I felt I knew them and was part of their world. I was so engrossed in reading it one day that I forgot to get off the train - so Sophie you owe me £5!’ Anne Burnett

  ‘This is a wonderful read. The flow of the story line combined with the great characters gets you hooked. Born in the same year as the heroine, I found myself reliving so much of my childhood through this story, so many memorable dates, events and TV shows! It made me laugh out loud and sob uncontrollably. What a great first book, I can’t wait to see what will come next.’ Jules

  ‘The novel is heartwarming and beautifully written... A heartwarming tale, this is a book with broad appeal although several issues are dealt with in a sensitive and engaging way.’ A.J. Dugdall-Marshall

  ‘The story is well told, there’s plenty of twists and turns, and the characters are wonderful. I know it’s a cliché to say that I couldn’t put this book down, but in this case it’s true. I can’t remember the last book I read which had me so completely and utterly absorbed. So absorbed that I suddenly realised I’d been reading until 3am. Oops!’ Jacqueline Vincent

  ‘What a fantastic first novel. I couldn’t put it down and became completely engrossed in the lives and experiences of all the compendium of characters... A wonderful read. Funny and sad, uplifting and moving. All my book club are reading and raving about it.’ Nicky Bowerman

  ‘I read The Generation Game over two days. I started it on Saturday afternoon and didn’t stop reading until 2 the next morning... I loved the flashback to the 70s and the 80s and I also loved the crazy and wonderful family that Phillipa acquires in Torquay. For me this is the real charm of this book - I challenge you not to fall in love with Wink and Bob. You won’t be able to help yourself any more than I was.’ Glenninexeter

  ‘The Generation Game was one of our book club books and I’m so pleased we all had the pleasure of reading it! What a great first novel, the twists and turns throughout were captivating and I couldn’t put it down.’ Paula

  ‘What a lovely, heart-warming novel! For anyone who remembers the 1970’s when Saturday night television was Bruce Forsyth, Larry Grayson and Morecambe & Wise rather than Sir Bruce, Ant and Dec and Gary Barlow, this is the book for you.’ SRJ

  ‘If you don’t have time to read anything else read this - you won’t regret it. It was recommended to me by a friend and so I bought it to take in holiday with me. I couldn’t put it down... the story grips you in such a manner that you want to know what happens next.’ Book Bug

  ‘Well, didn’t Sophie Duffy do well! I thought this was an excellent book, a real trip down memory lane. I found I could really relate to this tale - it was an entertaining, amusing, at times moving and nostalgic read... So, to coin a couple of phrases, it was nice to read it, to read it, nice! And I will not be shutting the door on any future work by this author, in fact I am eagerly looking forward to Sophie Duffy’s next book.’ Vanessa

  ‘There were moments where I cried but more times where I laughed out loud. Growing up in the 70s, I totally related to the popular cultural references and it brought back my own memories.’ Deb

  ‘I also enjoyed the story itself & found myself reminded in places of one of my favorite authors, John Irving, who also skillfully weaves his books around the lives of his characters, often with very thought provoking results. High praise indeed! If you belong to a book club, I recommend this for your short list - it will get you all talking for sure.’ VCP

  ‘A friend recommended this book & as soon as I picked it up I couldn’t put it down & I totally welled up at the end. It is a great story about life and all its twists & turns, about love, loss, forgiveness & hope. I also agree that if you enjoyed One Day you will probably enjoy this more, primarily because of the social references & the gentle humour.’ Louise

  ‘This is an astonishingly assured and intricately plotted novel from a debut author. It held me in its narrative grip from the first page to the last, as the heroine Philippa unravelled the mysteries of her past and worked out what (and who) she wanted in life.’ Lally

 
‘I believe that The Generation Game is The Book to read for 2011. I recently read it during my holiday and completely loved it. Sophie Duffy tackled many subjects in her debut novel. Relationships, marriages, birth, parenthood, friendship and death - but all were done so in a feeling and often amusing manner that just kept the reader turning the pages.’ Michelle Rutter

  Acknowledgements

  Big thanks are due to the following for their support, encouragement and help:

  To Elaine Hanson, Luke Bitmead’s mother. And to Pip Cantwell, a keen supporter of the Bitmead Bursary. For walking with me on my writing journey.

  To the Legend Press trio, Tom Chalmers, Lauren Parsons and Lucy Boguslawski for their unstoppable enthusiasm and energy.

  To Broo Doherty, my lovely agent.

  To the Harry Bowling Prize. And to Harry Bowling who said ‘above all, write from the heart’.

  To the Romantic Novelists’ Association, in particular to Katie Fforde. To the amazing Exeter RNA local chapter.

  To Margaret James and Cathie Hartigan for early reads and invaluable feedback.

  To all those vicars’ wives (and husbands, of course) for shining a light, day in, day out. This includes Louise Stenner, Karen Wilson and Liz Redfern. And the once reluctant curate’s wife, Harriet Ryan.

  To my large, extended family near and far for their love and good wishes.

  To my two big brothers: Rhys, for teaching me to write my name, ride my bike and bowl overarm. And Peter, for teaching me to be tough by holding me upside down by my ankles over the stairwell and using me as target practice for his air rifle (though not at the same time).

  To my two awesome mothers-in-law.

  To Mum for continuing to look after me.

  To Johnny, Eddy and Izzy, my three teenagers, for keeping me on my toes.

  To Niall, for putting up with much and giving me more than I deserve.

  To Mum, with love.

  “How can you say to your brother, ‘Let me take the speck out of your eye’ when all the time there is a plank in your own eye?”

  The Bible, Matthew 7:4, N.I.V.

  Contents

  In the Beginning...

  Chapter One: Wednesday December 26th

  Chapter Two: Saturday December 29th

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four: Monday January 31st

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six: Tuesday January 1st

  Chapter Seven: Friday January 4th

  Chapter Eight: Sunday January 6th Epiphany

  Chapter Nine: Monday January 7th

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven: Friday January 11th

  Chapter Twelve: Saturday January 12th

  Chapter Thirteen: Sunday January 13th

  Chapter Fourteen: Monday January 14th

  Chapter Fifteen: Wednesday January 16th

  Chapter Sixteen: Friday January 25th

  Chapter Seventeen: Sunday January 27th

  Chapter Eighteen: Monday 4th February

  Chapter Nineteen: Tuesday 5th February Shrove Tuesday

  Chapter Twenty: Wednesday 6th February Ash Wednesday

  Chapter Twenty-one: Friday 8th February

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Sunday 10th February First Sunday of Lent

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Saturday 16th February

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Sunday 17th February Second Sunday of Lent

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Wednesday 20th February

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Tuesday 26th February

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Sunday 2nd March Mothering Sunday Fourth Sunday of Lent

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Thursday 6th March

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Monday 10th March

  Chapter Thirty: Tuesday 11th March

  Chapter Thirty-One: Sunday 16th March HOLY WEEK Palm Sunday

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three: Monday 17th March

  Chapter Thirty-Four: Thursday 20th March Maundy Thursday

  Chapter Thirty-Five: Friday 21st March Good Friday

  Chapter Thirty-Six: Saturday 22nd March Easter Saturday

  Chapter Thirty-Seven: Sunday 23rd March Easter Sunday

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  ... And Finally: Sunday May 11th Pentecost Whit Sunday

  In the Beginning...

  It was during the Eurovision song contest of 1978 that I first realised something fundamental about my big brother, Martin. Well, two things actually:

  1. He was always going to be better than me. He was always going to be quicker, stronger, smarter, taller, richer, cleverer, smugger, more manipulative, more cunning, more self-assured.

  2. I didn’t really like him.

  We’d all picked our country, the way we did every Eurovision, a family tradition. Mum went for Greece because she liked the costumes and had a thing for Demis Roussos like Alison Steadman in Abigail’s Party. Dad, ever the clown, took Norway. Martin and I had our usual tussle, which, of course, he won. He got the United Kingdom. He got the favourites, Lynsey de Paul and Mike Moran with the classic ‘Rock Bottom.’ And me? I got a French woman singing in French about a bird and a child.

  But I was to have the last laugh that night. By some blip in history, ‘Rock Bottom’ was beaten into second place by the French woman, Marie Myriam. I could’ve kissed her. In fact, I do seem to remember rushing up to the telly and pressing my lips against the screen.

  ‘Don’t do that, Vicky-Love,’ said Mum. ‘You’ll go blind.’ Then she left the room to go and put the kettle on. She was always leaving the room to go and put the kettle on.

  If I had been struck blind, I wouldn’t have seen the look Martin gave me. A death threat look. Victory had been cruelly snatched from his hands by his puny little sister with the buck-teeth and frizzy hair.

  But ‘L’Oiseau et l’Enfant’ was my one and only taste of glory vis à vis mon frère. And in some weird way that evening, my minor win somehow made me realise I was destined to forever be the underdog. The little sister. That was the role I would have to play until the end of time.

  We grew up and this was confirmed. Martin was still quicker, stronger, smarter. He was more successful, too, in every way imaginable. A better job (his university lecturer to my primary school teacher), a better house (his semi to my terrace) in a better area (his Dulwich to my Penge). He married up a class to a beautiful woman (I married Steve), and together they spawned the ecologically correct number of children (his Jeremy to my Rachel, Olivia and Imogen). Martin had it all – career, wife, house, location, son – but there was only one thing he had that I coveted. His boy. Because once I had a boy too.

  Then one Boxing Day, thirty years after that Eurovision, Martin turned up on my doorstep with only a duffle bag, a beard, ten-year-old Jeremy and a three-quarter-size cello.

  ‘Hi Vicky-Love,’ he said, his mock-Mum voice. ‘We’ve come to stay.’ And without waiting to be invited, he ushered in Jeremy who proceeded to dump his cello in the hall, ensconce himself on the sofa, and steal the television remote from a gob-smacked Rachel.

  That was the point at which I should’ve put my foot down. Stamped it hard. Stopped the past repeating itself. But what did I do? I did what Mum used to do in times of crisis. I left the room and went to put the kettle on.

  Chapter One: Wednesday December 26th

  ‘So, are you going to tell me what this is all about?’ I hand my brother his tea, sit myself down in the armchair and take a good look at him.

  He has already made himself at home on the sofa, my new leather sofa (usurping Jeremy who has commandeered Rachel to find him turkey sandwiches). He is red-faced above his revolting beard, wheezy from forty a day, and his legs are splayed to leave little to the imagination. I want to throw satsumas at him.

  Martin takes a tentative sip and winces. How dare he? There’s nothing wrong with my tea. I make good tea. I am a curate’s wife. It’s in my job description. The one that’s not actually written down anywhere but that I am expected to know by heart. And soul. ‘Don’t you have an
y sugar?’

  ‘Yes, funnily enough, we have sugar. Would you like sugar in your tea, Martin?’

  He lifts his eyebrow. His bushy eyebrow. ‘Why are you being arsy?’

  ‘I am not being arsy.’

  ‘You are being arsy.’

  ‘If you think I’m being arsy, it’s only because you’ve turned up at nine o’clock on Boxing Day evening when we’re in the middle of putting the kids to bed and you haven’t even told me why.’

  Steve has quietly fetched the sugar bowl and handed it to Martin. Martin shovels in three heaped teaspoons and stirs it frantically. He evidently has anger issues.

  ‘I mean how long are you planning on staying?’

  ‘That’s the whole point, Vicky. None of this has been planned.’ He sighs, all dramatic, and tugs at his beard. I want to rip it off. ‘Claudia’s kicked me out.’

  ‘I see. And you took Jeremy?’

  ‘No, I didn’t take Jeremy. She kicked him out too. Said it was time I shared the childcare responsibilities.’ He takes another slug of tea. ‘Any biscuits?’

  Steve slips out to fetch the biscuit barrel. He returns, holding it aloft in the manner of one of the Magi. He gives it to Martin.

  ‘You’ve got a biscuit barrel,’ says Martin. ‘How retro.’ He helps himself to a Bourbon, completely oblivious to how patronising he sounds or to the biscuit crumbs he’s scattering over the new leather sofa, the only new thing this house has seen in a very long time, apart from baby Imo.

  It’s at this point, when he notices my fists begin to clench, that Steve finally decides to speak up. ‘Would you rather have a beer, Martin?’

  ‘Now you’re talking,’ Martin smiles back at Steve, a small boy offered sweets.

  Steve disappears again to the kitchen. We can hear rummaging in the fridge. Clanking and fizzing.

  ‘You’ll have to sleep on the sofa,’ I tell Martin, trying to sound like a grown-up – this is my house – but I suspect there are undertones of that puny little girl with the buck-teeth and frizzy hair. I thought I’d shrugged her off with the combined efforts of an orthodontist and ceramic hair straighteners but she has come back to haunt me. She must have been hiding in Martin’s duffle bag. ‘And Jeremy can have the zed-bed.’