Martha awoke to a startling realisation; she had absolutely no idea who she was.
She was, however, calm and stared at the blank, white ceiling, devoid of thought. Devoid of questions. ‘I could be that ceiling,’ she thought, ‘blank, featureless, forgettable.’
Of course, she knew that her name was Martha and that she was married to Tom, her childhood sweetheart. She knew that she had two lovely, if demanding, teenage girls, and she was acutely aware that she was a busy teacher, about to jump back on the treadmill that was school life. She also knew the date; that it was the last day of the summer holidays.
But who was she? And who would miss her if she wasn’t here…poof! Just vanished into thin air.
Martha had had a pleasant, if uneventful, life so far; uneventful, that is, apart from the things that are supposed to happen in life: an ordinary childhood, college, marriage, children, job, holidays… she should be happy. ‘I might be happy. Am I happy?’
She had no idea.
She shook her head and got up, throwing the duvet off and heading to the bathroom. As she cleaned her teeth, she stared at her 39-year-old self in the mirror: the slightly greying hair, the faint lines around her eyes, her tatty old pyjama top. “I don’t like this toothpaste!” she said out loud to her reflection.
For now, that was the only thing that came into her mind, although other thoughts soon followed.
‘We buy this because the girls will eat it.’ Whilst pouring her bowl of cereal into the bin. ‘Why do I never buy croissants’
She put two teaspoons of sugar in her coffee. She usually had none because they (Tom) had decided it was unnecessary. Unhealthy. ‘Why did I just go along with that?’
She got out a slice of bread to put in the toaster, and then returned it to the packet. ‘I don’t enjoy white bread. I don’t enjoy spreadable butter – or strawberry jam. I want a warm croissant drizzled with honey, and a caramel latte.’
Before she could change her mind, Martha dressed quickly and grabbed her bag. She marched down the street onto the main road and slipped guiltily into the trendy café. It was emptier than she had thought it would be and she placed her order, taking a seat by the window, waiting, with a feeling that could have been excitement, for her croissant and coffee. She realised that she couldn’t remember the last time she had been excited. Another unwelcome realisation.
As I have already said, it was the last day of the summer holidays, over a month of being chauffeur to the girls and playing housewife. Tom had been attached to his work phone during their week in France and the girls had complained non-stop because there was no internet signal.
She had just one delicious day when she could be whoever she wanted to be. Tom was at work, the girls had gone back to school the day before, and she had done all of her new term prep. She had a whole day with a blank diary. She had woken, alone, in her bed to a peaceful house, and she had liked it. The thought scared her a little. ‘Put that thought out of your head!’
But then, her third realisation of the day, she realised that she could think whatever she wanted – who would know. That led to another thought, she could do what she wanted – absolutely anything, a whole day with nobody to answer to.
‘So,’ she thought, ‘what shall I do?’ Her mind was blank.
Back at home, she went through what would usually be her day, should she have one to herself, ticking off the items on a mental list: clear up the breakfast dishes and tidy the kitchen; clear the living room of all the detritus that came with two untidy teenagers, depositing it in their rooms and giving them a quick tidy too – making beds, folding clothes etc. etc. Same in hers and Tom’s room, quick shower, put a wash on, call on her mum who was struggling with her dad’s early dementia, pick up some shopping on the way home, prepare something to put in the oven later – something they would all eat – a lasagna maybe.
She would also plan to read a chapter of her book, pop down to the hairdressers to get her roots done, go for a swim – but she wouldn’t do any of those things, and her family would find her flopped on the sofa, exhausted, when they eventually returned home, questioning why she was so tired when she had had a day to herself.
No wonder she didn’t know who she was. She only existed as a small part of someone else’s life – lots of ‘someones’, actually: wife, mother, daughter, teacher, friend; or in terms of her contribution: housekeeper, cook, teacher, colleague, someone who could be relied on to run breakfast club if needed – or unblock a toilet.
Martha was deflated. ‘Even I don’t know who I am, how can anybody else be expected to know?’
Time for a good look at herself. Martha ignored all of the chores that needed doing in the house and went upstairs to her bedroom, flinging open the wardrobe doors and staring at the hangers draped with several pairs of black trousers and sensible blouses (essential for work), jeans and jumpers, a black dress – well it could double up for either a posh do or a funeral – and, right at the end of the rail, a sparkly red sequined top which she wore every year for the Christmas do. Her chest of drawers was just as bad: grey or faded underwear, ancient t-shirts, her other (equally awful) pair of pyjamas.
Martha went downstairs and got a roll of binbags. Everything went in, everything, that is, but the sparkly red sequined top, the only item that spoke to her of anything but humdrum routine. She drove the lot to the local tip and then carried on into town, parking up at the large shopping centre. She had decided that she would only buy things that were interesting or colourful, almost in the hope that they would make her interesting and colourful too.
On the way home she picked up a barista coffee machine, sugar, honey, fresh-mint toothpaste and some new cosmetics. She stopped off at the hairdressers: had her grey hair dismissed with a blonde rinse and lilac highlights, her eyebrows shaped and her nails gelled in shocking pink. She called at the bakery and bought a bag full of fresh pastries for morning, and cream cakes for tea. Back home, she went online and booked an ‘orientation meeting’ at the local gym, enrolling for yoga classes and a spa session, then ordered in a curry for tea.
At last, Martha sat back heavily. ‘What have I done?’
She heard a key in the front door and ran upstairs, panicking at what Tom would say. She had done nothing in the house – it was still the bombsite she had woken to this morning – and had spent an absolute fortune on her spending frenzy, to say nothing of the expensive gym membership that she had bought.
Hearing Tom’s footsteps on the stairs, she shot into the en-suite, shutting the door behind her and leaning against it heavily, her heart pounding and her mind racing.
“Martha, where are you?”
She opened the door slowly, dreading Tom’s reaction, but was stopped in her tracks at the sight before her. Her normally bearded, slightly scruffy husband was stood in the doorway looking extremely sheepish – and extremely smart – clean-shaven, sporting a new haircut and wearing a smart pair of trousers and crisp blue shirt.
“Your hair!” they both exclaimed together.
Tom spoke first. “I just felt I’d let myself go. Let you down, you know. I thought I’d make a bit of an effort.”
“I didn’t know who I was this morning,” Martha admitted, cautiously, “I’m afraid I’ve had a bit of a splurge – gone a bit mad.”
They stared at each other for the longest moment, then both exploded with laughter, somehow ending up in each other’s arms.
“Well, I like what I see.” Replied Tom, when they had both recovered. “Let’s go downstairs and have a glass of wine. I’ve bought a bottle of that Merlot that you like.”
An hour (and a bottle of wine later), two confused teenagers walked through the door to a very untidy house and a pair of slightly tipsy parents, one minus a beard and one sporting lilac highlights. They looked at each other and shrugged before heading to the kitchen, their demands fired in quick succession. “What’s for tea.” “I’m hungry, are there any snacks?”
“You’re having a curry,” Martha replied, “Me and your dad are going out.”
The girls returned to the kitchen doorway, and stood there gaping.
“It’s a school day tomorrow. You can’t go out on a school night.” Spouted Clara, in a perfect imitation of her mother. “And where is my netball kit? I need it tomorrow.”
“Never mind that,” smirked Emily, “who are you, and what have you done with our parents?”
“Well, that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it. If we run into them, we will let you know.” said Martha, mysteriously. “Oh, and by the way, before your curry arrives, you can both give the house a tidy and put a wash on.”
A little later, and pleasantly full of pizza, Martha exclaimed to her husband, “I really didn’t know who I was this morning. I’m still not sure, but I definitely prefer this version.”
“Me too,” replied Tom, “and I can’t wait to see what other surprises are in store for me.”
Martha eyed him keenly, with a twinkle in her eye, as she leaned in. “Be careful what you wish for. You haven’t seen the bank balance yet.”
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