It takes me back to another time. A single bed with moonlight streaming in a curtainless window. A pop followed by a feeling deep within of something bursting. My breath is a cloud in the room.
Hakem is wrong, I am not different from Ghezala. We are exactly the same.
9
LUCY
The past . . .
‘Where on earth has she got to?’
Tom shifts newborn Archie in his lap and glances at his watch. Diana should have been at the hospital an hour ago, and she has a surprise, he tells me (only holding out about thirty seconds or so before letting it slip that the surprise is—was—a giant teddy bear). Now he is in his chair, positively jittery with impatience to give it to his grandson, who is all of six hours old. God love him.
Ever since I announced my pregnancy, Tom has been the image of a devoted grandfather, dropping to his knees every time I visited to ‘talk’ to my belly, or reaching out to feel the baby kick. Diana chastised him (‘Give the girl some space!’), but I didn’t mind. Actually I preferred Tom’s tactile approach to Diana’s style, which was barely to mention the baby at all. Of course I’d steeled myself for the fact that my pregnancy wasn’t likely to be the bonding point I hoped it would be for Diana and me, but I was nonetheless disappointed to find that it hadn’t injected even the slightest warmth into our relationship.
When the alarm on my phone goes off, signalling three hours since Archie’s last feed, I adjust the pillow on my lap and gesture to Tom to bring him over. Tom does as he’s told, carrying Archie as if he is made of glass, then he backs away again, his eyes theatrically averted, as I fiddle with my nursing bra.
‘Where on earth could she be?’ Tom says, glancing at his phone again.
‘Traffic?’ Ollie suggests. He’s stretched out beside me on the hospital bed, watching football on the television in the corner, but his eyes dart back to Archie every minute or so, as if checking that he hasn’t gone anywhere.
‘I have texted her twice,’ Tom says. ‘I hope she hasn’t had an accident.’
I lift Archie to my breast and try to latch him on, but the little guy is still deeply asleep. I blow gently on his face like the nurse showed me, but to no avail. He’s out cold. ‘Why don’t you call her?’ I say. ‘For your peace of mind, if nothing else.’
The fact is, I’m getting impatient to see Diana too. I’m having crampy afterpains from the birth, I feel oddly teary, and there is a lot of testosterone in the room. Before Tom arrived, I had a visit from Dad, and while I love having all these menfolk around, I’m finding myself craving a maternal figure, someone to lean on.
Also, in the back of my mind, I’m painfully aware that this is our very last chance, Diana and I. If she doesn’t warm to me after I’ve birthed her first grandchild, what hope do we have?
‘Yes,’ Tom says. ‘Yes, all right. I’ll call her.’
Tom is just reaching for his phone when suddenly, there she is, in the doorway. We all do a double-take at Diana standing there. She looks flustered . . . no, she looks like a wreck. The knees of her linen trousers are damp and dirty, and her linen shirt is rumpled. I’ve actually never seen Diana look so dishevelled.
‘Di!’ Tom says, standing. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine. Sorry I’m late, I had a . . . Oh, never mind, I’m here now. Oh.’ She stops a few paces from the bed and inhales sharply. ‘There he is.’
Archie is showing no signs of waking or feeding, so I turn him around to face his grandmother. I smile. ‘Here he is.’
Diana remains rooted to the spot for several moments. I might be imagining it, but I think her eyes are a little misty. It makes me a little teary too.
‘Would you like to hold him?’ I ask.
Diana is silent for several seconds before nodding. Then she washes her hands in the sink—nice and thoroughly—and comes to my bedside. I hold Archie out to her and she takes him gently from me, cradling his tiny head in both hands.
‘Well, hello there, young man,’ she says quietly. ‘It’s very nice to meet you.’
Tom rises from his chair and stands beside Diana, looking down at Archie. Everything is quiet, apart from the blissful sound of Archie breathing. For a few moments, I feel at ease, totally filled up.
‘Where is the teddy bear?’ Tom asks Diana.
‘Oh.’ Diana looks up, suddenly flustered again. ‘Actually my . . . client, as it happened, gave birth today. That’s why I was held up. And . . .’
There is a long, charged silence. Tom’s jaw drops.
‘She didn’t have any toys for the baby, and I guess . . . I just . . .’
I don’t know why, it’s not as though I have any particular affinity for teddy bears, and I certainly don’t think Archie needs one at one day old, but for some reason Diana giving the bear away feels deeply personal. A betrayal.
‘We’ll buy Archie another one,’ Diana says finally.
‘Yes,’ Tom says recovering. ‘Of course we will. We’ll buy it this afternoon. We can bring it back tonight!’
‘Guys, guys!’ Ollie says, holding up his hands. ‘Calm down. Archie doesn’t need a giant teddy bear, and he certainly doesn’t need it today.’ He grins, enjoying being the reasonable one, the peacemaker. ‘I’d say it’s much better off with your refugee lady and her kid. We have nowhere to put a giant teddy bear anyway, do we, Luce?’
They all turn to look at me. I drop my gaze.
‘I’d better take Archie,’ I say, taking my sleeping boy from Diana’s arms. ‘He’s due for a feed.’
10
DIANA
The past . . .
I stand on Ollie and Lucy’s doorstep and knock briskly. The briskness is an attempt to counteract the doubts I’m having. Archie is two weeks old. Will Lucy want me showing up like this unannounced? Will she hate it? Who knows? Tom has dropped in several times, of course, never once questioning whether or not he’d be welcome. It’s self-fulfilling, that kind of confidence. My lack of confidence also seems to be self-fulfilling.
In truth, I think I’ve stayed away because of that darn bear. When I gave it to Ghezala it seemed absolutely the right thing to do. That teddy would likely be the best toy that child ever received. Perhaps the only toy. And as I handed it over to Ghezala and watched her tear up, suddenly the bear didn’t seem so silly after all. I should have known Tom would tell Lucy and Ollie about the teddy bear. When I showed up to the hospital, late and empty-handed, I’ll admit I felt guilty. I should have done better than that for my first grandchild. I should have done better than that for Lucy.
So today, I will do better.
I knock on the door again, even though part of me wants to get back in the car and drive home. But if I did that, what would I do with the chicken? I look down at it doubtfully, raw and heavy in its blue plastic bag. Lucy is probably asleep or having some quiet time while the baby naps. If the baby naps. According to Ollie, Archie has barely slept a wink since he was born. The maternal health nurse, apparently, said he had colic. The last thing Lucy will want through all of this is her mother-in-law showing up unexpectedly.
I should take my chicken and get out of here.
‘Diana?’
I look up. Lucy is standing in the doorway, dressed in a grey tracksuit and pink fluffy slippers. Despite her quick smile, it is clear that she’s not thrilled to see me. Archie is perched on her shoulder, wailing.
‘This is a surprise,’ Lucy says, sweeping a few threads of hair off her face.
‘Yes. I, er . . . just brought you a chicken.’
I’m aware it’s an odd gift; I’m not an idiot. But when Ollie was a baby, someone brought me a chicken and it was one of the most thoughtful gifts I’ve ever received. It was before the days of Ubereats and home delivery, and sometimes the exhaustion of motherhood was too great to get to the supermarket. I thought today I might tell Lucy the story and . . . I don’t know . . . it could become a Goodwin family tradition or something, bringing a chicken to women who’ve just had a new baby. Now
it just seems dreadfully twee.
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Well why don’t you come in?’
I follow Lucy into the house, registering the milky posset on her shoulder, and one further down her back. Archie’s little hands stretch up and I have a full view of his perfect, angry little face as he howls. Sweet boy.
The sitting room is glorious in its filth. A bag of popcorn has spilled on the floor, a bowl of cereal is congealing on the coffee table. Packets of baby wipes, nappy sacks and dirty dishes are strewn all about. In one corner of the room a used nappy is rolled into a ball, unbagged. It takes all of my self-control to stop from gasping.
‘I cleaned last night,’ Lucy says defensively, ‘but it just . . . Archie has been so unhappy . . . he has colic . . . and I just haven’t had a minute to . . .’
‘I’ll do it,’ I say, because honestly, I can’t stand to be in this filth a moment longer. Not to mention the fact that cleaning, unlike small talk, is something I know how to do. Besides, Archie is rooting about, clearly hungry, and his cry is like nails on a chalkboard. ‘You sit down and feed the baby.’
‘Okay, well, if you’re sure—’
‘I’m sure.’
I set the chicken on the kitchen counter and get to work. I roll up the nappy, bag it and take it to the outside bin. Then I gather up the dirty mugs and plates and take them to the kitchen. I have no idea how they can live like this. The last time I visited—Ollie’s birthday, I think—the place was tricked up like a show home, with flowers and cushions and soft music. Poor Lucy spent the entire evening sweaty-faced in the kitchen, cooking the most ridiculous Vietnamese banquet. I’d suggested that we might just order in, but Lucy had insisted. It was some new recipe she wanted to try, she’d said.
For goodness sake.
I empty and reload the dishwasher, and I’m about to set it going when I notice something in the oven—half-a-dozen chicken nuggets. They’re hard as rocks. Classic Lucy, I think to myself. Feast or famine.
Lucy appears behind me as I drag the tray of nuggets out of the oven. ‘Oh! They must be Ollie’s . . . oh my goodness . . . he’s always putting things in the oven and then forgetting about them. Oh no, let me.’
She snatches the tray out of my hands while Archie screams on her shoulder. I want to tell her to deal with him and let me sort out the kitchen, but I’ve tried that and it clearly didn’t work. So what do I do? The problem is it’s just so easy for a mother-in-law to get it wrong. It seems there is an endless list of unwritten rules. Be involved but not overbearing. Be supportive but don’t overstep. Help with the grandkids but don’t take over. Offer wisdom but never advice. Obviously I haven’t mastered this list. The sheer weight of the requirements makes it intimidating even to try. The most frustrating part is that it’s nearly impossible for a father-in-law to mess it up. He has to be welcoming. That’s it.
People have higher expectations of a dog.
Archie is still wailing, pulling his little legs up toward his belly as Lucy struggles with the tray. Up close, I can see Lucy’s exhaustion. She has acne on her chin, and it has to be said, she’s a little on the whiffy side. On her T-shirt I see an old stain . . . spaghetti sauce by the look of it.
‘Lucy, please let me do it,’ I say. There’s a hint of begging in my voice which I’m not proud of. ‘You sit down and feed that baby. Go on!’
I must have said it right because Lucy nods and disappears to the sitting room. I let out a long breath. It’s so rare that I get something right with Lucy, and it’s not for want of trying. I tried when I lent her my most beloved possession, my Celtic knot necklace, on her wedding day. My own mother-in-law, Lillian, lent it to me on my wedding day. The knot represents strength, and Lillian had bought it to stay strong while Tom’s dad was away at war. She left it to me in her will, with a note that said: For strength. It occurs to me now that perhaps I should have told Lucy the story when I gave it to her. Silly me.
‘Has he been fussy all day?’ I ask Lucy, when I’ve finished tidying the kitchen. I bring her a cup of tea which I set on the coffee table. Archie lies flat on her lap, red-faced and wailing, despite having been fed.
‘All day every day,’ she says. ‘And all night every night.’
‘Have you tried gripe water?’ I sit beside her. ‘When Ollie was a baby it sorted him out when he was gassy.’
‘I’ve tried it. I’ve tried everything.’
‘May I?’
Lucy gives a helpless shrug. ‘Why not?’
I pick Archie up and place him vertically against her chest, so his head is nestled under Lucy’s chin. Then I pat the midsection of his back firmly. Almost instantly he belches, a loud, cavernous sound that is utterly incongruent with the size of him. It’s incredibly satisfying, I will admit. For a moment Archie looks like he might cry, but then he closes his eyes and promptly falls asleep.
‘There,’ I say happily.
Lucy is staring at me as though I’ve grown another eyeball. ‘How did you do that?’
‘Burp him? Oh, Lucy. Tell me you’ve been burping this child.’
Lucy’s eyes fill with tears. I kick myself.
‘Well,’ I say quickly, ‘you must burp him after each feed. Sometimes even during the feed. Otherwise wind gets trapped and hurts his tummy.’
‘Okay,’ she says, nodding. It’s as though no one has ever given her any mothering advice before. ‘Okay, I will.’
‘Good. Now pop him in his crib and take yourself off to bed. I’ll just pop on the dishwasher and then let myself out.’
Lucy looks surprised. ‘But . . . aren’t you going to . . . stay for a while?’
I know the right answer to this. No young woman wants her mother-in-law to stay for a while. The baby is asleep and the house is tidy. Now is the time to leave. I’m not sure of much, but I’m absolutely sure about this.
‘No, no. Things to do. Must get on.’
I gather up my things and set the dishwasher going. I’m out the door before I realise I never explained the significance of the chicken.
11
LUCY
The present . . .
In the three days since Diana died, I haven’t cooked a meal, done a load of laundry or been to the supermarket. I haven’t disciplined a child, helped anyone with homework or hidden any vegetables in spaghetti sauce. I haven’t done anything normal at all. It’s as though we’re caught in an unmoving, timeless void while the rest of the world keeps moving around us, oblivious.
The big kids have returned to school and kindergarten today, but Ollie still hasn’t been back to work. It’s a surprise, even in light of his mother’s death. In the past two years my previously unambitious husband has turned into a workaholic, heading to work on weekends, evenings, public holidays. Now he’s sitting on the couch next to Edie, staring into the ether as if he’s in some sort of trance. At intervals I go and tell him how sorry I am, that I wish there was something I could do. Each time I have to wonder: do I really wish that?
I head to the kitchen, deciding it’s time to reinstate some order and routine. This seems to be the very least I can do. A pile of unopened mail sits on the end of the counter so I start there, tearing each envelope open with my thumbnail and folding the papers flat, one by one.
The first document is a bank statement. I tend not to look at bank statements as a rule—since I’m the one managing the parenting load, I am happy to let Ollie manage the financial load (it’s not sexist as much as fair distribution of responsibilities). But when my eye catches the seven-digit figure—debit rather than credit—on the bottom of the page, I can’t help but draw in a breath. My eyes jump back to the top where the name Cockram Goodwin is printed. The Cockram part comes from Eamon, obviously, his business partner. How on earth could they be this far in the hole? More importantly, why hasn’t Ollie mentioned it to me?
I open my mouth to ask him but before I can speak there’s a knock at the door. I glance at Ollie over the kitchen bench, but he barely registers, too lost in his thousand-yar
d stare.
‘I’ll go,’ I say needlessly.
When I open the door, two people are standing there, not uniformed but clearly police. My instincts tell me this, and also the badge that is proffered by the female.
‘I’m Detective Senior Constable Jones,’ the woman says, ‘This is Detective Constable Housseini.’
‘Hello,’ I say, looking from one to the other.
They’re not Simon and Stella, the young, fresh-faced cops who informed us of Diana’s death. Detective Jones is fortyish, slim, medium height. She has an attractive, slightly masculine face, chin-length brown hair flecked with golden highlights. Her clothes are plain and practical: white shirt, navy trousers, fitted enough to suggest she takes pride in her figure.
‘And you are?’ she asks.
‘Oh . . . I’m uh . . . Lucy Goodwin.’
‘The daughter-in-law.’ Jones nods. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your loss.’
Housseini bows his head. His crown is thinning and a ring of pale brown skin can be seen through his sweep of black hair.
‘May we come in?’ Jones asks.
I move back out of the doorway and Jones and Housseini step into the front hall.
‘Nice place,’ Jones says.
‘Thank you,’ I say, though it isn’t especially nice. ‘What can I do for you, Detectives?’
A wedding photo catches Jones’s eye and she pauses briefly to look at it. ‘This is a nice picture,’ she says. ‘Is that your mother-in-law?’
She points to Diana, standing to Ollie’s left in the picture. ‘Yes. That’s Diana.’
‘I imagine it’s a hard time for you all. Were you very close?’
The Mother-in-Law Page 6
