The Mother-in-Law

by Sally Hepworth

  Jones continues looking at the picture, seemingly uninvested in the answer.

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘Isn’t it always?’ Jones smiles. ‘My ex’s mother was a real piece of work. I could barely be in the same room with the miserable old cow. It killed my marriage in the end. So how about you? How was it complicated for you?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Just complicated.’

  Jones and Housseini pick their way down the hall, pausing to look at the photos that dot the walls.

  ‘Did you spend much time together as a family?’ Jones continues. ‘Birthdays, Christmases, that kind of thing?’

  I think of the last Christmas we spent together. The ugly words, the gnarled faces, the screaming over the turkey. It wasn’t exactly a Hallmark commercial.

  ‘I’m sorry, did you say which unit you were from?’ I ask. For a moment I feel like a character out of Law & Order SVU, which is, of course, my only point of reference for police showing up on the doorstep.

  ‘We’re from homicide,’ Jones says evenly.

  ‘Lucy?’ Ollie calls from the next room. ‘Who is it?’

  I take a deep breath and walk into the living room. Jones and Housseini are at my heels. The back door is wide open and Edie seems to have disappeared—a ball must have landed in our yard. Edie adores nothing more than throwing a ball back over the fence.

  Ollie stands up, confused.

  ‘It’s the police,’ I say.

  Housseini approaches Ollie and extends a hand. ‘You must be Oliver Goodwin?’

  ‘Ollie,’ Ollie says, shaking Housseini’s hand.

  I see Ollie through the police’s eyes. He looks like hell. He’s wearing navy trackpants and a maroon rugby jumper, his hair is a shambles, his skin has a grey tinge to it. It reminds me of the way he used to look when our kids were newborns and not sleeping, when he would appear in the doorway and beg to go back to sleep ‘just for half an hour’, despite the fact that I was the one who’d been up most of the night.

  ‘I’m Detective Senior Constable Jones and this is Detective Constable Housseini,’ Jones says. ‘We have a few questions, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Questions about what?’ Ollie asks.

  There’s a pause, then Jones gives a slight chuckle. ‘Uh, about your mother’s death?’

  Ollie’s eyes shoot to me and I shrug. Finally, after a second or two, he gestures for the cops to sit down. They do, on the couch.

  ‘So what can we do for you?’ I ask, sitting beside Ollie. ‘Do you have any more information about Diana’s death?’

  ‘We don’t have the coroner’s report yet,’ Jones says, ‘but we’ll have it soon. In the meantime, we’re still gathering information. You mentioned to Senior Constable Arthur and Constable Perkins that your mother had cancer, is that correct?’

  ‘It is,’ I say, when Ollie fails to reply. ‘Diana had breast cancer.’

  Jones flicks open a black notebook embossed with a gold police logo and holds her pen poised. ‘And can you tell me who her doctor was?’

  ‘Her GP was Dr Paisley,’ I say. ‘At the Bayside Medical Clinic.’

  ‘And her oncologist?’

  Everyone looks at me. Everyone including Ollie. ‘Actually . . . I’m not sure. She never mentioned her oncologist’s name to me.’

  Jones closes her book. I get the feeling this isn’t news to her. ‘I see.’

  Ollie blinks. ‘What do you see?’

  ‘Yes, what do you see?’ I echo.

  ‘We haven’t found any evidence of your mother’s cancer. There is no record of her visiting an oncologist. No mammograms or ultrasounds, no chemotherapy. As far as we can see, she didn’t have cancer at all.’

  Jones seems irritated by this, as though their incompetence is somehow our fault. ‘Well obviously you haven’t looked in the right place,’ I say. ‘You can’t have checked with every doctor—’

  ‘There’s no referral from Dr Paisley,’ Jones tells us calmly. Her elbows rest on her knees, her hands are clasped together. ‘There are no scans or blood test results or anything that might indicate cancer.’

  I feel my face screw up. This is just ridiculous. People didn’t say they had cancer if they didn’t. Or perhaps some people did, people with hypochondria or Munchausen’s, those who wanted to garner sympathy or money or friendship. But Diana hated sympathy and she certainly didn’t need money. As for friendship, she hated people fussing around her or offering her so much as a tissue. Diana would never say she had cancer if she didn’t. I’m as sure of this as I am of my very existence.

  And yet.

  ‘A problem with the system,’ Ollie says. ‘That must be it. Why would she say she had cancer if she didn’t?’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to figure out.’

  Ollie shakes his head. ‘But she committed suicide. That’s what you guys said.’

  ‘We don’t know that for sure.’

  Now Ollie seems to snap to attention. ‘But . . . you said there was a letter?’

  ‘There was a letter.’

  ‘Can we read it?’

  ‘Eventually. But it’s currently part of our investigation.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘We’re checking it for fingerprints. Doing a handwriting analysis.’

  ‘You think it was forged?’

  ‘We’re not going to make any judgments until we know more.’

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ Ollie says, standing up. He begins to pace. ‘Just ridiculous.’

  ‘Listen, there is evidence to suggest she committed suicide. The materials. The letter we found in her desk.’

  I blink. ‘Her desk?’

  ‘Mummy, I hungy.’

  Everyone glances in the direction of the voice. Edie is standing at the back door. Jones and Housseini rise to their feet.

  ‘Who you?’ Edie asks, walking right up to Jones, not stopping until she’s practically between her thighs.

  ‘My name is Detective Jones,’ Jones says. ‘This is my partner, Detective Housseini. We’re police.’

  Edie points at her suit. ‘Where police clothes?’

  ‘Some police don’t wear uniforms. But I have a badge. Here. Look.’

  Jones, I notice, has changed temperaments as if on an axis. Suddenly she is, perhaps not quite maternal, but certainly friendly and warm. It’s clear to me somehow that she doesn’t have children of her own but is very possibly someone’s favourite aunt.

  ‘I think we’ll leave it at that for today,’ Jones says, taking her badge back from Edie and putting it in her jacket pocket. ‘But if you think of anything significant, or remember Diana’s oncologist’s name, please do give me a call.’ Her tone indicates that she doesn’t expect that call to come.

  ‘It just doesn’t make sense,’ Ollie says as we all walk toward the door. ‘Mum wouldn’t lie about having cancer.’

  But my mind is caught up with something else, something irritating and itchy, like having someone’s name on the tip of your tongue. No matter how many times I turn it over, I can’t make any sense of it.

  If you committed suicide, why did you leave the letter in the study drawer, Diana? Why didn’t you leave it where you knew someone would find it?

  12

  LUCY

  The past . . .

  A week or two before Archie’s first birthday, Ollie and I arrive at Tom and Diana’s house. We are immediately shuffled into the front living room, the ‘good room’ all the Goodwins call it, which is strange because all the rooms seem pretty good to me. Still, it’s a novelty as we usually sit on bar stools in the kitchen or hang out in the den.

  ‘Can I get you another mineral water, Lucy?’ Diana asks.

  ‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’

  Diana and Tom’s sofa is so plump with stuffing that I have to clutch the armrest for stability. It doesn’t help that my knee is doing its nervous bounce. Diana does nothing to put me at ease. She is her classic self today—her gaze beady and guarded. She sits right on the
edge of the couch, her legs crossed at the knee. Nettie and Patrick were here when we arrived, but after giving us a quick apologetic wave, they made themselves scarce. I wish I could make myself scarce.

  Diana and I attempt to make small talk—about work (mine, never hers), about my dad’s health (the precancerous mole he recently had removed), about the 70s zebra-striped jumpsuit and jacket combo I’m wearing (which Diana mistook for pyjamas), but I sense Diana’s heart isn’t in it and neither is mine. We both want to get on with what we came here for, and it’s clear from the fact that Ollie and I suggested this meeting that we want something.

  ‘Cheese?’ Diana says, holding up an antipasto platter.

  ‘No thanks,’ I say, and we drift back into silence.

  Unfortunately, Ollie is still locked in conversation with Tom, long after Diana and I have exhausted all avenues of conversation. Tom, it appears, is talking about the inheritance again. He adores talking about the inheritance and drops it into conversation as often as he possibly can. It reminds me of a child desperate to tell their friend what they’d got them as a birthday present before they can tear off the paper. The inheritance, he says, will look after us in our old age. Admittedly, it’s nice to know we’ll be looked after and it does give me some comfort in those times we eat instant noodles for dinner because we can’t afford anything else . . . but at the same time it feels like poor taste to talk about what we’ll get when someone dies before they are dead.

  ‘Anyway, we wanted to ask you something,’ Ollie says, after what seems like an eternity. Diana and I sit a little straighter. Tom is the only one who seems surprised that there is a purpose to our visit. For someone so successful, he really can be quite thick.

  ‘We’ve found a house,’ Ollie announces.

  ‘And not a moment too soon!’ Tom says eagerly. He, like the majority of Ollie’s friends, has been unsettled about the fact that we’re renting and likes the security of bricks and mortar for investment.

  ‘It’s a two-bedroom workers cottage in South Melbourne,’ Ollie continues. ‘It’s pretty rundown, but we could renovate it. We’ve got a good deposit, just short of twenty per cent.’ He hesitates here, steals a quick glance at his mother. ‘Problem is, without the full deposit, we’d need to pay mortgage insurance, which is just throwing money down the drain. We hate to ask but—’

  ‘South Melbourne, eh?’ Tom says. ‘A good spot. Close to the city. Near the market, near Albert Park Lake. It’s not easy for you young folk, is it? Everything is so expensive. I read the other day that a lot of kids are not buying their first home until they are in their forties, can you believe that? What do you think, Di?’

  Tom is the only one I’ve ever heard call Diana ‘Di’. Once, I heard him call her Lady Di. The strangest part was, Diana actually smiled. Tom brings out an entirely different side to her. A softer side. Unfortunately, now Diana doesn’t look soft. Her lips are pressed tightly together as though she’s trying to break something with her teeth.

  ‘Life has never been easy,’ she says finally, folding her hands primly in her lap. ‘Every generation has its challenges and I dare say most have had to suffer through worse than unaffordable housing. You and Lucy both have good heads on your shoulders. If you want this house badly enough, I don’t doubt you’ll make it work. Otherwise you’ll find something else . . . something you can afford.’

  Silence follows. Deafening silence. I stare at the swirls of the rug on the floor, unable to meet her gaze. After a moment or two, I steal a look at Ollie and Tom, who both look disappointed, though not surprised.

  ‘Diana,’ Tom starts, but Diana is already holding up a hand.

  ‘You asked me what I thought, that’s what I think. Now that’s all I’m going to say on the matter.’ Diana uproots herself from the overstuffed couch. ‘Will you kids be staying for dinner?’

  Ollie and I stare at her, blinking.

  ‘I’ll take that as a no,’ she says, and disappears out of the room.

  ‘I’ll walk you out,’ Tom says.

  ‘No, no,’ I say hurriedly. ‘Don’t get up, please. We can see ourselves out.’

  I expect Tom to insist but he just nods. ‘Rightio then. You kids take care.’

  I am sick with mortification. What were we thinking asking Diana for money? Suddenly it seems so obvious. With what Ollie has told me about his upbringing—how Diana insisted he and Nettie be raised with part-time jobs and second-hand cars and an understanding that not everyone is as privileged as them—of course Diana wasn’t going to be in favour of giving them a handout. Sure, they went to private schools and had some pretty amazing holidays (at Tom’s insistence), but they also spent weekends picking up donations for her charity and serving at the local soup kitchen. The worst part is, as humiliated as I am, Diana made some very good points when she turned us down. Other generations have had it harder. Ollie and I do have the ability to buy a house within our means. Which means I can’t even hate her for what she said.

  As we reach the foyer Nettie and Patrick materialise, as if from nowhere.

  ‘How’d it go?’ Nettie whispers. Her face is apologetic, as if she already knows exactly how we went. ‘Did she give you the spiel about how every generation has its challenges?’

  Ollie nods. ‘But if we want it badly enough—’

  ‘—you’ll make it work?’

  Ollie and Nettie chuckle quietly.

  ‘Commiserations,’ Patrick says. He’s obviously been sampling some of Tom’s top-shelf drinks while we were being given the lay of the land because he smells of whisky.

  ‘Thank goodness for Dad, eh?’ Nettie says. ‘If it wasn’t for him, we’d all be left penniless on the street.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, don’t look so worried, Lucy!’ Nettie says, throwing an arm around my shoulders. ‘Dad’s not going to let you miss out on your house. He’s probably already written Ollie a cheque, am I right, Ol?’

  Ollie pats his jeans pocket, and grins.

  ‘What?’ I say.

  ‘We all knew Mum wouldn’t go for it. She never does.’ He glances at Nettie who nods. ‘We also knew Dad would.’

  ‘So that,’ I point toward the good room, ‘was what exactly? A performance put on for your mother’s benefit?’

  Ollie, Nettie and Patrick look mildly perplexed. It is like everyone is in on a joke I don’t understand.

  Ollie gives a small hapless grin. ‘I mean, I guess so. It’s no big deal, Luce. It’s . . . just the way the Goodwins do things.’

  Now it’s my turn to look perplexed. I shake my head, sincerely stunned. ‘Well, I’m sorry to tell you that the Goodwins are going to do things differently from now on.’

  ‘Can you pull over, please?’ I ask Ollie as soon as we are out of Tom and Diana’s driveway.

  Ollie glances at me then sighs and rolls the car to a stop.

  ‘Please don’t ever involve me in these games with your parents again.’

  Ollie pulls up the handbrake and shifts in his seat so his knees are angled toward me. He is attempting, I know, to be conciliatory. ‘I told you. This is just how it works in our family. You heard Nettie. It’s just the process.’

  ‘The process?’ I blink hard. ‘What does that even mean?’

  ‘Don’t you and your dad have processes around money? Like when we got married, you asked him for money then.’

  ‘I never asked him for anything. He offered to pay for our wedding.’

  ‘But you knew he would offer. That’s a process. Kind of.’ Ollie smiles a little, but it slides away when I don’t return it. ‘Listen, I’m sorry. You’re right, I shouldn’t have involved you.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have involved yourself!’ I look at the dashboard. ‘Your mother was right. We’re adults, we’re smart. We need to take responsibility for our own lives now. I don’t want to ask them for money ever again. Not for a house. Not for a car. Not for a litre of milk. Okay?’

  ‘Okay, just hang on a min—’<
br />
  ‘I’m serious, Ollie. And we’re not taking any money from them for the house. We’ll pay the mortgage insurance and buy it ourselves. This is a deal breaker for me.’

  Ollie stares at me. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously.’

  Ollie takes a deep breath, lets his head fall back against the head rest. Silence hangs between us and I can feel Ollie wrestling with it. It’s hard; I get that. It’s instinctive to reach out to your parents for help when you need it, it’s as familiar and comfortable as getting dressed in the morning. But at some point in adulthood, you have to teach yourself a new way to be. It’s infuriating that Diana had to be the one to point that out, but it’s true nonetheless.

  Finally Ollie nods. ‘Okay, fine. We’ll pay for the house ourselves.’

  ‘And?’ I prompt.

  ‘And I’ll never ask them for money again.’

  ‘Even if we’re poor and starving and can’t find a crumb between us?’

  ‘Even then.’ He smiles, but there is great effort behind it. ‘There is no one I’d rather starve with than you.’

  We laugh and I feel impressed with the speed in which Ollie came around. I wonder if it’s because, in the back of his mind, he knows that we will never have to starve. He knows that at some point a huge amount of money will be coming our way, more money than we could ever possibly spend. And, to access it, all we need to do is wait for someone to die.

  13

  DIANA

  The past . . .

  The kids have barely left the house before Tom starts pouting. I knew this would happen, with the same certainty that he knew I was going to turn down Ollie’s request for money. When you’ve being married for as long as we have, while you may hope for different results, you stop expecting them. And if you want a happy marriage, you have to look to the other things, the things you do see eye to eye on. Lucky for me, when it comes to Tom, there are many of these.

  Tom sits heavily in his wingback chair.

  I hold up a hand, palm forward. ‘I know what you’re going to say, Tom, so please save it.’

  ‘Did I say anything?’ He lets out a long, world-weary sigh.