The Mother-in-Law

by Sally Hepworth

  ‘Papa’s spitting,’ Harriet says. Or ‘Why is Papa’s head like that?’

  ‘Papa can hear you,’ I say in a false jovial voice.

  But Diana doesn’t gloss over it like I do. A couple of weeks ago, she asked Archie and Harriet to imagine how frustrating it would be to want to say something to people when no one would listen. Archie came to me a few minutes later and told me he would always listen to Papa, and to his credit, he’s been very patient ever since. Harriet hasn’t been quite so empathetic, telling me she doesn’t understand why he doesn’t just watch TV and not bother talking to anyone. I vacillate between accepting that she’s just a child and feeling responsible for the fact that one day Harriet will be out there in the world, inflicting herself on anyone who’ll listen.

  It won’t be long now. Tom has been in and out of hospital for months, with upper respiratory tract infections, breathing difficulties, pain and discomfort. Diana is constantly in motion, feeding Tom, shifting him in his seat, giving him medication. She phones doctors and nurses, gives instructions, makes arrangements. It is as though she’s become an extension of him—he just has to look at her and she’s out of her chair, tending to him.

  Tom’s illness has put a temporary halt on the family conflict. We’ve all been working well as a team, taking him to appointments, dropping off meals, driving across town to pick up various pieces of equipment designed to make him a little more comfortable. But everyone is broken-hearted. I am broken-hearted. I can’t fathom this family without him.

  I watch Diana, intermittently wiping the corners of his mouth. She says something to him and his eyes crinkle up and his lips twist, and I know he’s trying to smile. The rest of us, we’ll be broken-hearted after Tom dies, but it will be much worse for Diana. I’m not sure what will happen to her. I don’t know how she’ll go on.

  41

  LUCY

  The present . . .

  ‘Is Ollie under arrest?’ Nettie asks me.

  She’s on my living room floor surrounded by Lego, while Patrick engages the kids in an epic game of tiggy that involves pools of lava and cushions you have to stand on to stop your feet from getting burned. When the lady in active wear identified Ollie as being at Diana’s house the day she died, and Jones said she wanted to talk to Ollie back at headquarters, I called Nettie to see if she could help with the kids. (I never would have asked her a favour for myself, but I know Nettie would be there for the kids and I certainly need her help.)

  ‘No, he’s just answering some questions. He’ll be back in a little while.’

  But, in fact, I have no idea if this is true. Ollie wasn’t under arrest when he left with Jones and Housseini, but for all I know he could be now. And I don’t know if he’ll be back in five minutes or five hours. All I do know is that he was wearing a blue and white checked shirt the day Diana died and that he came home sick from work early even though he wasn’t unwell.

  Now, I’m wondering why.

  Nettie’s face is drawn and worried. Nettie is the younger sister, younger by five years, but she has always seemed older. And despite our issues, I know she loves her brother.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I ask her, and her eyes immediately begin to well. I sweep the Lego to the side and kneel on the floor beside her.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She produces a tissue from her shirt sleeve and dabs at her eyes. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me . . . there’s just a lot going on.’

  I hover awkwardly beside her. Once I would have hugged Nettie, but as we are no longer in that place, I put a reassuring hand on her shoulder instead. I’m caught off guard when she throws her arms around my neck in response.

  ‘Shhh,’ I say. ‘It’s all right.’

  But it’s not all right. None of it is. My heart bleeds for Nettie. Even without everything else going on, I still remember the rawness of losing my mother like it was yesterday. It occurs to me that Nettie and I have this in common now. She is older than I was when Mum died, obviously, but the loss of your mother is profound at any age.

  ‘Sorry.’ Nettie says, sitting back and wiping her face.

  ‘Please. Don’t apologise.’

  ‘It’s just . . . being here. The kids. The toys . . . it’s just hard, you know. It reminds me of . . . what I’m not going to have.’

  ‘What you’re not going to . . .?’ It takes me a moment to understand. She’s not upset about her mother. She’s not even upset about Ollie. She’s upset about her fertility.

  I shift away from her.

  ‘I thought you were upset about your mother. About Ollie being called in for questioning.’

  ‘Oh, everyone’s been called in!’ Nettie waves her hand dismissively. ‘It’s no big deal.’

  ‘No big deal? Didn’t the police tell you about the cushion? Didn’t they tell you they think someone might have smothered Diana?’

  Nettie starts picking up Lego pieces, putting them into the basket absently. ‘At the stage of life I’m in,’ she says, her voice cracking, ‘I thought there’d be Lego all over my floor. Scribble on the walls. I thought I’d be spending my weekends at school carnivals and ballet lessons. You have everything I want, Lucy.’

  I look at her. Really look. Physically, she’s right in front of me, but emotionally she is somewhere else. It occurs to me that she’s been somewhere else for a while now.

  ‘I really thought you’d help me,’ she says, then dissolves into tears.

  I sense movement in the corner of the room and Patrick steps forward. Something gives me the impression he’s been standing there a while. ‘I think I should take Nettie home.’

  Patrick gathers up Nettie’s bag and her coat and for the first time I wonder how it must be for him, living with Nettie’s baby obsession. That kind of thing has to take its toll on a person.

  ‘Why don’t you both stay here a while?’ I say. ‘I could make . . . some tea?’

  Nettie gets to her feet, her gaze miles away.

  ‘Patrick’s right,’ she says robotically. ‘We should go.’

  42

  LUCY

  The past . . .

  ‘Head on inside,’ I say. ‘There are refreshments in the back room.’

  I stand at the grand double doors of Tom and Diana’s home, ferrying mourners inside in small groups. Tom’s funeral was at St Joan of Arc, the church on the corner, so most of the guests decided to walk down to the house, even some of the elderly ones. The day is crisp and bright, with beating sunshine that everyone suggests is Tom’s doing, and maybe it is. If there is an afterlife, Ollie said in his eulogy, Tom would have certainly made an entrance, demanding the best of everything, including the sunshine.

  Tom died of an upper respiratory infection. He’d wanted to be at home, and Diana had fought hard for him to have his wish, but in the end they’d both had to accept that it wasn’t to be. His disease had progressed quickly, faster than anyone expected, and for the last few months he’d been unable to breathe without assistance or do anything for himself. Thankfully he had Diana to do it all for him.

  Edie has been on Nettie’s hip most of the day, and the older kids tear around the house as though it’s a birthday party rather than a wake. Even Archie, who was quite overcome with emotion in the church, seems more relaxed now. He’s removed his tie, which he requested to wear and borrowed from Ollie, and now he is chasing Harriet between the legs of the guests.

  ‘Archie!’ I shout-whisper. ‘Why don’t you go play upstairs? You can even turn on the television if you’d like.’

  Within seconds, both of them are gone.

  Inside the house, waiters circulate with platters of food. Along one wall, a long table has been set up with sandwiches and soft drinks, cakes and wine. Somehow Diana has managed to get the details exactly right, so it is welcoming but not festive, sombre but not depressing. Tom would have been pleased.

  My role, as handed to me by Diana, is to welcome guests as they arrive. There’s not a lot to it. People come in, say it was a lovely service and that they
’re sorry. I welcome them and point out where they can find themselves a drink and a chicken sandwich. A year ago I’d have assumed that Diana had given me this role to keep me out of her hair, or because I wasn’t capable of much more. But today, knowing she specifically gave me this job, I feel a strong sense of commitment to it.

  From my post at the door, I catch glimpses of Diana every so often, standing on the edges of circles, accepting people’s condolences. She does so with the utmost composure and grace. Diana managed the funeral details single-handedly, with the exception of the eulogy, which she delegated to Ollie, who did a wonderful job of it. I looked over at Diana during the funeral and found her sitting very still and I had a sudden urge to slide over to her and place my hand over hers. Now I regret that I didn’t.

  ‘Come in,’ I say as a new gaggle of mourners step through the gate. I take the arm of a woman who must be in her nineties and support her weight as she climbs the three steps to the house. She smiles at me and says: ‘Thank you, dear.’

  It makes me think of my mother. Lucy, dear. Dinner’s ready. It has been a long time since someone called me dear. I’ve forgotten how nice it feels to be dear to someone.

  ‘Excuse me, ma’am.’

  When I turn, a waiter in a grey jacket is standing before me.

  ‘I can’t seem to find Mrs Goodwin.’

  I glance around. The room has filled. The hum of chatter has risen and there are small plates of half-eaten canapés on tables and mantels. Diana is nowhere to be seen. ‘Oh . . . well, what is it you need?’

  ‘I’d like to check if we should start serving coffee and tea.’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’ I glance at the front path and decide it’s safe to leave my station. ‘I’ll see if I can find Diana.’

  I search the ground floor of the house. I find Nettie on the back patio, Edie still clamped to her hip.

  ‘Lucy, where is the nappy bag? Edie is ready for a nap and I need to find Dummy and Lambie.’

  ‘It’s in the bedroom at the top of the stairs,’ I say. ‘The portacot is already set up in there. Have you seen your mum?’

  Nettie shakes her head. ‘But Uncle Dave is looking for her—he and Auntie Rose are leaving, they want to say goodbye.’

  Nettie takes Edie up the stairs and I keep pushing through the crowd, scanning the faces. Ollie is in the front room, listening to his cousin Pete re-enact a story that appears to involve a donkey. ‘Lucy!’ he calls out. ‘Where’s Mum? Everyone is asking.’

  ‘On it.’

  I take the stairs to the second floor without much hope—Diana and Tom haven’t used this floor for a year. The door to the first bedroom—the one where I set up the cot for Edie—is closed so I creep past. I peer into the next room where Harriet and Archie are spread out on the bed, watching the screen, their eyes and mouths wide open. The door to the next bedroom, Tom and Diana’s old bedroom, is closed too. I hesitate in front of it, then tap lightly.

  ‘Diana?’

  When there’s no response, I walk inside. I haven’t been inside this room before and it is, quite frankly, ridiculous. There’s a hallway, a sitting room, the actual bedroom (though Tom and Diana have been sleeping downstairs for over a year now) and a bathroom the size of our old workers cottage. Finally, behind the last door is a walk-in closet that would make Carrie Bradshaw weep, complete with shaker cabinetry and a ladder on a pulley that slides from wall to wall. An ottoman is in the centre of the room, and Diana is sitting on it, her head in her hands.

  ‘Diana?’

  She looks up. She’s crying, but her face has not swelled or become red. No eye makeup has smudged. Diana even cries with composure.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I ask.

  There’s something about her like this, so totally vulnerable. She gives me a pathetic excuse for a shrug, as if her shoulders are simply too heavy to lift. Then she sighs. ‘There are so many times you can say the same thing. Yes, it was a lovely service. Yes, the sun is beautiful. Yes, Tom would have loved this. I reached my quota so I came in here, to hide.’

  I nod.

  She looks around the space. ‘It’s nonsensical, all of this, isn’t it? This room was Tom’s idea, obviously. I barely have enough clothes to fill that cabinet.’ She points to one of the dozen cabinets in the space. ‘Tom was always so excessive. More is more. It’s bizarre that I didn’t hate him, isn’t it?’ She laughs, not waiting for me to respond. ‘I should probably move to a smaller place now. It makes no sense, me staying here alone. But now that he’s gone, I’m not sure I can leave. He’s part of this house. I feel him here.’

  ‘I feel him here too,’ I say.

  Diana looks at me properly. Her lips press together and for an excruciating moment I think she’s going to lose it. Her lips bend at the edges, her chin puckers. But at the eleventh hour, she regains control. ‘Everyone is looking for me, I suppose,’ she says in a freakishly normal voice. ‘Is that why you came up here? To get me?’

  She doesn’t move yet, but I can see she’s readying herself. She’ll wipe her face and straighten her blouse and she’ll go down there and do what she needs to do. That, after all, is what Diana does. But she shouldn’t have to, not today. And so I shake my head.

  ‘No one’s even noticed you aren’t there,’ I say. ‘Everything is under control. You stay up here for as long as you need.’

  I spend the afternoon talking to people I’ve never met, taking donations for motor neuron disease research. Diana requested people give donations in lieu of flowers, and while I don’t think she meant in cash, I end up with an envelope stuffed with enormous amounts of money. I make a mental note to figure out how to donate it later.

  I sign for the caterer and open the back gates when it’s time for them to leave, and then I stand at the drinks area and act as a barmaid myself. Ollie mills around speaking to relatives. Patrick and Nettie have had far too much to drink, and when Nettie comes back for another wine, I make her a cup of tea instead, though I doubt she’ll drink it.

  By 7 pm the kids are all asleep upstairs.

  By 8 pm people are hungry again and I order pizzas.

  Diana is still in the walk-in closet, as far as I know. I’ve told everyone that she’s not feeling well and has headed off to bed early, and while I did hope people would take this as a hint to leave, they don’t seem to be getting it.

  At 10 pm I make a tray of sandwiches and send them around. Nettie is flat-out drunk and Patrick is in a similar state. Ollie is comparatively sober, and once Pete and the rest of his cousins leave, he comes to give me a hand with Nettie.

  ‘Have a sandwich, Nettie,’ I tell her. ‘And shall I make you another cup of tea?’

  She shakes her head sullenly. ‘I want wine.’

  ‘I think you’ve had enough, Nets,’ Ollie says. ‘Anyway, we’re all out of wine.’

  ‘Trust Mum to cheap out on drinks at her own husband’s funeral,’ she slurs. I try again to give her a sandwich—roast beef and horseradish—but she pushes it away. ‘She’s not even down here talking to people! You’d think she’d be a little more respectful of Dad’s memory. She’ll sell the house next, just you wait. Then it will be like Dad was never here.’

  ‘I don’t think she will,’ I try.

  ‘She will,’ Nettie says. ‘I know my mother. She’ll probably leave her entire estate to the Lost Dogs’ Home.’

  I walk away from them, toward the kitchen. I need to unload the dishwasher and Nettie is in no state to talk anyway. I think of Diana up there in that huge room. I wonder if she’s moved since I left her. I make her a plate of sandwiches and a cup of tea, and then I head up to her room, let myself in. She’s in the bed now, but her eyes are open. She stares at the wall.

  ‘Most people have left,’ I say, resting the plate and mug on her side table. ‘Patrick and Nettie are still here, but I’ll order them an Uber. The house is tidy, more or less, but I’ll come back and help you vacuum and mop tomorrow.’ Diana stares at me, stares through me. I wonder if she’s h
eard a word I’ve said. ‘There’s a sandwich and a cup of tea here, in case you feel like it.’

  I wait, but she doesn’t respond, so I turn and walk back down the hallway. I’m just letting myself out when I hear the faint words: ‘Thank you, dear.’

  43

  DIANA

  The past . . .

  It was Tom who insisted that Ollie never know he wasn’t his father. Initially, I disagreed with him, but Tom had been adamant.

  ‘I don’t think we should lie to him, Tom. You shouldn’t lie to children.’

  But Tom shook his head. ‘People always say that. But why should it be a blanket rule? Surely it should be more of a risk-benefit analysis? By not telling Ollie, we’d be risking him finding out later and blaming us for his missing out on a relationship with his biological father who, may I add, never wanted him in the first place. But what about the benefits of not telling him? Ollie would believe he was born into a family with two parents who love each other and wanted him. He’d believe he had a full biological sister. He’d have all that stability that children from two-parent families have. Why should we deny him that, just on the off-chance he’ll find out and blame us later? After all, what are parents for if not to blame for your life’s troubles?’

  Tom was so immovable that ultimately I’d gone along with his wishes. His logic may not have added up, but if he was willing to carry the secret to his deathbed for the sake of my son’s stability, I didn’t see how I was in a position to argue. It was the decision a father would make, I figured.

  So I let him make it.

  Tom’s not here.

  I’ve spent so long trying not to be weak that I’ve forgotten how wonderful it feels. For as long as I can remember, I’ve had to be strong for my family. And being strong has its payoffs. It makes you feel powerful, like you can face anything and survive. It’s the reason I’ve lived my life the way I have, working hard, not wallowing, not accepting weakness. But power is overrated. And being weak—and wallowing—is surprisingly lovely.