by Lucy Diamond
Talking of screeches … There was Lilian opening the front door and standing on the step with her arms folded over the apron that proclaimed ‘Mother Knows Best!’ It wouldn’t have surprised Emma if Lilian actually slept in that sodding apron; it was a permanent fixture on her tall, trim body. ‘Oh, here they are,’ she was saying, then called over her shoulder. ‘Eddie! David’s here!’
Emma got out of the car, steeling herself. She had tried her hardest to like her mother-in-law, she really had. She’d been polite and friendly, she washed up after Sunday dinner, she smiled in the right places and bit her tongue whenever the subject of politics arose. For all her best efforts, though, the charm offensive had not been enough. In fact, when Emma and David told his parents one Christmas that David had proposed and they were going to get married, Lilian hadn’t even tried to fake pleasure. ‘Why would you want to do a thing like that?’ she’d said.
David had laughed it off. ‘Because we love each other, of course!’ he’d said.
Emma hadn’t been able to laugh. The words stung even now, hurting like a running sore that wouldn’t heal. It was almost as bad as the ‘When am I going to have some more grandchildren?’ line, which she must have been asked at least seven hundred times by now. Lilian seemed to think it was her divine right, as matriarch, to make pronouncements about other people’s relationships and harass them about their fertility. Well, hello? Newsflash! It wasn’t okay, not remotely.
In contrast, Emma’s parents never badgered her about children in the same way, although this was partly because they’d always been more interested in her brother Neil, and partly because she rarely got to see them since their retirement. She didn’t get to speak to them much either, unless she made a point of phoning. Her mum remained convinced that the phone calls from Scotland to England came under ‘foreign rate’, however many times Emma had tried to convince her otherwise.
She glanced now at the woman on the doorstep – the white-haired gatekeeper to the Jones brothers, she who must be obeyed. The devil in Emma bristled, flexing his muscles. She would make things work with David because she loved him, she thought, but also because it would give her the satisfaction of proving Lilian wrong about the two of them. Hell, yes. You can’t get rid of me that easily, she thought, slamming the passenger door shut.
Chapter Five
Lilian had known deep down that something wasn’t right for a while, but didn’t want to look it full in the eye, for fear of having her shadowy dread brought sharply into focus. Instead, she’d told herself that everything was fine, that everyone got a bit forgetful as they became older, that Eddie had just had a lot on his mind lately.
They both had, let’s face it. Over the last week their guests had included Mr and Mrs Phelan from the Wirral, who’d complained about absolutely everything – the view from their window (as if she could do anything about that!), the food, the facilities in their room, the weather even, for heaven’s sake. Hard on their heels came Mr Castle and Ms Farthing from London, with their grizzling little baby, who sobbed and snivelled from dawn till dusk. Lilian thought she’d heard Ms Farthing crying one night too – gasping tears of exhaustion, as if she’d been broken. Try having three boys, dear, she’d thought, putting the pillow over her head in an attempt to block out the sound. Then you’ll know the meaning of tired.
Finally they’d had the McPhersons, down from Glasgow, whom Eddie had managed to offend repeatedly by calling them the McDonalds, about five times in all. They’d smiled initially, as if he was joking, but gradually the smiles became wintrier, thinner-lipped and more glare-like with each repetition. ‘Has he never met a Scottish person before?’ Mr McPherson sniffed after the third time. ‘Is this meant to be a joke?’ Mrs McPherson demanded after the fourth. It got to the point where Lilian had to physically shoo her husband away whenever the poor pair appeared in the breakfast room, for fear of one of them leaping up and stabbing him with a fork.
It was a relief when the McPhersons finally left and she could let her breath out again. Well, for about ten minutes anyway, before she had to stock up on food for the anniversary lunch, and clean the house from top to bottom. Still, better to be busy than bored, she supposed.
Eddie said he’d drive them both to Axminster as he wanted to pick up a bag of plaster from B&Q while she tackled the supermarket, so off they went. But they weren’t even three miles out of Loveday when he suddenly dropped the speed and puttered to a halt, stopping the car right in the middle of the road. ‘I …’ he said, gazing through the windscreen. ‘I …’
A silver Passat that had been buzzing along at 50 mph behind them beeped and swerved wildly to avoid cannoning straight into the back of them. Then it roared past, the driver gesticulating furiously.
‘Eddie, what are you doing?’ Lilian screeched, grabbing at his shirt sleeve. ‘You can’t just stop here!’
His eyes were misty and confused. ‘I … I can’t remember where to go,’ he said simply. ‘Where do I go, Lilian?’
She stared at him, uncomprehending. He couldn’t remember where to go? He’d lived here more than fifty years, and he couldn’t remember the way to B&Q and Tesco? ‘Don’t be so silly,’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘It’s straight along to the roundabout, then right, of course. Remember?’
He blinked. ‘I …’
Another car screamed past, making their little Ford shake on its wheels. ‘Swap places,’ she ordered, scared and alarmed by his behaviour. ‘I’ll drive. No – don’t get out your side, Eddie!’ Whatever was wrong with the man, trying to open his door when a Volvo was about to whizz by?
That was the big question, though. What was wrong with her husband?
The episode had sent a chill down her spine, a freezing anxiety that didn’t let up, all the way to the supermarket car park. ‘Here we are,’ she said brightly as she pulled on the handbrake, her hands still trembly. ‘Okay?’
He nodded and, in that moment, he was back to Eddie, her Eddie, just as normal. ‘Sorry,’ he said, shaking his head a little. ‘My mind went blank. Most odd. Right – have you got that list, then? Let’s go.’
Normality didn’t last long. Something seemed to have unwound in his head. It was as if he was running on a different track from her now – a parallel, similar track, but one that no longer quite matched hers. He was quiet in the supermarket, trailing around after her, and spent a long time choosing the plaster he wanted once they got to the DIY store. Then, when they were safely back home, the groceries put away and the kettle boiling, he suddenly said, ‘I think I’ll catch up a bit in the garden this afternoon, love. I’ll just pop round and see if I can borrow Tony’s mower. Grass needs cutting.’
She swung round in surprise. ‘Tony?’ she echoed, staring at him.
‘He’s got that new one, hasn’t he?’ he said mildly. ‘Much better than ours.’
‘Eddie …’ Oh Lord. Where to begin? ‘Tony’s … gone. He moved away, years ago. Don’t you—?’ Don’t you remember? she was about to say, but stopped herself. Her skin prickled. He’d made a mistake, that was all. He must have meant Barry, their neighbour who’d lived next door for more than twelve years. Eddie knew that. Didn’t he?
He passed a hand over his head, frowned unseeingly. There was that terrifying blankness in his eyes once more and she leaned against the worktop, feeling unsteady. ‘Eddie, love, sit down,’ she said. Fear was jolting through her. What did all of this mean? What was happening? ‘Let me make you a drink. The grass doesn’t even need cutting – look.’
He let himself be guided to a chair. ‘He had a good mower, didn’t he? Tony?’ he said, sagging into the seat.
Lilian swallowed. ‘He did,’ she said faintly, still holding on to him. Time seemed to stop and everything felt magnified: the slow sliding tick of the clock, his soft cotton shirt beneath her fingers, the perfumed scent of the blue hyacinths on the window ledge, her own racing heartbeat – boom, boom, boom. ‘Yes, love, he did.’
Chapter Six
Self-reinventio
n or not, there was nothing like Sunday lunch at the in-laws’ to bring you back down to earth with a bump, thought Alicia. And in the twenty or so years she’d been with Hugh, she’d racked up a good number of those, a veritable parade of gravy boats and roast potatoes, of cracker snaps and terrible jokes, of clinked glasses and slurred voices.
Funny to think that the very first time she’d come here, she, David and Charlie had all been teenagers. David had been in the midst of A-levels and was pale and stressed, like a plant that hadn’t seen the sun for ages, while Charlie had white-bleached hair and acne, and wore ripped jeans and grungy T-shirts. It seemed just days ago in some respects, yet a whole generation had rolled by in the meantime. She could chart the progress like a procession of snapshots flicking through her head. David starting at Swansea uni and returning with a girlfriend from the Valleys – Angela, with the dirtiest laugh you ever heard. Charlie vanishing down to Cornwall, then London, then Goa, then Bournemouth, returning each time with his tail between his legs, having run up enormous debts. Her, with her sapphire engagement ring sparkling in the Christmas photos. David moving to Bristol and landing a great job, Charlie made redundant and refusing to come downstairs one Christmas Day. Hugh getting a promotion and cracking open champagne. Her again, with her gold wedding band and flushed cheeks, a bump, a babe-in-arms, a toddler, another baby …
The Christmas turkey getting bigger by the year. A long line of girlfriends for Charlie, then Emma appearing with David like an exotic bird from afar with her pea-green coat, the jangle of beads around her neck and glittery eyeshadow. Job news. House moves. New wallpaper. New curtains. The garden rising and falling, blooming and dying in the background.
Alicia didn’t appear as much in the photos from then on; she was always tending to some child or other, or helping in the kitchen, steam sending her hair frizzy, a gulped glass of wine mottling her cheeks. If she did make it into a frame, she’d always be the last one still with a lopsided paper party hat on her head, the others all having removed theirs by the time the cheese plate came out. Typical of her.
Still, it didn’t have to be like that, though, did it? Nobody was forcing her to blend into the background for the rest of her life. With this in mind, she’d sat at her dressing table that morning spritzing on perfume and styling her hair, then put on a pretty blouse and skirt and carefully applied her new lipstick. She looked at the woman in the reflection and smiled experimentally. Maybe, just for once, she’d sit back after the meal today and let Hugh help his mum with the fetching and carrying. Maybe David or Emma would offer to pour drinks or make coffee this time, so that she didn’t have to. And maybe, instead of acting like a meek little skivvy, she’d be sparkling and witty, regaling others with funny stories and pithy quips.
‘Alicia, where’s my blue shirt? Have you ironed it?’ came Hugh’s voice just then.
She opened her mouth, helpfulness rising in her automatically. Then she caught the gaze of the woman in the mirror and thought again. ‘Not a clue!’ she called back gaily.
For the first time ever, they arrived late at Mulberry House. Unaccustomed to fending for himself, Hugh had hunted through all of the dirty washing and the entire ironing pile before eventually finding his blue shirt hanging pristine and crease-free in the wardrobe. ‘Why didn’t you just tell me it was there?’ he demanded irritably, thrusting his arms into its sleeves.
‘Sorry,’ Alicia said lightly, as if such things were beneath her. ‘Must have forgotten.’
This wasn’t the only hold-up. Lucas, their eldest son, who was eleven and seemed to be morphing into an adolescent slug, was loath to get dressed at all. Normally Alicia would have coaxed and wheedled, she might even have bribed him. Today she shrugged. ‘Oh well. Wear your pyjamas then,’ she’d said, without looking up from painting her fingernails.
Lucas hadn’t been expecting this, and began to scowl and bluster. ‘But … then I’ll look like a dick.’
Clearly this was meant to push her into a comment about language, but was Alicia going to rise to it? Not today. ‘Then look like a dick,’ she replied airily. ‘Your choice.’
He’d actually backed away, completely at a loss as to how to react. ‘Oh, all right, so I’ll get dressed,’ he grumbled. Slam went his bedroom door.
Alicia’s lips twitched. ‘Your choice,’ she repeated sweetly under her breath.
Finally, when they had assembled in the car – there was some jostling between Rafferty (nine) and Matilda (eight) for the least favoured middle seat, which Alicia chose to ignore – Hugh put the key in the ignition and started the engine.
‘Oh. Wine,’ he said suddenly. ‘Have you got the wine?’
‘Wine?’ she echoed, deliberately blank.
‘Did you not buy any?’
‘Did you want me to? It wasn’t on the shopping list.’
‘No, but …’ No, but I assumed you’d get it, just like you always do, because you’re the woman and you always remember these things.
She waited, hands in her lap. As it happened, they did have two bottles of Oyster Bay in the utility room, if only he bothered to check. But as ever he’d expected her to look after the niceties, even though Lilian and Eddie were his parents. Something stopped her from mentioning any of this.
‘Fine, we’ll just stop somewhere on the way and I’ll pick something up then,’ he said grumpily.
‘Okay,’ she replied. A thrill of rebellion went through her.
Then the engine started and they were away.
It turned out that, despite their lateness, they were still the first to arrive by a long chalk. Lilian was having a paddy about the vegetables in the kitchen, but, against all her instincts of rushing to don an apron and help, Alicia poured herself a large glass of wine instead and went out into the garden with the children. Hopefully they’d burn off some energy before they were forced to sit down politely for the longest meal of the week.
Emma and David arrived – David looking somewhat pudgy about the face and in need of a decent shave, and Emma in a peacock-blue dress that had tiny purple flowers stitched around the neckline and hem. Her cropped hair shone coppery in the weak spring sunshine and showed off her lovely white neck.
‘I love your dress,’ Alicia said. ‘Such a gorgeous colour.’
‘Thanks,’ Emma said. ‘You’ve had your hair cut! It really suits you.’
Alicia positively glowed. She had always felt that her life must seem small and drab in contrast to Emma’s cooler, sparklier existence. But maybe they weren’t so different after all. They were both career women, there was common ground between them. It was time she stopped painting herself into the boring corner.
A tussle between the children had broken out, but she turned away. Hugh could deal with them for a change. ‘How’s work?’ she asked Emma brightly.
Half an hour passed and still there was no sign of Charlie. This wasn’t extraordinary in itself, of course: Charlie was always late to family gatherings; his world spun on Charlie-time rather than in sync with mere mortals. Normally, though, his doting mother would forgive him for this, and all his other bad habits, excusing every misdemeanour by dint of him being the youngest. The fact that he was now in his thirties and definitely an adult didn’t seem to make any difference.
Today, however, there was no pandering or excusing, no ‘We’ll just give him another ten minutes’. Today, a line seemed to have been drawn in the sand. ‘We can’t wait any longer,’ Lilian decided eventually, wheeling the food in on her hostess trolley. ‘I’ll put his share in the oven.’
Alicia felt positively riddled with guilt by now for not helping earlier. Lilian was usually completely in control – of herself as well as the entire family – yet today she seemed all over the place. Her hands shook as she dished up the meat then she knocked over a glass of water, which splashed Hugh’s trousers. Eddie, meanwhile, appeared blank and unresponsive, a million miles away. Something, thought Alicia with a lurch, was definitely up.
Hugh had noticed too, and kep
t looking at his parents with a small frown between his eyebrows. ‘Everything all right, Mum?’ he asked.
‘I’m fine!’ she snapped. ‘Why does everyone keep asking me that?’
Eddie blinked at the sharpness of her voice, before putting a calming hand on hers. ‘We’ve got something we’d like to discuss with you after lunch,’ he said. ‘That’s if Charlie ever turns up, mind.’
Oh dear. That didn’t sound promising. Were they in financial trouble? Alicia wondered. Hugh occasionally helped out with their accounts and had said that bookings were considerably down recently.
‘Has anyone actually heard from Charlie?’ David asked, getting out his phone. ‘I’ll text him, remind him that he’s meant to be here.’
Lilian’s lips were tight as everyone shook their heads; she was clearly hurt by Charlie’s careless neglect.
Alicia felt sorry for her. ‘Let’s have a toast, to Lilian and Eddie,’ she said, trying to salvage what was, after all, meant to be a celebratory occasion. ‘Forty-five years’ marriage is a wonderful achievement.’
‘Absolutely,’ Hugh said quickly. He raised his glass. ‘To Mum and Dad!’
‘Lilian and Eddie!’
‘Grandma and Grandpa!’
Everyone clinked glasses and Lilian smiled thinly. Then David’s phone beeped. ‘Ah,’ he said, reading the message. ‘It’s Charlie – he’s on his way.’
The meal began and a feeling of jollity slowly spread across the table, with any previous tension ebbing away. Lilian was pink in the cheeks from the wine and the attention, and the food was unanimously declared a triumph. Lucas started telling Eddie some of the less-rude jokes he’d learned at school, and Raffy launched into a gruesome description of the dead fox they’d seen on the way over, in full technicoloured detail.
‘Not now, darling,’ Alicia tried saying, noticing Lilian’s mouth pursing with disapproval. ‘Raff! Enough gore, thank you.’