The Mother-in-Law(20)

“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 used to sort 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, 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?” I stare at her. “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 turn 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 one wants her motherin-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 realize 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 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 had 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 wish that?

I head to the kitchen, deciding it’s time to reinstate some order and routine. This seems the very least I can do. A pile of unopened mail sits at 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 notice. I tend not to look at bank notices 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 responsibility distribution). But when my eye catches the closing figure—debt, rather than profit—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, 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 speak there’s a knock at the door. I glance at Ollie but he barely registers, too lost in his seven-mile 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 Sr. Constable Jones,” the woman says. “This is Detective Constable Ahmed.”

“Hello,” I say.

It is 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, if 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.”

Ahmed 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?” she asks.

I move back out of the doorway and Jones and Ahmed step into the front hall.

“Nice place,” Jones says.

“Thank you,” I say, though it isn’t especially nice. Then again, police detectives probably saw a lot of houses that were a lot less nice. “What can I do for you, detectives?”