The Mother-in-Law(60)
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a fistful of crumpled notes, handing the lot to me without even glancing at them.
“You’d better get back in there. You’re going to miss the movie.”
He jerked slightly, looking over his shoulder as if he’d forgotten where he was. Then he looked back at me and gave me the best smile I’d ever seen. “Problem is, I don’t want to miss what’s happening out here.”
37: LUCY
THE PRESENT . . .
Wakes are always an interesting affair. Anything that mixes family and alcohol usually is. When I arrive at the Half Moon after Diana’s funeral, Ollie is looking more relaxed with a beer in hand, occasionally even chuckling at something someone has said. Football is on the television in the background, which also provides some normality to the abnormal occasion.
Nettie, too, seems more together than at the funeral. She sits on the outside deck of the Half Moon with Edie in her lap, sharing what appears to be a pink lemonade with two straws. I’m glad to see her issues with us haven’t extended to our children. Say what you want about Nettie, but she was a devoted aunt. I have to love her for that.
Patrick has sunk at least half a dozen beers since I arrived, a good hour after everyone else, and it has to be said, he’s looking a bit worse for wear. I suppose I can’t blame him. I’d like to throw back a few too, but between chasing the kids around and ordering them to get up from under the tables, there isn’t a lot of time. Harriet and Archie have kicked their shoes off and are scampering around on the floors, where the dirt is forming a paste with the spilled drinks. Soon, someone will break a glass, one of the kids will step on it, and we’ll be all headed to the hospital. Actually, it would be a relief to get out of here.
“Hey,” I say, finding Ollie at the bar. He has the glassiness of a man a few beers in, and he seems somber, but then he did attend his mother’s funeral today. “Are you okay?”
Apart from the fact that it’s your mum’s funeral, your business is failing and the fact that we’re financially ruined?
“Actually,” he says, “I was just thinking about how bad my eulogy was today.”
“It wasn’t bad.”
He cocks his head. “Come on.”
I put my arms around his waist. “Listen. It’s not as if she was there to critique it. Just let it go. It was fine.”
He opens his mouth to respond but we are interrupted by an elderly couple, coming to say their goodbyes. At the same time, Harriet comes to tell me that “Edie wet her pants and Auntie Nettie wants to know if she has spare undies.”
“I’ll deal with the undies,” I say to Ollie.
I follow Harriet through the throng, turning sideways to squeeze past people. Harriet and I come to a clearing on the deck where Edie stands, naked, apart from a pair of gold sandals. Tipsy adults smile. Sweet. Nettie squats next to her drying her legs with a wad of paper towels. There’s something so maternal about it, it stops me short. I have to remind myself that Edie is my daughter, that I’m her mother.
A chink of spoon against glass steals everyone’s attention and when I turn around, I see Ollie is standing on a chair. I leave Edie with Nettie and charge back inside. What on earth?
“Can I have everyone’s attention please?” he is saying as I slip back inside.
A hush goes around the room and I feel my insides squeeze tight. Ollie isn’t the type to give impromptu speeches, he is a planner, a practicer, a reader of index cards. I glance around for support, but there is only Nettie, who is still outside dealing with Edie. Patrick is over by the bar.
“Sorry to steal you away from your drinks and conversations,” he starts. “I just feel that I didn’t quite say everything I wanted to about Mum today.”
One by one, people whisper hushed endings to their conversations and give Ollie their full attention. I grab a glass of champagne from a circling waiter and throw it back.
“The fact is, Mum wasn’t the warmest and fuzziest person in the world. Actually, she was a pretty hard taskmaster. If there was ever a spider or rodent to kill, guess who we went to? I’ll give you a hint, it wasn’t Dad.”
A gentle chorus of laughter rings through the room. It reassures me a little.
“As kids, whenever we sat down, Mum would always hand us a bag of baby clothes that had been donated and make us sort them into sizes. We’d complain, usually, and she’d tell us that she’d be happier to take away our clothes and make us accept donations from clothing houses and then see if that changed our tune on helping.” At this, Ollie’s voice starts to wobble. “I remember folding up a tiny white knitted jacket once and putting it on the top of a pile of newborn clothes. Mum noticed it and yanked it out of the pile, saying it was stained. I told her they’d probably still accept it and she said: ‘It’s not my job to give them what they would accept.’ Ollie does a pitch-perfect Diana impression. ‘It’s my job to give them what they deserve.’”
He glances at me, and I nod. Perfect.
“Mum could be difficult, but that was part of what made her great. And that’s what made her a lifeline to some people.”
“Come on, give me a break!”
The voice, coming from the back of the room, over by the bar, is booming and unapologetic. Heads whip around. It isn’t hard to find Patrick, a full head and shoulders above the crowd.