The Mother-in-Law(64)

“My style is . . . evolving,” I admit.

Ollie smiles. “This outfit actually reminds me of something Mum would wear.”

I smile back. I don’t tell him Diana didn’t own a pair of jeans, and she would roll over in her grave if she heard anyone suggest that she might wear a bedazzled T-shirt. His point, that I’m favoring plainer, more practical outfits lately is a valid one. Odd as it sounds, Diana might have played a role in that.

We go through a few more items before we decide to call it a day. Then, as we are about to get into the car, I hear gravel crunching on the driveway.

“Lucy! Ollie.”

We turn in unison. Ahmed and Jones are coming down the driveway toward us. Immediately, I go on high-alert.

“Hello,” I say uncertainly.

The continue walking toward us. They’re not alone. Beside Ahmed is a woman in workout gear whose face is far from friendly. She plants her feet, several meters back from us.

“It was him,” she says quietly to Ahmed. “Him. Definitely.”

Ahmed remains beside the woman, and Jones continues a few paces farther up the driveway, stopping in front us.

“Can we help you?” Ollie says.

“We’ve just been talking with the neighbors again,” Jones says, “trying to ascertain who was the last person to see your mother before she died.” She glances back over her shoulder at the woman in the activewear, the woman who is looking at Ollie, but slightly south of his face, as though she’s nervous to look him in the eye. Nervous to look at Ollie.

“It was him,” the woman says again, louder now.

“What was him?” I ask her.

“I live across the road,” she says. She seems happy enough to look me in the face. “I was headed out for a run last week, the same day Diana was killed, and I saw him,” she jabs a thumb at Ollie “walk through the gates.”

“Were you here, Ollie?” Jones asks. “The afternoon your mother was killed?”

Ollie shakes his head, baffled-looking. “No.”

“You were. You were . . . wearing navy trousers. And a checked shirt.” The woman nods deeply, as if becoming more convinced herself. “Blue and white!”

“You must be getting him mixed up with someone else,” I say. “Or maybe you saw Ollie here another day?”

Both are reasonable explanations. Besides, Ollie’s not particular distinctive looking. Tall, medium build, brown hair. It would be easy to discount this woman’s account of things, and that’s exactly what I do. Until a memory flashes into my mind. It’s Ollie, arriving home from work the day Diana died.

He’s wearing navy trousers and a blue-and-white checked shirt.





40: LUCY


THE PAST . . .

“Shhh,” I say to the kids as we enter Diana and Tom’s house. Of course it doesn’t make the blindest bit of difference. It’s impossible to silence kids’ plastic shoes against marble, and Archie and Harriet scamper loudly through the place, feet slapping as they go.

We let ourselves into the house these days. I get the feeling Diana isn’t delighted about this, but her life is about practical matters now that she is caring for Tom around the clock, and it’s not practical for her to be answering the door all the time.

I follow the kids, hauling baby Edie in her car seat through the main floor. Everything has been moved onto this level since Tom has been in his wheelchair. I like the house more like this actually. With the extra furniture down here, the house is filled out nicely and has a cozy feel it didn’t have before. Also, everything is closer together. You can call out and pretty much anyone in the house can hear you.

“It’s us,” I say as we enter into the back room.

Tom’s wheelchair is pushed up to the table. Diana is beside him, reading the newspaper aloud, but she pauses to hug Archie and Harriet, who throw themselves at her with abandon.

“Give Papa a hug,” she instructs them.

They look at her uncertainly and she nods. Go on. They’re a little frightened of him now. His hands are gnarled and his head is bent. He can be difficult to understand, but he is determined to keep talking. I think this is wonderful but the kids get frustrated by it or lose interest, or worse, say something rude.

“Papa’s spitting,” Harriet will say. 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 wouldn’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 the 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.