The Sister-In-Law(6)

‘Yes, looks like he’s having a whale of a time,’ she said, smiling at the thought of her youngest son. ‘You haven’t seen him since Christmas have you; the three of you have lots to catch up on. Bob and I can keep an eye on the children if you three would like a night out one evening?’



‘Yes, that would be nice,’ I said. It was nice to get together, just the three of us without Joy or Bob. We could talk about anything and everything and we always had a laugh.

One year when we were in Spain and I’d just had Violet, the three of us went to a nightclub and left her with Joy and Bob. We enjoyed each other’s company and made a point of getting together on these family holidays and family Christmases. Despite some brotherly competition and ‘banter’, as they called it, Dan and his brother got along, and I enjoyed spending time with them both. Jamie could be lazy, staying in bed until noon and never helping with meals or washing up, but he was good with the kids, and when he did eventually get up, he had lots of energy – something poor old Bob didn’t have too much of any more.

I always worried the kids were a bit much for Bob. The previous summer, we’d gone to the South of France and when Violet asked to see the sunflowers in a nearby field, Bob had offered to take her and Alfie. I was more than a bit concerned Alfie might run off and Bob would be so distracted by what they were looking at that he’d not realise he was a child down. My only hope was that Violet, then eight, would keep an eye on her three-year-old brother. I remember I couldn’t relax until they were back and found myself actually surprised when they all wandered up the hill to the villa, Alfie on Bob’s shoulders, Violet chatting away, all three of them smiling.

I’d been sitting with Joy in the garden and I recall her looking over at me. ‘Bob is fine,’ she’d said. ‘I know he can seem like he’s another child, and God knows I sometimes wonder how he gets through the day, but he adores those kids. He’d never let them come to any harm, Clare.’

I remember feeling embarrassed that Joy had picked up on my concern, like I didn’t trust him with his own grandchildren. Mind you she picked up on most things. I sometimes felt like she could read my mind – so I wasn’t surprised.

This year I hoped Dan would be more involved and this would free me up more to relax – so I could be a bit more like the laid-back woman he once married. I knew this was his holiday too but I sometimes felt he expected his parents to take on the childcare when we were away. I’d pointed out to him that we couldn’t expect that of them, they were getting older and Alfie and Freddie were exhausting.

‘I have discovered a book of fabulous recipes,’ Joy said, as we sat in the living room while the kids chose their beds upstairs. I’d heard some raised little voices, but they sounded more excited than angry, so I concentrated on the nice clinking sound Joy’s drink made as she sloshed her gin and ice around the glass.

‘Ooh a new recipe book? I’m up for that, chef,’ I joked. We’d always cooked together on holiday, Joy and I. She was a great cook and I’d learned a lot from her, but it was more than that, it was ritualistic: the women of the house coming together. It was as we sliced meat, prepared vegetables, talked about recipes, the food we’d cooked before, the food we’d cook again, that we were closest. We had a shared culinary history, something I’d never had with my own mother, and I relished it. In the cosy warmth of Christmas in Joy’s kitchen we’d ponder over the temperature of the turkey, debate the quantity of herbs in the stuffing. And now, in the midsummer heat of a Mediterranean kitchen, we’d fill the air with talk and steam and garlic. And later, when the food was in the oven, the children with the men, Joy would reach into the fridge, loosen some ice cubes, grab two glasses and we’d find a little spot to drink gin together. Like clockwork. ‘Come on, let’s have a livener before everyone comes back,’ she’d say, and we’d clink our glasses and share our stories. She was at her absolute best then, in those golden moments. Here was a woman who loved my husband and my kids as much as I did. We were fighting the same battle, facing the same problems – we were united.

Food always played a central part in the family holidays and get-togethers, an opportunity for us all to sit round the table while Joy reigned at the head.

Every Christmas Eve we’d arrive at Joy and Bob’s big house for a sparkly Christmas with all the trimmings. One year, Violet had a terrible cold, but Joy wouldn’t hear of us staying home. ‘Wrap her up warm and dose her up with Calpol, Clare,’ she’d said. ‘You can’t miss the family Christmas.’ But I didn’t want to take her out into the cold and unsettle Alfie, and I pointed this out to Dan, who said, ‘It wouldn’t be Christmas if we weren’t with Mum and Dad.’ Then he’d added, ‘It would break Mum’s heart if we didn’t spend it with them.’ I’d given in, and within a couple of hours Violet had been revived. It was as if Joy had the power to will the perfect Christmas. Nothing got in her way – and she was always right.

The holidays were the same, family occasions organised, paid for and enthusiastically booked by Joy. And here we were on the Amalfi Coast in Italy, somewhere I’d always longed to visit, and so far it was just as beautiful as I’d imagined it would be.

Sitting drinking gin with my motherin-law was a pleasure, not least because she always drank the best, and was good company. Daughters-in-law often have strained relationships with their husband’s mothers, and it wasn’t plain sailing, but apart from a slightly bossy nature, Joy was okay. On that first evening in Italy it was hot and the gin cold. I was exhausted, emotionally and physically, and as Joy talked, I put my head back in the leather armchair. It felt good to be here, and the villa was lovely. The thick, high walls of the living room were painted white, and filled with big velvet sofas, built-in cabinets in beautiful dark wood, huge lamps and pictures all over the walls. But there were darker touches too – a birdcage filled with a stuffed bird whose dead, black beady eyes seemed to reproach me every time I caught its glance. It made me slightly uncomfortable, but was a small thing and the vaulted ceilings, wooden shutters and cool, marble floors more than compensated.