Page 19 of The Mother-in-Law

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 that is 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? Oh, Lucy.Tellme 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 evenduringthe 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 pop 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 young woman wants her mother-in-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’mabsolutelysure 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 realise 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 and kindergarten 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 has 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 really wish that?

I head to the kitchen, deciding it’s time to reinstate some order and routine. This seems to be the very least I can do. A pile of unopened mail sits on 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 statement. I tend not to look at bank statements 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 distribution of responsibilities). But when my eye catches the seven-digit figure—debit rather than credit—on the bottom of the page, I can’t help but draw in a breath. My eyes jump back to the top where the nameCockram Goodwinis printed. The Cockram part comes from Eamon, obviously, 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 can speak there’s a knock at the door. I glance at Ollie over the kitchen bench, but he barely registers, too lost in his thousand-yard 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 Senior Constable Jones,’ the woman says, ‘This is Detective Constable Housseini.’

‘Hello,’ I say, looking from one to the other.

They’re 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, 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.’

Housseini bows his head. His crown is thinning and a ring of pale brown skin can be seen through his sweep of black hair.