Page 70 of The Mother-in-Law

Nettie starts picking up Lego pieces, putting them into the basket absently. ‘At the stage of life I’m in,’ she says, her voice cracking, ‘I thought there’d be Lego all overmyfloor. Scribble on the walls. I thought I’d be spending my weekends at school carnivals and ballet lessons. You have everything I want, Lucy.’

I look at her. Really look. Physically, she’s right in front of me, but emotionally she is somewhere else. It occurs to me that she’s been somewhere else for a while now.

‘I really thought you’d help me,’ she says, then dissolves into tears.

I sense movement in the corner of the room and Patrick steps forward. Something gives me the impression he’s been standing there a while. ‘I think I should take Nettie home.’

Patrick gathers up Nettie’s bag and her coat and for the first time I wonder how it must be for him, living with Nettie’s baby obsession. That kind of thing has to take its toll on a person.

‘Why don’t you both stay here a while?’ I say. ‘I could make . . . some tea?’

Nettie gets to her feet, her gaze miles away.

‘Patrick’s right,’ she says robotically. ‘We should go.’

42

LUCY

The past . . .

‘Head on inside,’ I say. ‘There are refreshments in the back room.’

I stand at the grand double doors of Tom and Diana’s home, ferrying mourners inside in small groups. Tom’s funeral was at St Joan of Arc, the church on the corner, so most of the guests decided to walk down to the house, even some of the elderly ones. The day is crisp and bright, with beating sunshine that everyone suggests is Tom’s doing, and maybe it is. If there is an afterlife, Ollie said in his eulogy, Tom would have certainly made an entrance, demanding the best of everything, including the sunshine.

Tom died of an upper respiratory infection. He’d wanted to be at home, and Diana had fought hard for him to have his wish, but in the end they’d both had to accept that it wasn’t to be. His disease had progressed quickly, faster than anyone expected, and for the last few months he’d been unable to breathe without assistance or do anything for himself. Thankfully he had Diana to do it all for him.

Edie has been on Nettie’s hip most of the day, and the older kids tear around the house as though it’s a birthday party rather than a wake. Even Archie, who was quite overcome with emotion in the church, seems more relaxed now. He’s removed his tie, which he requested to wear and borrowed from Ollie, and now he is chasing Harriet between the legs of the guests.

‘Archie!’ I shout-whisper. ‘Why don’t you go play upstairs? You can even turn on the television if you’d like.’

Within seconds, both of them are gone.

Inside the house, waiters circulate with platters of food. Along one wall, a long table has been set up with sandwiches and soft drinks, cakes and wine. Somehow Diana has managed to get the details exactly right, so it is welcoming but not festive, sombre but not depressing. Tom would have been pleased.

My role, as handed to me by Diana, is to welcome guests as they arrive. There’s not a lot to it. People come in, say it was a lovely service and that they’re sorry. I welcome them and point out where they can find themselves a drink and a chicken sandwich. A year ago I’d have assumed that Diana had given me this role to keep me out of her hair, or because I wasn’t capable of much more. But today, knowing she specifically gave me this job, I feel a strong sense of commitment to it.

From my post at the door, I catch glimpses of Diana every so often, standing on the edges of circles, accepting people’s condolences. She does so with the utmost composure and grace. Diana managed the funeral details single-handedly, with the exception of the eulogy, which she delegated to Ollie, who did a wonderful job of it. I looked over at Diana during the funeral and found her sitting very still and I had a sudden urge to slide over to her and place my hand over hers. Now I regret that I didn’t.

‘Come in,’ I say as a new gaggle of mourners step through the gate. I take the arm of a woman who must be in her nineties and support her weight as she climbs the three steps to the house. She smiles at me and says: ‘Thank you, dear.’

It makes me think of my mother.Lucy, dear. Dinner’s ready. It has been a long time since someone called me dear. I’ve forgotten how nice it feels to be dear to someone.

‘Excuse me, ma’am.’

When I turn, a waiter in a grey jacket is standing before me.

‘I can’t seem to find Mrs Goodwin.’

I glance around. The room has filled. The hum of chatter has risen and there are small plates of half-eaten canapés on tables and mantels. Diana is nowhere to be seen. ‘Oh . . . well, what is it you need?’

‘I’d like to check if we should start serving coffee and tea.’

‘I don’t see why not.’ I glance at the front path and decide it’s safe to leave my station. ‘I’ll see if I can find Diana.’

I search the ground floor of the house. I find Nettie on the back patio, Edie still clamped to her hip.

‘Lucy, where is the nappy bag? Edie is ready for a nap and I need to find Dummy and Lambie.’