The Son-in-Law (39 page)

Lester chuckled under his beard. ‘She’s a mother-in-law.’

‘God. They can’t all be like that, can they?’

‘Wanna bet? The point is that your children would like the adults in their lives to work together. I asked Theo what he’d ask for if I could grant only one wish, and he said
I wish they could
be friends.
’

Joseph crossed moodily to a chair and dropped into it, legs stretched out. He sat for a time with his hands in his pockets, regarding his feet.

‘Theo said that?’

Lester nodded gravely. ‘And Scarlet agreed.’

‘Not gonna happen. Over Hannah’s dead body . . . Okay.’ Wearily, Joseph rubbed his hands down his face. ‘Okay, okay. If they agree to meet me, I’ll cooperate. But I’ll bet you a tenner it won’t happen.’

•

Hannah

Freddie was playing the harpsichord. It was transformative, an escape from the imprisonment of his dementia. As soon as he sat down to play, vocabulary became irrelevant; even arthritis was conquered. He could still express himself with those mathematical progressions. He could still reveal his inner self and be the man I loved and admired.

Theo was at gym club. Scarlet was shopping for bikinis with Vienna (just off to Thailand, poor spoiled child) but would be dropped home soon to entertain Ben while we talked to Lester. Ben was sprawled underneath the harpsichord, doing his homework—which consisted of drawing a picture.

And me? Ah well. As usual, I was trying to tidy up. As usual, I was failing. The clutter was winning. They’ll put that on my gravestone:
The clutter won.
I moved ineffectually around the mess, arranging piles of detritus into bigger piles. Pencil cases, newspapers, toys, letters, envelopes, crumpled paper bags from school lunchboxes. Ben and I had been baking biscuits the previous evening, and the mess was lightly dusted with flour.

Scarlet had forgotten her phone. I found it under a mound of flour-dusted bills. Keen for a distraction from the chaos, I stopped cleaning and clumsily navigated my way through her pictures. Nosy of me, in hindsight, but I was sure she wouldn’t mind. She often showed me her photos and they were always such fun. Sure enough, many of them I’d seen already. Several were of the school dance: girls wearing obscenely short dresses, and gawky teenage boys. There were some lovely ones of Freddie in the garden.
Ouch
—there was me. I winced. I wished she’d delete that picture; it made me look like a plump cross-dressing wolf.

Then there were a whole batch that I didn’t recognise at all. Ben, cuddling a collie. Three lambs. My grandsons with some children I didn’t know, all of them knee-deep in a stream and waving at the camera. Theo in mid-swing on a rope, mouth wide open and turned up in cartoonish delight, as though he was yelling. Such a solemn child, generally; I’d rarely seen him look so animated.

This, then, was their other life.

With sick fascination, I scrolled on through the photographs. It was foolish masochism because I knew I’d see him in the end.

Yes. Oh, yes. There he was: Joseph Scott in blue shirtsleeves, the image glamorously blurred by speed, kicking a ball. He’d obviously taken a tumble because his clothes were muddied. Dark hair was flying at all angles; it made him look young. Those irritating round-rimmed glasses were sliding down his nose. Ben and Theo seemed to be tackling him, heads down as they concentrated on the ball.

A duvet, covered in colourful birds. Scott was lounging on the bed with Roald Dahl in one hand. Ben—my little Ben—was kneeling up beside his father. They didn’t seem to know they were being photographed. My grandson’s arm was hooked around Scott’s neck, and they gazed into the book, absorbed. Their heads were close together.

Another must have been taken by Scarlet with her arm outstretched. It was an unflattering image, fisheyed, distorted by the proximity of its subjects. She was sticking out her tongue at the camera; Scott was smiling at her. They looked like friends.

I spied on this alternative universe, and I felt lonely. The quiet undulations of the harpsichord seemed to thread and twine around it all. One image after another; snapshots of a life in which I could never take part.

The doorbell made me jump.

I let Lester Hardy in quietly. I wanted him to hear Freddie playing. He followed me into the sitting room and stood smiling benignly at Ben, who was still lying at his grandfather’s feet.

‘Lovely,’ he murmured. ‘What perfect companionship.’

Freddie didn’t hear us, but Ben looked up and instantly his face took on a wary, closed look. He slid out from under the instrument and ran to bury his head in my skirt.

‘Benji!’ I exclaimed, half laughing. ‘You’re not shy!’

‘Hi Ben,’ said Lester, but the little boy slid around the back of me.

The music had stopped. Freddie was getting up from the piano stool, holding on to the top of the instrument as he slowly turned himself around. His balance had suffered after the most recent stroke.

‘Ah!’ he cried. His tone was as hospitable and cheerful as ever, but that one syllable was all he uttered. I could tell he wanted to add more, was searching his brain for more, but the words had fallen down a bottomless well. So he smiled broadly, and let Lester shake his hand.

‘Frederick,’ said Lester, with what sounded like real affection. ‘Good to see you again.’

‘I’ve got a pot of tea half-made,’ I said, and dashed to get it. I was as fast as possible because I didn’t like to think of poor Freddie left struggling to talk. Ben ran beside me like a baby elephant with its mother, his hand skimming my skirt.

‘Why are you being all shy with Mr Hardy?’ I asked him, though I knew the answer. Ben had worked out why Lester was there. He knew his dad wanted to take him away from us. Clinginess was to be expected.

Back in the sitting room, Lester bent to look at Ben’s school book. ‘What’s this picture all about?’ he asked.

Ben’s natural gregariousness won the battle. ‘A seed growing in a pot,’ he replied promptly. ‘We planted them. My one has two leaves—see?’

They talked amiably as I poured the tea. Freddie sat in an armchair, watching his grandson with a lopsided smile.

‘And what is the best thing about school?’ asked Lester.

Ben considered this question. ‘Lunch,’ he decided in the end. ‘Hannah puts cake in my lunch.’

‘Aha! Good for her. And I bet she makes marvellous cake.’

‘I’m her ’prentice,’ declared Ben proudly.

It wasn’t until later, after Scarlet had arrived home and taken Ben off to the park, that Lester mentioned Scott’s name.

‘Despicable,’ I said furiously. ‘Kicking us when we’re down.’

‘What do you think is motivating him?’

I looked to Freddie for guidance, and he nodded encouragingly back at me before his mouth began to form words. ‘Nnn . . . not-conshrijun,’ he mumbled.

I stared at his mouth, trying to interpret, replaying the sounds. It was no good.

‘Sorry, Freddie? I didn’t get that.’

He took a deep breath and tried again. ‘Not . . . conshishun.’

‘Not contrition?’ I queried, and he slapped a hand on his knee.

‘Freddie’s hit the mark,’ I said to Lester. ‘Whatever is motivating that man, it certainly isn’t contrition! If he was genuinely contrite—had any remorse at all—he wouldn’t be putting us through this. Lord! If I’d killed somebody, I wouldn’t think myself worthy to tie their parents’ shoelaces, let alone drag them to court.’

Lester sat holding his cup, the porcelain delicate in those heavy hands. He was wearing the purple shirt and yellow tie. ‘It would really help if you could open a line of communication,’ he ventured.

‘No.’

‘In my office. I would be there.’

‘No.’

‘The children would benefit immensely. If you could just meet him halfway, he—’ ‘I said
no!
’

I must have startled Freddie because he spilled tea down his trousers. I saw him carefully resting his cup on the saucer before reaching for a handkerchief in his jacket pocket. His struggle for dignity was unbearable.

‘The answer is no, Lester! Please don’t ask again. I will not sit in a room with Joseph Scott and that is final. I won’t do it now, next week, next year—never. He has destroyed both my daughter and my husband and I will not—under any circumstances—meet him
halfway!
’

I realised I’d unwittingly spat. A pulse was throbbing away in my temples and I felt dizzy—I’m sure it was the rage, pumping me full of adrenaline. I was ready to fight to the death, then and there.

Freddie leaned across and patted my arm. Lester looked at him expectantly.

‘Th . . . th . . . they’re . . .’ Freddie took breath, gathering his strength for a supreme effort. Then he spoke each word separately. ‘They’re . . . all . . . we have leff.’ He swallowed painfully, as though there was a pebble stuck in his throat. ‘All we have leff. Of Zoe.’

•

What emerged very clearly from my conversation with
Scarlet and Theo is that they feel sharply divided loyalties. Theo described himself as ‘on both sides of a war at once.’ Whilst this is not a dispute punctuated by violence, it is one of
enormous hostility and tension. It is a cold war.

The Wildes have been primary carers for over four years,
and share a close bond with these children. Ben in particular remembers no other parenting. I have observed him to cling
to Hannah when uncertain. To change the status quo would
have a considerable impact on all the children but perhaps
especially on Ben.

Joseph Scott made the point to me that that the Wildes
are grandparents, not parents. While this is undeniable, it
is only one factor among many. Frederick Wilde’s health is
another such factor. Despite his aphasia, he made a number
of perceptive remarks when I visited and was as personable
as ever. It is clear that he has the needs of the children firmly
to heart. Yet he struggles to express himself and I understand
that on occasion he can become confused. The Wildes’ ability
to provide care is likely to be tested increasingly as time
passes. This of course is true in any family where one carer
has health difficulties, and if handled sensitively it can even be
an enriching experience.

I regret that I am unable to make a firm recommendation
in this case. Whatever decision is made, these parties must
set aside their personal feelings if the children’s wellbeing is
to be preserved. What matters is not where the children have
primary residence; what matters is whether or not the adults
in their lives are able and willing to work together.

•

Scarlet

‘Yeah,’ I said, when Mr Hardy told me he was going to put that in his report. ‘But it’s not going to happen.’

He’d come to visit us at Dad’s house in Helmsley, and asked me to show him around the garden. Bees zigzagged over the lavender bushes.

‘Maybe one day things will change,’ he said.

‘That would take a miracle.’

‘Sorry. Can’t do miracles.’

‘So you’re not a genie, then?’

He patted his belly. ‘Too plump to fit in a lamp.’

The rubber band in my stomach had started twisting again. It began the moment I learned that Dad had applied to have us live with him.

‘When are they going to court?’ I asked.

‘Next Wednesday.’

‘Maybe we could shove them all into a lift,’ I suggested, breaking a dead stick off an apple tree. ‘We could make it jam. After three hours trapped together in a tiny space, they might start to talk.’

‘Nice idea.’

‘Then again, they’d probably just throttle each other.’ I beheaded a clump of weeds with my stick.
Swish-thwack
. ‘Perhaps it would help if us children died.’

‘If you
what
?’

‘Died.’
Swish-thwack
. ‘If we were all three killed in a car crash, they’d have to talk to each other . . . No, even that wouldn’t help. They’d have separate visiting times at the cemetery. We’d have to have two lots of funerals. Maybe they’d cut us in half and have two graves each.’

He pointed across the orchard. ‘Is that a chicken house?’

‘Sure is! We’ve got four pullets. They’ll be around here somewhere.’

‘So they’re free range?’

‘Mm-hm. They dig up everything we’ve planted and make a mess on the doorstep, but they’re really fun. We just put them away in the evenings so a fox doesn’t get them.’

The hens were at the far end of the garden, mooching about. They came racing down the grass when they saw us, hoping we had food. They looked like four red and brown ladies, holding up their skirts and screaming insults at one another. I went over to the metal bin beside their house, grabbed a cupful of grain and scattered it for them.

‘It’s an idea, isn’t it?’ I mused, as we watched them pecking in fast motion. ‘Us three dying. Then they’d have nothing left to fight about.’

‘These are rather dark thoughts for you to be having.’

‘That’s how I feel,’ I said simply. ‘Dark.’

‘Tell me about feeling dark.’ He was still looking at the hens. ‘What do you mean by that?’

The rubber band was twisting. It made me feel as though my whole self was about to snap. It seemed to squeeze the fury out of my mouth. ‘I can’t do it. I can’t do it anymore.’

‘Can’t do what?’

‘I can’t keep everyone happy. I can’t pretend to Hannah that I don’t care about Dad, or make Dad feel that we don’t really love Hannah and Gramps. I have to be two people all the time, living two lives, always pretending and covering up and watching what I say . . . Everyone’s upset, and I feel as though it’s my fault.’

‘How can it be your fault?’

‘Because I exist.’ I slammed the metal lid back onto the bin. ‘Whatever happens in court, it’s going to be a disaster. Whatever happens, everyone is still going to be upset. This is never going to end. Never, ever.’

•

I didn’t sleep that night. Not until three in the morning, anyway. I didn’t sleep the next night either, or the one after that, or any night in the days leading up to the court hearing. I felt more and more tired, but at the same time twitchy and tangled up. I tried to act normally, but I must have failed because Hannah asked me if I was feeling ill. I said it was that time of the month
,
which did the trick. She gets embarrassed by that kind of thing.