The Sister-In-Law(4)

‘Come on, Clare, let’s leave the men to carry those heavy cases. Let me show you the garden,’ Joy urged, grabbing me by the elbow and guiding me through an archway of green while Bob helped Dan with the luggage.

The kids danced around and the men’s talk of roads and journey comparisons faded as Joy and I headed towards the large garden, now sinking into twilight. Always aware, I carried Freddie, while calling for Violet to keep an eye on Alfie near the pool, while Joy pointed at the bougainvillea smothering the Italian tiled doorway. ‘The colour!’ she gasped loudly. I marvelled at it and, as the kids screeched excitedly around the pool, she talked about what we’d eat and the wonderful recipes she’d discovered since our last holiday the previous year. We both enjoyed discussing and dissecting recipes and loved cooking. It was something that bonded us, something I’d once shared with my own mum, and in her own way, Joy had been there for me. ‘I’ll never be your mum, but I’ll be the closest I can,’ she’d said to me at our wedding. Her kindness had made me cry, but she was there with a tissue to save my make-up. Just like a mother. In the years since, she’d kept to her promise, and times when I’d been desperate for support, she’d stepped in and been the mother I needed.

‘I’m preparing risotto for tonight,’ she said as we admired the garden together. She said risotto in an Italian voice. She’d never said it like that before, had probably heard a waiter in the previous evening’s restaurant. Joy was a chameleon. Having grown up in a working-class family with no money, aspiration was in her DNA and she sometimes sat rather awkwardly between two worlds. Her life seemed divided into past and present. Bob was her penniless teenage sweetheart who’d eventually been able to provide her with the life she felt she deserved and given her access to a different world. And though they weren’t hugely wealthy, she’d certainly moved up in the world – a detached house with the same postcode as Manchester United footballers in Cheshire is considered royalty when you’re from a backstreet terrace.

Over the years, Joy had transformed herself, hiding her roots under good tailoring and listening to the other ladies who lunched, emulating their voices, mannerisms and old-fashioned ideals. Men were meant for two things in Joy’s world: making money and lifting heavy stuff. Everything else was left to ‘us girls’. Meanwhile, Bob had been too busy making money to put on a tie or lose his northern vowels, but somehow they rubbed along.

‘Muuum, can we swim now?’ Violet was calling me from the other side of the large pool.

‘Oh darling, I’m not sure…’

‘Pleeeeeeease,’ she started, which set the other two off.

I was too tired from travelling to argue, and wanted an easy transition into the villa that night, so within seconds I’d given in.

‘Okay,’ I sighed, with a roll of my eyes. ‘I have to go and supervise,’ I said to Joy. I was wearing jeans and a T-shirt – if I rolled up my jeans and kept the children in the shallow end, I could paddle with them.

‘Oh, darling, don’t you think it’s a little late for them to swim?’ Joy said pointedly. This was a rhetorical question as if I was expected to agree with her and simply announce my change of mind to the children. It was a long time since Joy had had children, and she sometimes seemed to forget that a broken promise could mean the start of World War Three. As indomitable as Joy could be in the face of disobedience, three frustrated kids on the verge of tears was far more daunting to me.

I could see this was an inconvenience for Joy who was no doubt ready for her gin and tonic. ‘It’s never too early for a drink, the sun is always over the yardarm somewhere in the world,’ was her holiday mantra most afternoons. And as hard as she tried to hide her feelings now, she couldn’t. Her lips locked together like she’d sucked a tart lemon. She’d had in her mind the perfect image of her grandchildren, like a photograph, sun shining through their blonde hair like halos. She expected them to be sweet and biddable, have supper, go to bed and fit into her plans without a quibble. But, sadly for her, the kids didn’t get the memo.

As lovely as she was, there were times when none of us quite came up to Joy’s expectations, even her precious grandchildren, and this wasn’t how she’d planned our arrival. She held her hands together tightly over her stomach like if she didn’t anchor them down she might be forced to swim too. Poor Joy looked in pain. She loved our girlie get-togethers on holiday, as did I, but with the men busy unloading the car, we were on children duty until Dan appeared or the kids were safely inside. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t be her gin-drinking companion yet. On the other side of the pool, Alfie was already stripping off.

‘No, Alfie, not at that end,’ I said, ‘it’s deep. Come over here.’ I headed off in his direction, looking back at Joy apologetically, while she smiled but raised her eyebrows in vague disapproval. ‘Alfie wait… stop!’ I shouted, as he continued to take off his clothes, throwing them in the air like he was bloody Magic Mike. ‘Alfie, if you don’t come to the shallow end NOW, you will have to come inside,’ I said, in an attempt to show him who was boss.

‘NO!’ he shouted, following up with a slight change of tack. ‘Muuum…’ He began an elongated whine.

‘You promised we could swim,’ said Violet, finishing off her sibling’s sentence from the other side of the garden.