Everything to Gain. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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‘No, I haven’t!’ Jamie shrieked at the top of his lungs.
‘Don’t cry, honey,’ I said to Lissa, then added in a reassuring voice, ‘And I’m sure your goldfish isn’t dead. I bet Nanna has it safely in water already. How did the bowl break?’
‘It was Jamie that broke it! He banged on it with a spoon and all the water fell out and my little fish.’
‘He must have been banging awfully hard to break the glass,’ I said, ‘perhaps it was already cracked. I’m sure it was an accident, and that he didn’t do it on purpose.’
In the background, Jamie cried again, ‘I’m sorry.’
Lissa said, ‘He was banging hard, Mommy. He’s mean, he was trying to frighten Swellen.’
‘Swellen?’ I repeated, my voice rising slightly. ‘What kind of name is that?’
‘She means Sue Ellen,’ Diana said to me, having relieved my daughter of the phone. ‘And I suspect the fish bowl was defective, Mal. In any case, the goldfish is alive and kicking, or should I say swimming, in one of your Pyrex dishes. I’ll get a goldfish bowl later, at the pet shop where I bought the goldfish yesterday. That’ll make her happy.’
‘You don’t have to bother buying a new one,’ I said. ‘There’s a bowl from the florist’s in the cupboard where I keep the vases. It’s perfectly adequate.’
‘Thanks for the tip, Mal. Jamie wants to speak to you.’
My son took the phone. ‘Mom, I didn’t do it on purpose, honestly I didn’t. I didn’t!’ he protested.
‘Yes, you did!’ Lissa yelled.
It was apparent to me that she was standing directly behind Jamie, I heard her so clearly. I murmured, ‘I’m sure you didn’t mean to break it, honey. But tell Lissa you’re sorry and give her a kiss. Then everything will be fine.’
‘Yes, Mom,’ he mumbled.
Because he still sounded tearful, I tried to reassure him. ‘I love you, Jamie,’ I said.
‘I love you, too, Mom,’ he answered a bit more cheerfully, and then he dropped the receiver down with a clatter.
‘Jamie, ask Nanna to come to the phone!’ I exclaimed, and repeated this several times to no avail. I was about to hang up when Diana finally came back on the line.
‘I think peace reigns once more,’ she said, and then chuckled. ‘Oh dear, I do believe I speak too soon, Mal.’
A door banged; there was the sound of Trixy barking. ‘I guess Jenny just came back from walking the pooch,’ I said.
‘Exactly. And I’d better prepare breakfast for my little troop here, then get the twins ready for their outing. And seriously, Mal, everything seems to be all right between them. They’ve kissed and made up, and Sue Ellen is happily contained in the bowl, swimming her heart out.’ She chuckled again. ‘I’d forgotten what a handful six-year-olds can be. Either that or I’m getting too old to cope.’
‘You old! Never. And if you remember, their little spats never last long. Basically, they’re very close, like most twins are.’
‘Yes, I do know that.’
‘I’ve loads of chores, Diana, so I must get on. I’ll talk to you tonight. Have a lovely day.’
‘We will, and don’t work too hard, Mallory dear. Bye-bye now.’
‘’Bye,’ I said and hung up.
My hand rested on the receiver for a few moments, my thoughts lingering with my mother-in-law.
Diana was a sweet and caring woman, a truly loving human being, and I’ve always thought it was such a shame she never remarried after Andrew’s father died in 1968, when he was very young, only forty-seven. Michael Keswick, who had never been sick a day in his life, had suffered a sudden heart attack that had proved fatal.
Michael and Diana, who originally hailed from Yorkshire and went to live in London after university, had been childhood sweethearts. They had married young, and Andrew had been born two years after their wedding; it had been an idyllic marriage until the day of Michael’s untimely death.
Diana once told me that she had met quite a few men over the years since then, but that none of them had ever really measured up to Michael.
‘Why settle for second best?’ she had said to me during one of our treasured moments of genuine intimacy. On another occasion, she had confided that she much preferred to be on her own, rather than having to cope with a man who didn’t meet her standards, did not compare favourably to Michael.
‘I’d always be making mental notes about him, passing private judgements, and it wouldn’t be fair to the poor man,’ she had said to me. ‘Being on my own means I’m independent, my own boss, and I can therefore do what I want, when I want. I can come to New York to see all of you when the mood strikes me. I can work late every night of the week, if I so wish, and I can go up to Yorkshire whenever I feel like it. Or dash over to France on a buying trip, on the spur of the moment. I don’t have to answer to anyone, I’m a free agent, and believe me, Mal, it’s better this way, it really is.’
I had asked her that day if Michael had been her only love, or if she had ever fallen in love again? And she had muttered something and glanced away. Intrigued by the way she had flushed, albeit ever so slightly, and averted her head with sudden swiftness, I had been unable to resist repeating my question.
After a moment’s hesitation and an unexpected stiffening of her shoulders, she had finally turned her face back to mine. Her gaze had been direct, her eyes filled with the honesty I’d come to appreciate and rely on. I always knew where I stood with her, and that was important to me.
Slowly, she had said in the softest of voices, ‘The only man I’ve ever been remotely interested in on a serious level, and very strongly attracted to is … not free. Separated for the longest time, but not actually divorced. And that’s not good. I mean, it would be impossible for me to have a relationship with a man who was legally tied to another woman, even if not actually living with her. Untenable really, and certainly no future in it.’
Her shoulders had relaxed again and she had shaken her head. ‘I came to the conclusion a very long time ago that I’m much better off living on my own, Mal. And I am happy, whatever you think. I’m at peace with myself.’
Despite those words that day, it has often struck me since that Diana must have moments of great sadness, of acute loneliness. But Andrew doesn’t agree with me.
‘Not Ma!’ he exclaimed when I first voiced this opinion. ‘She’s busier than a one-legged toe dancer doing Swan Lake alone and in its entirety. She’s up at the crack, behind her desk at the antique shop by six, cataloguing her stock of antiques, bossing her staff around and floating over to Paris to buy furniture and paintings and objets at the drop of a hat. Not to mention wining and dining her posh clients, and fussing over us, her dearest darlings. Then there’s her life in Yorkshire … she’s forever racing up there to make sure the old homestead hasn’t tumbled down.’
Shaking his head emphatically, he had finished, ‘Ma lonely? Never. She’s the least lonely person I know.’
At that time I had thought: Perhaps she keeps herself so frantically busy in order not to notice her loneliness, perhaps even to assuage it. But I hadn’t mentioned this to Andrew. After all, he was her son, her only child, and he ought to know her well, if anybody did.
And yet there have been times over the years when I have noticed a wistful expression on Diana’s face, a sadness in her eyes, a look of longing almost. A yearning, maybe, for Michael? Or for that love who was not entirely available? I wasn’t sure and I have never had the nerve to broach the subject.
Nora startled me, made me jump in my chair as she came