‘Ooh a new recipe book? I’m up for that, chef,’ I joked. We’d always cooked together on holiday, Joy and I. She was a great cook and I’d learned a lot from her, but it was more than that, it was ritualistic: the women of the house coming together. It was as we sliced meat, prepared vegetables, talked about recipes, the food we’d cooked before, the food we’d cook again, that we were closest. We had a shared culinary history, something I’d never had with my own mother, and I relished it. In the cosy warmth of Christmas in Joy’s kitchen we’d ponder over the temperature of the turkey, debate the quantity of herbs in the stuffing. And now, in the midsummer heat of a Mediterranean kitchen, we’d fill the air with talk and steam and garlic. And later, when the food was in the oven, the children with the men, Joy would reach into the fridge, loosen some ice cubes, grab two glasses and we’d find a little spot to drink gin together. Like clockwork. ‘Come on, let’s have a livener before everyone comes back,’ she’d say, and we’d clink our glasses and share our stories. She was at her absolute best then, in those golden moments. Here was a woman who loved my husband and my kids as much as I did. We were fighting the same battle, facing the same problems – we were united.
Food always played a central part in the family holidays and get-togethers, an opportunity for us all to sit round the table while Joy reigned at the head.
Every Christmas Eve we’d arrive at Joy and Bob’s big house for a sparkly Christmas with all the trimmings. One year, Violet had a terrible cold, but Joy wouldn’t hear of us staying home. ‘Wrap her up warm and dose her up with Calpol, Clare,’ she’d said. ‘You can’t miss the family Christmas.’ But I didn’t want to take her out into the cold and unsettle Alfie, and I pointed this out to Dan, who said, ‘It wouldn’t be Christmas if we weren’t with Mum and Dad.’ Then he’d added, ‘It would break Mum’s heart if we didn’t spend it with them.’ I’d given in, and within a couple of hours Violet had been revived. It was as if Joy had the power to will the perfect Christmas. Nothing got in her way – and she was always right.
The holidays were the same, family occasions organised, paid for and enthusiastically booked by Joy. And here we were on the Amalfi Coast in Italy, somewhere I’d always longed to visit, and so far it was just as beautiful as I’d imagined it would be.
Sitting drinking gin with my mother-in-law was a pleasure, not least because she always drank the best, and was good company. Daughters-in-law often have strained relationships with their husband’s mothers, and it wasn’t plain sailing, but apart from a slightly bossy nature, Joy was okay. On that first evening in Italy it was hot and the gin cold. I was exhausted, emotionally and physically, and as Joy talked, I put my head back in the leather armchair. It felt good to be here, and the villa was lovely. The thick, high walls of the living room were painted white, and filled with big velvet sofas, built-in cabinets in beautiful dark wood, huge lamps and pictures all over the walls. But there were darker touches too – a birdcage filled with a stuffed bird whose dead, black beady eyes seemed to reproach me every time I caught its glance. It made me slightly uncomfortable, but was a small thing and the vaulted ceilings, wooden shutters and cool, marble floors more than compensated.
‘There’s a lovely boutique Margaret told me about, just off the—’ Joy was saying.
‘Great!’ I said, not convinced the kids would enjoy a day’s boutique shopping, but I didn’t like to say no to her. I just didn’t want to disappoint her. It was the same with Dan and Bob, even Jamie – we all wanted to make Joy happy, she was just that kind of person.
I remember the first time Dan took me home to meet his mother, I’d felt that I’d seen disappointment in her eyes. I’d met Dan one Saturday afternoon when he came into A & E where I worked as a nurse. He’d brought his friend in who’d been injured after a particularly vigorous game of rugby and our eyes met over a plaster cast. I was young, single, just out of college and Dan was good-looking, with dark hair, huge brown eyes and his concern for his friend was really quite endearing. So having sat in the waiting room on a plastic chair for several hours for his friend, he asked for my phone number, and I gave it to him. He called me the next day and asked me out. I liked his sense of humour, the way he held himself, and, on our first date, the way he held me. I first met Joy and Bob for drinks at their home; it was summer and we were in their huge garden. A diminutive blonde with pearly pink lips, Joy shook my hand, and pulled her soft grey pashmina around her, as if to keep out the non-existent chill.
According to Dan, his mother had hoped to matchmake him with one of her friend’s daughters who had a horse and a private education. I felt like I had to work hard if I wanted her approval, which I did, because I wanted Dan, and I knew even then that Joy had a ladylike, but nevertheless strong, hold on both her sons. She wasn’t an easy challenge, and I doubt I charmed her in the early days with my mousy hair and lack of glamour. I was almost on a par with poor old Bob, who even at that first dinner was being told not to lick his knife. But after a few more get-togethers, she began to thaw and perhaps realise I was good for Dan, and most importantly, had no plans to leave the area and take him away from her. Why would I? I longed for stability and family, and in the absence of my own mother was glad to take Joy’s advice on anything and everything – even my wedding dress.
But what I didn’t know back then, as we considered white or ivory against my skin and pondered the toppings for the wedding breakfast profiteroles, was that there’d be spikes along the road ahead. And if someone had warned me, I wouldn’t have listened. I truly believed that my happiness was complete as I walked down the aisle, greeted by my handsome groom, and welcomed into his loving family. But now I know that my happiness was as fragile as the lace veil covering my face, and the future held far more tears than laughter.
Chapter Four
That first night at the villa was magical, the heat didn’t abate and by 7 p.m. the evening was bare-arm warm. We all sat around the big oak table on the patio, eating Joy’s sublime wild mushroom risotto, and one of my child-friendly salads with orange segments and pomegranate, to encourage the kids to eat leaves. We’d also filled a platter with Italian meats and cheeses, and as Joy and I set the table with cutlery and food, Violet lit the tea lights I’d brought from home – they were scattered across the table like stars.
‘We should start our own catering business, Clare,’ Joy said, standing back, admiring our work, acknowledging our partnership. I smiled. This was fun on holiday but Joy was quite a taskmaster, and liked to be in charge. I doubted the fun would last if this were a permanent arrangement.
Once everything was on the table, we ate hungrily, and later let the evening wash over us, talking and drinking coffee. Freddie slept on a nearby sun lounger, while Violet and Alfie played hide-and-seek, mostly under the table. Joy asked me if I felt it might be the children’s bedtime.
‘Another five minutes,’ I said. ‘They’re enjoying themselves.’ Sometimes I needed to dig my heels in where my mother-in-law was concerned, but I’d learned how to handle her.
‘Oh these children must be tired,’ she sighed, reminding me again that she thought they should be in bed. I glanced at my watch. It was after 8 p.m. so I was ready to give in, but just as I was about to stand up and announce it was bedtime, Joy screamed. Then started laughing, as she looked under the table, from where Alfie had apparently tickled her legs. ‘I thought that was you for a minute, Bob,’ she laughed, and Bob almost choked on his beer. Dan and I joined in and, seeing the adults laugh, the children joined in too, and I looked round at all the Taylors laughing and I realised it was one of those rare times when I felt like I belonged. All the struggles, the heartaches, the daily grind, the little squabbles were suddenly turned into gold by the pure alchemy in the air. And I thought, This is what life is about – family. No worries, just warmth and laughter, easy conversation with people you love, your children close by, everyone safe and sated and happy.