Henry wondered what it was he wouldn’t expect and how on earth his mother-in-law could know. Cynthia had no idea what he would or wouldn’t expect. Imogen’s mother had barely known him. In fact, she’d never really bothered to get to know him. Maybe, if she had, thought Henry, just maybe, things would have been different, but then again, maybe not. Henry had never been what they would have chosen for their daughter. If asked, Cynthia would have said that she had tried very hard to get on with Henry. She’d had her reservations about him, which she would insist had been quite valid. He’d been brash, selfish, and self-opinionated. Of course, she’d never stopped telling him that he’d stolen her opportunity to become a grandmother and that she could never forgive him for that. How Imogen would have made a wonderful mother. Cynthia had envisioned Imogen giving her many grandchildren. It seemed everyone she knew had them, except her, and whenever possible she would point out that Imogen’s hips were perfect for childbearing.
‘Children would be a blemish on our idyllic lifestyle,’ Henry had said.
‘Children aren’t a blemish,’ Cynthia had argued. ‘They’re a blessing.’
She turned now to her daughter and said,
‘Hardly anyone wears black these days.’
‘I want to wear it,’ Imogen told her mother firmly. ‘It seems only right.’
Cynthia sighed.
‘It doesn’t become you,’ she said.
Henry thought that black didn’t really become anyone, but, of course, he couldn’t say so. At least, he could, but no one would hear him.
‘Widowhood or black,’ snapped Imogen.
Her mother pursed her lips.
‘We’re only trying to help darling.’
‘I know,’ said Imogen, softening, taking the steaming tea cup from her mother. Cynthia didn’t believe in mugs. Mugs were for builders, she’d insist.
Imogen’s mouth opened as though she was about to speak but instead she bit her lower lip.
‘Why don’t you come for lunch tomorrow?’ said her father, John. ‘Take your mind off things.’
Take her mind off my death, you mean, thought Henry.
‘That would be nice. I’ve decided to go back to work next week.’
‘So soon,’ said her mother, surprised. ‘Everything seems to be happening very quickly.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Imogen defensively.
‘Well, the funeral was very quick and …’
‘I didn’t see the point in dragging things on,’ Imogen sighed.
‘No, of course not,’ agreed her father.
‘I think it best,’ said Imogen. ‘I need to get my mind off things. I’ll go stark raving mad if I don’t.’
Tears rushed to her eyes and Cynthia hurried to embrace her.
‘Oh, darling,’ she murmured.
John grabbed some kitchen towel.
‘Here,’ he said.
‘I’m alright,’ said Imogen, snatching the piece of kitchen towel and turning her head away.
‘We should look at this insurance you know,’ said her father, pushing the documents across the table.
‘Not again,’ muttered Henry.
