Chapter One
I beamed at the eleven people sitting around my extended dining table as they sang a slightly offkey rendition of Happy Birthday.
My smile widened as the twelfth family member joined us, carefully holding a large cake with flickering candles.
Ella set down before me a large sponge-and-cream creation just as the tuneless squawks reached a crescendo.
‘Happy birthday dear Maggieeee’ – everyone momentarily held the note – ‘happy birthday to you!’
‘Thank you,’ I smiled, a little embarrassed at the spotlight of attention.
Leaning forward, I took a deep breath. I now knew how the Big Bad Wolf had felt when he’d told the three little pigs that he was going to blow their house down. I’d certainly have to huff and puff to blow this little lot out. Had Ella really put sixty candles on the cake?
‘Careful,’ she warned. Suddenly she was grabbing my hair and scooping it into a twist at the nape of my neck. ‘You might still have flaming-red hair, but we don’t want it going up in flames,’ she laughed nervously.
I took a deep breath and extinguished all the candles in one puff. Ha! Beat that, Mr Wolf.
‘Make a wish,’ Greg whooped.
My blue eyes, now brimming, met my husband’s dark ones. They were full of kindness and love. He could see I was in trouble but championing me on.
Come on, Mags. Don’t bawl like a baby. Stiff upper lip, girl. You can cry on my shoulder later. When we’re in bed. Snuggle up to me. And I’ll make love to you. Because even though you’re now sixty years old, you’ve still got it. Still make my heart sing.
Oh, how I adored this man. We’d been through some tricky stuff in the last couple of years. Aging parents had demanded more and more of our time. Then our girls had busted up with their partners – childhood sweethearts no less. At the time, Ruby and Ella had needed lots of emotional support.
Then some financial issues had unexpectedly come along.
Greg’s parents had got into difficulty when their pension no longer covered the basics.
We’d leapt to assist. Then our eldest had found himself out of work.
Tim had panicked. Wife Steph had a job but didn’t earn enough to cover everything.
We’d leapt to assist again. Then, shockingly, my in-laws had died within weeks of each other.
Pneumonia. I’d had no idea that funerals were so expensive.
Our ‘rainy-day’ savings had taken a battering, so we’d forfeited our annual holiday.
That hadn’t bothered us. Did going away really matter, in the grand scheme of things?
No, of course not. Greg and I considered ourselves blessed to be entering our autumn years with our health and to still have one set of parents in this world.
Mum and Dad were now creaking through their nineties.
Meanwhile, Ella and Ruby – who had previously sworn off men forever – were in love again and partnered up with Archie and Josh. Good. Greg and I wanted our kids to be happy. To know a love that stood the test of time. Like ours.
Like any couple, we’d had our ups and downs. But we’d always gravitated back into each other’s arms. Always kissed each other goodnight. Never gone to bed on an argument.
Thankfully, Tim and Steph, now married for two years, appeared to be following in our footsteps.
Again, they’d had the odd spat – as we all do, at the risk of repeating myself – but nothing serious.
No cheating. No gambling. No addictions.
Their arguments were more a gentle bickering about who got to watch I’m a Celebrity when a must-see football match was occurring on another channel. Nothing significant. Nothing major.
‘Have you wished?’ prompted Ella, keen to whisk the cake away and cut it up.
‘Not yet. Hang on.’
I shut my eyes. Wondered what to wish for. My thoughts scrabbled about.
I wish… I wish… I wish for everyone around this table to always be happy.
‘All done,’ I smiled at Ella. ‘You oversee the cake while I put the kettle on.’ I pushed back my chair and stood up, addressing everyone. ‘Who wants tea, and who wants coffee?’
There was the usual clamour of orders. Dad wanted coffee.
Mum didn’t, although that might change. Due to severe dementia, her decisions about anything were both erratic and inconsistent.
Ruby wanted black decaf. Josh told me to make that two.
Ella yodelled from across the kitchen that she’d like a proper coffee, not instant, and to use the cafetiere.
My sister Freya asked if there was any green tea lurking at the back of the cupboard.
This on account of PG Tips being full of poisonous chemicals.
‘Teabags are bleached,’ she now declared. I knew from her tone that she was getting in her stride. ‘And when did you last change the filter on that water jug?’
‘Last week,’ I lied.
It was probably overdue for a change. One always knew on account of the water suddenly tasting like the local swimming pool. I turned to Freya’s husband.
‘What would you like, Vernon?’
My brother-in-law opened his mouth to speak but my sister immediately answered for him.
‘He’ll have a green tea too. No sugar.’
Greg shot me a look, then gave a discreet eyeroll.
Neither Freya nor Vernon had seen, but Ruby had.
She gave a snort of laughter, then quickly turned it into a cough.
My husband didn’t care much for my sister.
I knew because he’d once said so. But only to me.
He was far too polite to ever go head-to-head with anyone.
And Freya had pushed Greg’s buttons on numerous occasions.
That said, Freya pushed everyone’s buttons. Mine included. She seemed to delight in it. There wasn’t a single person around the table that she hadn’t upset at some point or another. She had a sharp tongue and sharper opinions.
I was the one who kept quiet. The one who acted as peacemaker if a debate became too heated.
The one who put the fire out when a conversation became an argument.
I played the role of mediator. Piggy in the middle.
Or – as Greg had recently said now that my parents were behaving this way too – Maggie in the middle.
On more than one occasion Freya had washed her hands of me.
Sometimes for months at a time. This was usually because I wouldn’t agree to her way of thinking.
She’d been incensed when I’d squared up to one of her ex-husbands.
Robin had slapped Tim for cheeking him. Tim had been seven at the time.
I can’t now recall why Freya and Robin had been with me and Tim, but they had.
And, yes, Tim had been a bit cheeky. But not maliciously so.
He’d impishly asked Freya’s third husband what it was like to be bald.
Robin had touched his combover, turned purple, and shouted at Tim to mind his manners.
He’d then delivered a hearty slap to Tim’s cheek.
I’d reacted instantly. Grabbed the prat by the shoulders. Thrust my face into his. Mummy Lion. And I’d roared. Said that if he ever laid a finger on my son again, I’d flatten him.
Freya had been apoplectic. Called me a fishwife. Told me it was no wonder Tim was so rude when his own mother was such a terrible example.
Perhaps I should tell you about another significant row – to give you a second flavour of this sibling relationship.
Freya had been put out when I’d refused to photograph her last wedding – photography being my business.
I’d been the official photographer at all three of her previous marriages.
My gift to her. But I’d drawn the line at the fourth wedding.
By this point, Mum had been diagnosed with dementia.
She had good days, and bad. My father was also struggling with frailty, periodic confusion and age-related health issues but refused care assistance. “Over my dead body,” he’d asserted.
Someone had needed to help the Golden Oldies get ready for the big day, especially as Freya had wanted Dad to walk her down the aisle in full morning suit.
That someone had been me. However, I hadn’t been able to oversee the parents’ needs and Freya’s wedding photography. It simply hadn’t been possible.
I’d done my best to explain to my sister.
To compromise with her. I’d said that Greg would oversee Dad and then drop him off to Freya’s house, ready to depart in the Roller.
Meanwhile, I’d do Mum’s makeup, get her dressed, and then drive straight to the venue.
However, Freya had wanted me to go to her house before the wedding.
Take photographs of her getting into her wedding dress, etcetera, etcetera.
My energy levels, while good, aren’t what they used to be. I hadn’t been up for rushing around, juggling my confused mother with wedding photography, or a wheelchair with a tripod and lighting equipment. I’d politely suggested Freya appoint another photographer.
My sister had been furious. Told me I was selfish.
Unsupportive. Unkind. She’d sent me long ranting texts.
Her last one had been so poisonous, somehow so shaming, I’d nearly caved in.
Nearly told myself that I could get up at five in the morning.
Could bathe Mum and wash her hair – or not, depending on whether Mum thought I was a stranger trying to drown her.
But then I’d hazarded that our mother might have a good day.
That she might let me do her hair and makeup.
Might allow me to dress her in a new posh frock and not the food-stained old trousers she couldn’t bear to be parted from.
That hopefully there wouldn’t be any dementia tantrums. Or swearing.
And then, after several frustrating and exhausting hours, I might even snatch five minutes to do my own makeup.
Bung a fascinator on my head. Belt off to the church.
Camera around my neck. Equipment in the boot, with Mum’s wheelchair and walking frame.
Get there just in time to photograph Freya on Dad’s arm. Ready to walk down the aisle again.
When my sister had married her previous three husbands, she’d had two weddings – a registry office and then a church blessing. She’d done the same when she’d married Vernon. By my reckoning she’d walked down the aisle eight times. Anyway, I digress.
I’d stuck to my guns. Told Freya no. That, due to Mum’s dementia, it wasn’t possible. Freya hadn’t spoken to me for six months. At her wedding to Vernon, she’d blanked me.
Our last spat had been over the Covid pandemic. Freya had declared it a hoax.
‘It’s more bollocks than Boris Johnson’s overworked testicles,’ she’d ranted.
On this occasion I’d come perilously close to agreeing with her. After all, Boris had cancelled Christmas and then been caught partying. I’d been flabbergasted. No social distancing. No masks. If the country’s leader seemed so unconcerned, why the hell was everyone in lockdown?
For decades, Freya had always been something of a conspiracy theorist. From declaring toothpaste poison on account of its fluoride content, to Covid vaccinations being a population cull. She was a scaremonger.
My sister had never had children. Her reason? So as not to further burden Mother Earth. Like most childless women, Freya was an authority on how parents should raise their children.
Freya had been vocal over my children wearing disposable nappies.
What was wrong with cloth alternatives? And why were the kids bottle fed?
What was wrong with breast milk? She’d looked appalled when, after yet another sleepless night, I’d reached for a jar of Mr Heinz instead of pureeing homemade food.
My sister was almost messianic in pointing out where I was going wrong. Whether it be on how to raise my kids or how to leap life’s hurdles.
‘I don’t know why you listen to your sister,’ Greg had roared from his sickbed – after having the vaccine that I’d refused (yes, on account of Freya’s influence).
‘There’s a pandemic. People are dying and you don’t want to be one of them!
’ At that point I’d had Covid but hadn’t died.
This had caused Freya to crow with triumph about the benefits of Vitamin C and D.
‘Apart from anything else’ – Greg had added – ‘your sister isn’t even nice to you.
Look at all the arguments she’s created.
The months where she’s not spoken to you.
I get fed up with it. One of these days she’ll overstep the mark and I’ll say something I regret. ’
He hadn’t. Yet. And I doubted he ever would. As I’ve said, Greg was courteous and polite to people – and that included Freya. But the kids hadn’t always followed their father’s example.
There had been one memorable Christmas. I’d irritated the kids by doing my sister’s bidding.
I’d bought organic vegetables instead of supermarket frozen produce.
I’d also purchased a cornfed, free-range turkey that had likely listened to panpipes at the time of slaughter.
However, I’d cheated over the gravy. Used granules.
Freya had loudly deplored this. Tim – now an adult and emboldened by Christmas champers – had told his aunt to get off her soapbox and shut up. Cue Freya going into victim mode.
Her face had crumpled and there had been hysterics of the unfunny kind. My father had then waded in. Told Tim off. Tim had said he was fed up with Aunty Freya putting people down. My mother – confused and panicky – had thought Freya wanted her euthanised.
‘More champagne over here, Greg,’ I’d trilled gaily, desperate to divert attention. ‘Another top up, Freya? And Ruby, don’t hog the nibbles. Pass them round!’
But Freya wasn’t to be distracted. Between catchy breaths and gulps, she’d pushed back her chair. She wasn’t staying. She’d called Vernon to heel and flounced off. Who’d have thought Bisto would cause such a rumpus?
Anyway, I digress. This is my family. And on this occasion, my sixtieth birthday, I’d trodden on eggshells to ensure no feathers were ruffled.
And by that, I mean Freya’s feathers. I’d sat her next to me so I could instantly diffuse a tricky conversation.
No, I didn’t want her winding up Tim – a doctor – about paracetamol being the devil’s invention.
Or telling the girls that their gorgeous new lipsticks contained metal and would cause early dementia. You get the gist.
All that was now left to do was hand out the sliced-up birthday cake with the coffees and teas.
I went to the fridge and discreetly decanted the milk into a glass jug. I didn’t want Freya seeing the carton – yes, plastic – and discovering the milk wasn’t organic.