The Good Wife aka The Good Wife Strikes Back

plugged now by astonishment that my father had allowed this to happen.

I pulled myself together and rang Sally. ‘Oh,’ she said. Then, ‘I must sit down.’ After a pause, she said, ‘Go over it again.’ A clink of china sounded in the background, and radio music, and other voices that belonged in my mother’s life.

‘It was a heart attack.’

‘I won’t come to the funeral,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I could. I will think of him, though.’

At this, I wept down the phone. ‘Listen, Fanny,’ said Sally, ‘you must remember that Alfredo considered you the best thing that ever happened to him. Remember that.’

It was the first really motherly thing my mother had ever said to me, and I wrote it down on the notepad beside the telephone, with the date scrawled at the bottom, because I wanted to make sure I had caught every syllable.

Mannochie came to the rescue. Organizing. Planning. Cancelling appointments. Chloe was not to fly home – we talked her through what would happen and promised to call her every day. Where did I want the funeral? Burial or cremation? Which hymns? What music? I pulled myself together. Good wives were trained to make things take shape, to make events happen well, to smooth and soothe, and a good daughter followed suit.

Anyway, I had to keep Meg on the level, for she had taken my father’s death badly. ‘I loved him too,’ she said.

‘If you let us down now,’ I told her, tight-lipped and hollow-eyed, ‘then…’ I didn’t finish the sentence but it wasn’t necessary. Meg understood well enough.

The funeral came and went. My father had left written instructions as to what he wished. With Will at my side, I sang the hymns and listened to a reading from Gibran’s The Prophet, ‘Open your heart wide unto the body of life’, and shook hands with a great many people.

‘Such a tragedy,’ murmured one.

‘So sorry,’ said another.

But I did not pay them much attention.

Afterwards, the hearse took the body to be cremated. He had left further instructions that I should bury his ashes where I thought fit.

I did not know where was fit.

Afterwards Will dashed back to London, and in the evening Meg helped me to clear up. ‘Fanny,’ she said, more gently than normal, ‘you’ll have to think about the house. I take it you’ll sell it.’

‘Have you been talking to Will?’

She stretched clingfilm over a plate of leftover sandwiches. ‘Maybe.’

‘It’s not his decision,’ I said sharply.

‘Have it your own way, darling.’ She put cups and saucers back into the cupboard. ‘By the way, since you’ve been so busy, I bought the socks for Will.’

‘What socks?’

‘He mentioned he needed some. I’ve put them on your bed. I thought it would help you.’

I stared at her. ‘You needn’t have bothered.’ I could barely articulate the words.

‘No.’ She smiled brightly. ‘But I did.’

I gathered up the plates in silence.

‘I can see I’ve been naughty. Sock-buying is a sin,’ Meg said, and added sadly, ‘Fanny, did you know that your back can be so disapproving?’

‘Can it?’ I whirled round, a plate in my hand, and Meg shrank away. ‘In the name of pity, can’t you see you have Will, more than you should? Is that not enough?’

She held out her hand. ‘I didn’t mean – ’

‘Oh, yes, you did, Meg.’ Then I heard myself say, ‘Anything to keep your thumbprint on him.’ And I wondered who this person was that I was turning into.

Meg gave a little gasp. ‘Wrong, Fanny, so wrong. It’s because it makes me feel useful. It makes me feel I have a place.’

The plate slid from between my hands. The sound as it smashed on to the tiled floor cracked through the kitchen. I crouched down to retrieve the pieces… and so did Meg. Our faces were so close and our fingers almost touched as we reached for the same shard of china. ‘You’re upset,’ she said.

‘For God’s sake, leave me in peace,’ I whispered.

Meg straightened up. There was an odd, terrible pause. ‘I think I need a drink,’ she said. ‘A little nightcap. Want some.’

‘There isn’t any in the house.’

‘Oh, no?’

I looked up at her. ‘I don’t want a drink. And you don’t, Meg. Please.’

Again, the ghastly suspension of sound. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got it under control. I can manage a little one, now and again. I’m lucky that way, not like the others. The doctor says – ’

The sharp edge of the broken plate pressed into my hand, teasing the flesh. ‘Meg, think. You’ve been doing so well.’

‘Precisely.’ Meg went in search of her contraband whisky bottle – her lover, brother, friend and child – and I did nothing to stop her.

I went upstairs to ring Will. With a shock, I realized that a primitive feeling of being protected had vanished with my father. He had left us to patrol the frontline between death and Chloe and it was a busy business.

Somehow, I had to pull myself together to make this family work. That was my business, and what was important. I had to… hold the family. That, and struggle towards resolution as he had.

I made myself walk back downstairs, through the kitchen and up into Meg’s bedroom. She was sitting on the bed, staring at a photograph of Sacha. There was a full glass in her hand.

She did not offer much resistance. ‘Where were you hiding this and how much have you had?’ I prised it away from her.

She looked up at me. ‘Only a mouthful. I had a bottle in the wardrobe. It was my safety-belt.’

‘Don’t, Meg. I’ll help you. I promise.’

She ducked her head. ‘Why on earth should you?’

I set the glass on the bedside table and sat beside her. ‘My father told me something once. He said, in so many words, that we should take life seriously.’

‘Um,’ Meg said, and tears trickled down her cheeks.

‘He was right. We should take it very seriously. And laugh at it, too, but seriously.’

Meg’s hand crept towards mine and grasped it in a desperate way. ‘Oh, Fanny,’ she said, ‘and there was I thinking what a huge and awful joke life is.’

Will managed to rearrange his ministerial diary and, two days later, we drove over to Ember House. When it came to the point, I could not bring myself to walk through the front door. ‘Will, I can’t go in. Not yet.’

He put his arm round my shoulders and drew me close. ‘Come on, we’ll go round the garden.’

The grass was damp from recent rain, and the garden wore the drenched, drowning look that English gardens often do. I stopped to anchor a rogue spray of clematis by the wall and water showered down on me. Will brushed it off and kept his arm resting on my shoulders.

Soon it began to rain in earnest and he said, ‘We can’t put this off any longer,’ led me gently to the front door and inside. ‘Give me your hand,’ he instructed, and held it fast.

It was strange but even in that short period since my father’s death, the house felt quite different.

Will made coffee and I produced sandwiches. Will ate his hungrily but I only pecked at mine. I was thinking about the house, and how I could not bear to let it go.

‘Will, what do you think about living here?’

He looked thoroughly startled. ‘Live here? It hadn’t crossed my mind.’ He helped himself to an egg sandwich. ‘Fanny, are you serious?’

I knew it was mad and totally illogical, but I whispered, ‘It’s my home.’

Will put down the sandwich. Too late, I realized the implication of my words. ‘But it’s not mine,’ he said. ‘And I rather thought our house was our home.’

‘I don’t want to sell Ember House.’