Mum in the Middle: Feel good, funny and unforgettable. Jane Wenham-Jones

was going to have an evening out with me next week and Jonathan could bloody well get back early and babysit.

      ‘That would be really great,’ I said. ‘But I’m sorry you’re having a hard time.’

      ‘I suppose he feels he has to make the most of his time with Bella and Silas,’ I went on cautiously. ‘Could Bella help you with the twins?’ I added, inspired. ‘Teenage girls sometimes like looking after little children. You could ask her to–’

      Fran let out a long, exasperated sigh. ‘Oh she’ll jig them about for five minutes, then she gets bored. More interested in getting back on her phone. Oh bloody hell now Freya’s calling. Jonathan!’ her voice resounded shrilly against my head, making my eardrum vibrate. ‘Could you please attend to your OTHER daughter …’

      I winced as I said goodbye. Fran took no prisoners once she’d wound herself up.

      I lit the white jasmine candle my neighbour Paula had given me when I Ieft Finchley and lay back again, suddenly relishing my own peace and waiting for the perfume to drift towards me.

      There was someone on Radio Four talking about keeping a gratitude diary to promote inner peace and enhance happiness. Each night you had to write down three good things that had happened that day. I ticked them off. I didn’t miss the train and nobody near me was eating burgers. I had a nice time with Caroline. Two of my children were home and the room smelled lovely …

      The programme rumbled on. I realised I’d been dozing when I heard them talking outside the door and fumbling with the key. They came in on a waft of beer and a scent I’d not had clinging to the carpets since Ben departed. Tilly was rolling her eyes while looking enviously at the white paper bundle in his arms.

      ‘He’s got chips,’ she told me unnecessarily, ‘AND a kebab!’

      Within an hour of being in the house, Oliver was rolling his eyes too. ‘You two,’ he told his younger siblings, ‘regress to 12-year-olds when you’re back with Mum. Make him do it,’ he told me, as I pulled Ben’s jeans out of the machine.

      ‘She runs round you too.’ Tilly, sitting at the small table in the now- crowded kitchen, did not look up from her make-up mirror. ‘So don’t get all bloody superior.’

      Ben, standing by the kettle, his mouth bulging with toast, threw open his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

      Oliver, leaning his tall frame against the doorway, met my eyes and shook his head. ‘Sam and I are going down the town. Do we need anything?’

      ‘You can collect the turkey for me,’ I said, reaching for my purse. ‘I’ve got everything else.’ I glanced at Ben, who was refilling the toaster. ‘Though, possibly another loaf of bread. Or two.’

      I watched my eldest son and his girlfriend as they went down the path. Oliver did seem so adult compared to the other two and yet he was only eighteen months older than Tilly. Maybe it was Sam, who always seemed so grounded, who had made him grow up.

      I liked Sam. She was calm and smiley, much quieter than my daughter, and far more sensible. I sometimes worried that she couldn’t get a word in edgeways with Tilly carrying on, but she didn’t seem to mind. She was very girl-next-door with her pale skin and shiny brown hair and though she didn’t always say much, had an infectious giggle once she’d relaxed.

      Even Tilly, who was usually disparaging about any woman who, as she put it, was ‘stupid enough to fancy one of my brothers’ was fond of her.

      Sam took Oliver’s hand as they turned out of the gate and he leant down and kissed the side of her forehead. I watched, touched, but felt a sudden pang – half longing, half loss – that I couldn’t quite explain.

      Ben came up behind me as I closed the door and put a hand on my shoulder. ‘So, Mumsie,’ he said in a comic child’s voice, and giving me a squeeze. ‘Where are the Easter eggs?’

       Chapter 10

      I’d eat two, Tilly at least three, Ben six, Oliver five, maybe, Sam probably wouldn’t really need any as there was topping on her fish pie, but perhaps she’d have one …

      Twenty well-roasted potato chunks should be enough but somehow didn’t look it. Ben, clearly depleted from the endless re-runs of Top Gear, and Tilly, in need of sustenance after an exhausting morning using all the hot water, were already ‘starving’. And I could never shake off the notion that someone else might turn up. And, indeed, I’d just grabbed two more Maris Pipers and started chopping when the prophetic ringing of the doorbell brought forth another potential spud-muncher.

      Gabriel, ushered through to the kitchen by my daughter and proffering a rather manic-looking chocolate rabbit, gave me an apologetic smile. ‘You said to pop in and meet Ben but … but I can see you’re busy …’

      ‘It’s fine,’ said Tilly decisively. She jerked her head towards the tray of uncooked chipolatas. ‘We won’t be eating for hours yet.’ She sighed and looked at Gabriel curiously. ‘What would you want to meet Ben for?’

      ‘Shall we invite him to eat with us?’ I asked Tilly, when she reappeared to get beers. ‘I feel sorry for him on his own.’

      ‘I’d feel sorry for him being with us lot!’ She swung open the fridge door. ‘Have you got any crisps?’

      I listened to them laughing in the other room as I stirred flour into meat juices a couple of hours later. I could hear Gabriel doing his Malcolm impression, Oliver’s deep chuckle, Sam giggling. I heard Jinni’s name mentioned and had a twinge of conscience about her too.

      I put an extra plate in the bottom of the oven, announced the plan to the assortment of bodies sprawled across sofas and issued instructions.

      ‘Ben – get the vegetables on the table will you? Oliver can you open another bottle of wine, darling. And get another chair out of the conservatory. Tilly, lay another place?’

      My daughter began to gather up empties nudging her brother into action with her foot as she did so. ‘She might say no.’

      ‘She might say yes and then she won’t feel welcome if we’re scrabbling about looking for cutlery …’

      ‘I’ll do it!’ Gabriel sprang to his feet. ‘Show me where it is …’

      I left Tilly solicitously leading Gabriel in the direction of the dining room and ran over the road.

      Jinni opened the door wearing a paint-splattered man’s striped shirt over a long orange skirt, looking surprised. ‘I thought you’d be up to your armpits in kids.’

      ‘I am – and I wondered if you’d like to be too. I’ve roasted a turkey and thought you might like to join us …’

      ‘Oh!’ Jinni looked simultaneously pleased and disappointed. ‘I’ve just eaten cheese on toast.’

      ‘Come over anyway? Glass of wine and pudding?’

      ‘But I could probably manage a little bit …’ Jinni grinned. ‘I need a quick shower. Start without me.’

      ‘I’ll leave the door on the latch.’

      ‘This is wonderful,’ Gabriel gave me a beaming smile. ‘Haven’t had turkey since last Thanksgiving and then it wasn’t anything like this.’

      He waved a hand at the now decimated bird, and the array of half-empty dishes and tureens.

      I smiled back, flattered. ‘You’d better not say that in front of your mother,’ I said, attempting modesty, although I had to admit it had all come out rather well. ‘I’m sure hers was wonderful.’

      ‘It was my grandmother who cooked it,’ said Gabriel. ‘She was over from the States. She said later it was the jetlag, but really it was the gins … she makes a dry Martini that takes