the boys; the boys brandished mobile phones at the girls with who-knows-what on the screens. Or they played loud electric music. Mrs Dixit spent the whole trip glaring so disapprovingly, it brought on a pounding headache.
Home, she closed the blinds against her headache and sat on the sofa. The silence engulfed her again, but surprisingly, it wasn’t the relief she’d imagined.
If Mr Dixit was here, he might have rubbed her shoulders, massaged her temples, brought a cup of tea – no, she realised, he would have used the excuse of Mrs Dixit needing silence to go down to his trains. She mustn’t over-romanticise him, turn him into someone he was not. The real version of her husband needed to be protected.
The phone rang, startling her, and she realised she must have been dozing.
‘I’ve heard!’ came her sister’s voice.
‘Yes, well…’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
Mrs Dixit knew why, but she didn’t say. They both knew why.
‘There’s not much anyone can do,’ Mrs Dixit explained, realising her headache was all but gone.
‘If you’d like, I can get a babysitter for Henry, and come right over. We could have a girls’ night in?’
Massaging her temple where the headache had been, Mrs Dixit gave a dismissive tut.
‘No, no. I’m fine. I am.’
‘If you’re sure you’re coping? It must have been such a shock. Have you heard about the woman he was driving?’
Woman?
‘How do you know it was a woman?’
‘It was in the Chomley Gazette today. The truck driver didn’t have a scratch on him apparently. The passenger was a doctor. A female doctor. Isn’t that terrible?’ My husband is in a coma, Mrs Dixit wanted to yell, but didn’t. ‘There’s a funeral soon.’
‘Oh, she… I didn’t know, she… How devastating. Poor woman. And her family…’
‘Have the police been in touch?’
‘They’re sending round a constable, but they’re understaffed, because of holidays, and those break-ins, so I won’t hold my breath.’
‘What if there are criminal charges? Negligence?’
‘I thought it was the truck driver’s fault?’
‘Yes, but lawyers can always spin it their way.’ Her sister changed her tone. ‘Did he… I mean, does he have life insurance?’
‘Of course,’ Mrs Dixit replied, and then regretted being so vehement. She’d still not found those exact papers and reminded herself to call the insurance company.
Her sister was silent for a moment, but the sound of gears whirring was practically audible.
‘Was he ever… you know… controlling?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He always answered the phone when you were both in.’
‘I don’t see the issue with that.’
‘But why wouldn’t you ever answer it?’
‘I’m not sure – maybe he was always closer to the phone…?’
The shameful truth was, Mrs Dixit made sure to screen calls through her husband, afraid it might be her sister ringing.
‘He’d say you were busy.’
‘Sometimes I was… I do have a life, you know.’
There was a vaguely judgemental silence.
‘He didn’t stop you from seeing us, then?’
Mrs Dixit laughed.
‘’Course not.’
This was true. Not that Mr Dixit actively encouraged seeing his sister-in-law either. He understood implicitly how complicated family could be.
‘He never let you have a car of your own?’
‘I never wanted my own. We have a car. Had one at least.’
Mrs Dixit had the distinct impression, as she always did whenever she was asked these types of probing questions, that it was about race. Would she be asked the same if her husband was white? ‘He’s just particular. So am I. That’s what marriage is. Two people being particular together.’
‘If you’re sure…?’
‘I have to go,’ lied Mrs Dixit. ‘Love to Henry,’ she added hurriedly, before putting down the phone.
Moments later, she brought up the Chomley Gazette website, but couldn’t find the article her sister spoke of. The website must not have been updated yet.
On impulse, she called Cliff.
‘Wendy, how are you? We’re all thinking of you. Need a taxi sent round?’
‘No, actually – I was wondering about Naveem’s rider. The one who was in his cab during the accident.’