The Son-In-Law by Charity Norman

They gave her hope.
    He sank onto a seat, leafing through a thirty-year-old copy of Woman’s Own. There was a brown ring on the front cover, and he smiled. His mother’s coffee mug. On page ten a crossword had been completed in her firm, square capitals. He imagined Irene sitting heavily on the caravan steps with a cigarette in one hand, racing through the clues. She used to keep up with all Joseph’s schoolwork, and if she couldn’t answer a question she took him to the library and they researched together. He’d often thought she could have been a match for Hannah Wilde, given the same advantages. Instead, she’d fallen pregnant with Marie and done what was expected of her: married a crashing bore.
    Joseph ran his fingertips over the blue letters, feeling the indentations made by her pen. They brought bittersweet comfort; an echo of Irene’s presence, as though the years were telescoping inwards. His mother had never rejected him. She’d come to all the court appearances and faced the blank-eyed lenses of the press. Time after time, she’d taken a train to Leeds and queued up to visit him. He saw her there three days before she died, and had thought she looked terribly tired. He missed her.
    Placing the magazine on the table, he turned to the nearest bookcase. On top lay a jumble of thrillers by Dick Francis—his mother again. The next shelf held books that he remembered reading to Scarlet and Theo when they were last there: Roald Dahl and Horrible Histories . Stashed among these he spotted a thin, faded hardback. He lifted it out and held it up to a shaft of pale sunshine. Its cover was cinnamon and gold, slightly torn: an antique copy of Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet . He knew it almost by heart.
    For some minutes, Joseph held the little book between his hands. Finally he opened it, knowing what he would find on the flyleaf.
    Happy Birthday to my Russian Prince.
You have given me life.
With my love forever,
Z x
    He sank to his knees on the caravan’s thin carpet. A sound escaped him; a heaving, agonised yelp that made the dog lift her head and squint through rheumy eyes.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ he cried, and his voice broke on the words.
    Jessy watched as tears sank into the fabric of the squab. After a time she crawled forward and nudged her face against Joseph’s foot. He felt the pressure, and reached down to caress her head. The tears kept coming.
    ‘I’m a wimp,’ he told the dog. ‘They should shoot me.’
    Someone was coming. The caravan’s flimsy structure trembled, followed by a rapping on the door. Joseph reached into his pocket to pull out a tangled rag of tissue, and was blowing his nose when Abigail stepped in.
    ‘Now then,’ she remarked unemotionally, taking in the scene.
    ‘Now then, Abigail.’
    ‘Cleaning the floor?’ She didn’t wait for him to reply. ‘I thought you might like some breakfast in a nice warm kitchen.’
    Joseph got to his feet, certain she knew he’d been crying like a baby. He caught a glimpse of himself in the bedroom mirror as he laid the book on his pillow. He looked like a rough bastard, the kind that used to come in off the merchant ships when he was a child: gaunt and shadowed, with dark stubble and desperate eyes. He’d aged a decade in the past three years.
    ‘Sorry,’ he said as they walked up the hill together. ‘I don’t look respectable. I’d better drive into Helmsley and buy a razor today.’
    ‘You’ll do,’ Abigail replied evenly. ‘What you need is proper food and a bit of mollycoddling. Unfortunately I’m no good at the mollycoddling part, never have been, but I can put a meal on the table.’
    Which was true, thought Joseph as she filled his plate with home-grown bacon and sausages and scrambled eggs. Gus sat at the other end of the table, tucking into a feast of his own. He was forty or so, ruddy and solid, a man of few words. A blue beanie lay beside his plate.
    ‘Hi Gus,’ said Joseph.
    The farm worker cast a glance in the direction