For the past ten years, my husband has been driving off to dig up potatoes for his mother. Eventually, I decided to go there myselfonly to find that his mum had been gone for five years, and a young woman with triplets was living in the cottage
Saturday starts just as it always has for years.
Andy stands by his open boot, carefully stacking empty canvas sacks on top of his toolbox. His back, hunched in a worn wax jacket, gives the impression of both gallant resignation and a weary readiness for a hard days graft for the family.
Lydia, Im off then, dont get too bored without me, he calls, fussing with the zips on his old weekend bag without even glancing over. The fence at Mums is falling down, need to swap some posts, and its time to get the spuds up before the rain really sets in.
I stand by the window, gripping my piping hot tea so tightly that my fingers ache.
Yes, darling, off you go. Important business, I reply flatly, my tone as steady and mundane as the drone of the fridge. Give my love to your mother. Tell her to look after herself.
He gives a hurried nod, slams the boot shut, and, within a minute, his four-by-four disappears around the corner of our estate. For five years, hes gone every single weekend to dig up potatoes in the little village of Ashfield for his mother. Come rain or shine, nothing stops himutterly devoted, the perfect son and tireless worker.
I set my mug down when my mobile rang insistently in the hall. The caller ID flashesit’s my old friend Natalie, whos been working at the council registration office forever.
Lydia, remember you asked me to check the records on your mother-in-law for the council tax exemption? Natalie is breathless, as if shes been running. I double and triple-checked all the registersyoure not going to like this. The system doesnt lie.
What is it? Unpaid taxes? I shuffle through some electricity bills, hardly expecting anything sinister.
Lydia your mother-in-law, Hazel Smith, passed away five years ago. The death certificate was issued May 2019.
The ground tilts beneath me, as if Im on the deck of a ferry during a gale. I grab the back of a chair to steady myself.
Shesdead? The words tumble out, as idiotic and naïve as they sound. But Andy is on his way there as we speak, with medicines and groceries
I dont know who hes really seeing, love. Natalies tone is brisk, slicing through any remaining hope or denial. Officially, the property in Ashfield is registered now to some young womanPolly Graham, twenty-five years oldwith three children listed.
My ears are ringing, my face flushes. I force myself to breathe evenly. A twenty-five-year-old with triplets?
Andys hidden his own mothers passing for half a decade, just to look after another family on the sly?
I glance at my car keys, sprawled on the hallway table. No anger comesonly the cold sensation of being plunged into an icy river by surprise.
The drive to Ashfield takes two hours. I make it in silence, not bothering with the radio. My mind spins the same picture again and again: a well-kept house, a hammock in the garden, some long-legged young woman handing my husband a sweating glass of cider.
I expect to find a little love nest, built on my nerves and our family cash.
But reality deafens me the moment I turn off the engine outside those familiar green gates. This is no tranquil cottage. Its utter chaos.
Yes, the fence is new and fancy, but theres no soundno birds, no rustle of leaves. Just a constant, multi-pitched wailing that sets my teeth on edge.
I try the latch; its locked from inside.
I skirt around by the old orchard, pushing through nettles and burdock nearly to my waist. Theres no sign of potatoes, veg or glasshousesjust a trampled patch of grass and mountains of plastic: broken toys, bits of Lego, and small baby baths.
Creeping up to the kitchen window, I see the glass trembling from the din inside.
Under merciless, glaring lights, a young woman stands in a room wrecked with messso much you cant even see the floor. Not your homewrecker or man-stealer, but a drawn ghost in a grubby dressing gown, with sunken eyes and hair matted into clumps.
Crawling around her like mini-piranhas are three identical one-year-olds, screaming their lungs out so loud I can hear it through double glazing.
The poor girl clamps a phone to her ear, having to shout to be heard above the racket:
Dad! Where are you? You said youd be here an hour ago! All three of them have pooed at once, I cant cope! Ive run out of formula and wet wipes. Please hurry, Dad!
Dad?
Suddenly, the confusion in my heart rearranges itself into a brand new, far less scandalous picture. Not a mistress. Not a secret affair. Something altogether different.
A few moments later, Andys SUV crunches up the drive. I shrink into the shadow of a huge jasmine bush, unseen.
My hand grazes the wall of the shedI find the old spade handle.
Andy looks utterly the worse for wear as he climbs out, lugging mega-packs of nappies in each hand and a squashed holdall full of baby food on his shoulder. Like a mule on its last legs. He fiddles with the gate and nearly trips over a tricycle.
Polly, Im here! he calls in a tone that would suit a condemned prisoner. The desperation is clear.
I step out from my hiding place, positioning the spade for comfort in my grip.
Oh, hello, Farmer of the Year, I announce.
Andy nearly drops everything as though electrocuted. The nappy pack lands in the mud with a horrible squelch.
Lydia?! His eyes are wide as saucers.
Thats right. Ive come to help you with your backbreaking work. Looks like this years crop is quite somethingthree at once? Your mum is looking a lot younger these days. I nod at the window, the shrill noise still unmuffled. And, the age and appearance have rather changed miraculously.
Lydia, its not what you think! Give me a chance to explain! Andy stumbles backwards, one hand up, almost pleading. Please put down the spade.
Five years, Andy. Youve stared me in the face and lied. Five years, playing the devoted son. Was this what you were hiding?
Then Polly comes bursting out onto the porch, baby under one arm, filthy nappy in the other.
Dad! Who is this? she shrieks, verging on hysterical. Is this the wicked wife you told me about, the one always on your back?!
Wicked wife?
I take a slow step forward, savouring the moment. Andy presses himself helplessly against the metal gate, no escape in sight.
Well, my dears. Time for a good clear-out.
Lydia, please, leave her alone! Andy yells, shielding Polly. Shes my daughter!
My arms go limp, the cold wood biting into my palm.
Daughter, Andy? We have one sonBen, and hes twenty.
Thisthis was before I met you, before we married. Just a mistake from my youth. Andys words tumble out, sweat pouring off his face. I only found out after Mum diedswear to you, she told me just beforegave me the address.
Hes short of breath, like hes finished a marathon, as he wipes his brow.
I came up five years agofound Polly here, her mum dead, living in a collapsed cottage. I helped outbuilt the house, did the fence while she was at college.
Polly stops shrieking and, instead, starts sobbing, black mascara running down her face.
And last year her boyfriend ran off, soon as he heard about the triplets, Andy waves at the house. Lydia, I couldnt just leave them. Theyd starve. Triplets are hell! I come so she can get a few hours of proper sleep!
I’d be lost without him! Polly wails, holding her baby tight. He doesnt relax here, you know! He does the floors, changes nappies, rocks them all night!
I stare at Andyhis grey face, the bags under his eyes, trembling hands.
So I slowly lower the spade onto the ground. Youre not playing away every weekend, youre actually changing nappies for three babies?
Yes! Andys voice cracks. Lydia, its torture. I cant wait for Monday to come so I can sit at my desk and rest! But theyre my flesh and blood. My grandchildren.
He falls silent, guilt heavy on his shoulders.
I glance over: the triplets still wailing, Polly barely upright with exhaustion. Suspicion fades away, replaced by a cold new understanding.
Hes no cheatnot in the dirty way I expected. Hes just a coward, quietly bearing a load he was too scared to reveal.
So, Im the villain then? The nightmare wife you dare not tell the truth? My words cut through the hubbub like a knife.
I walk right up to Polly, who jumps back, wide-eyed, pressing herself to the wall. I take the squirming baby from her armsa solid, hot little boy.
I lift him to my shoulder, patting him gentlyand the surprise of different hands is enough to silence him straight away.
Well then, Grandpa Andrew. Congratulations. Youre in proper trouble.
In what way? Andy is still pressed to the fence, panic flashing in his eyes. Youreyoure divorcing me?
Oh, hardly, I snort, tugging the babys babygrow straight. Thats too generousand far too expensive for me.
I turn my attention to Polly, meeting her teary eyes.
Right, you. Pop the baby in the playpen. Youstraight to the shower and then bed. Four hours, and even a canon blast wont wake you up.
She blinks, stunned at her sudden luck.
And you?
Ill be acting as Granny on duty for now.
I glance at Andy, still frozen.
Kitchen, Andy. Warm up some formula, exactly thirty-seven degrees. Dont get it wrong.
And you? he asks hopefully, collecting fallen nappies.
Im going to ring Ben. He wanted money for a gaming rigwell, he can come and give you a hand digging up potatoes. Itll be good for his fine motor skills.
Andy turns ghostly pale at the thought.
Lydia, maybe dont drag Ben into this?
Oh yes, Andy. I absolutely will. And listen closely.
What?
Now that youre officially a grandfather to triplets, Ill be holding onto your debit card for the foreseeable. All of it.
Why? he squeaks.
These kids deserve decent cots and a triple pram, not car boot rubbish. And I deserve compensation for emotional damages and my shredded nerves. Ive always wanted a fur coat and a week away in a spa where I dont see a soul.
I rock the sleepy baby, whos finally calmed down.
You lot can get on with digging. And if the garden isnt sorted by the time I return from my break, Ill tell all your mates in the pub youre not the big-shot businessman, but the local head nanny.
Andy obediently grabs the bags and plods inside, bent under the weight of his double life.
I breathe in the autumn airit smells less of bonfire and leaves, more of talcum powder and sour milk.
For the first time, this chaos feels manageable. And, finally, Im in charge.
A month later, Im lounging on my veranda, wrapped up in a brand-new mink coatdespite the mild weather. My phone pings; a bank transfer from Andys account arrives. Moments later, a photo arrives: Andy and Ben, smeared with mud but grinning, pushing a massive triple buggy.
I smile, take a sip of hot coffee. We all have our crosses to bear in this lifeand, at last, it seems Andy has made peace with his.
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