Last time she went to Jaipur, on work and to meet her mother, my wife brought back all the bottles of alcohol that my father-in-law had stored in his bar because, she said, out of loneliness her mother had taken to helping herself to capfuls of whatever spirit came her way, so that increasingly she spent her days in a happy haze. But she — my wife, that is — negated it by bringing my mother-in-law along as well, so no good came of the exercise of divorcing her mother from her drink.
It was left to me to keep her on the straight and narrow, which was unfair because, by the strangest of coincidences, my mother decided to come visiting as well, so all corners of the house seemed temporarily occupied by some form of matriarch. That my mother, for years a straight cognac drinker, had taken in recent times to experimenting with a variety of cocktails, didn’t help matters any when it came to the matter of a little something at sundown.
“Something with vodka,” she suggested, when I asked her if she’d like a drink, “with perhaps mint, or curacao, but no lime cordial” — and, for good measure, “no soda or other diluting agent”. “I’ll have one of the same,” said my mother-in-law, spotting a chance, but my wife wagged her eyebrows significantly, so I reminded her that she was unwell and couldn’t have a drink. “Just ten drops of whisky maybe,” she suggested, but I got her some soup instead, which made her sulk even more when, for her next cocktail my mother wanted something different, and my mother-in-law still couldn’t have any.
The next day, at a lunch we’d organised for a few friends, my mother-in-law coaxed my mother into smuggling her a couple of thimblefuls of wine, while she herself tried a combination of vodka, gin, wine, beer and, finally, the host’s cognac. Driving back home, she said she hadn’t really liked anything.
The next evening I made her and a few friends who’d dropped in frozen margaritas, which she liked, and as a concession for good behaviour, I gave my mother-in-law a tot of scotch with warm water. “You must be in a good mood today,” remarked my mother-in-law tartly, promptly draining it down and holding out her hand for another. My mother then had a tequila shot, and some Irish cream liqueur, and said for the record she didn’t like drinking much. My mother-in-law, when refused a third tot, marched off to bed in a huff.
My kid brother’s passion is bikes rather than his bar, and he must have realised his mistake the moment we arrived following an invitation to dine with him, mother, mother-in-law and all. “You can give me ten drops of anything,” my mother-in-law said to him as soon as we were through the door, but of course she had considerably more than ten drops by the time the evening wound on. My mother, who is partial to a good wine, took the opportunity to mope because my brother couldn’t make her anything more exotic than a screwdriver. So she had, first, red wine, then some rose, and finally some champagne, followed by white wine — but it was I, not her, who woke up with a hangover the next morning.
This evening, before they leave for their homes, my wife has decided to invite a few retired neighbours home for a drink. When I protested that there were enough old women drinking in the house anyway, my wife said, “I don’t think either of us has the capacity to join your mother,” and quickly, “or mine, for another drink. This way, all the old biddies can get tiddly while you and I,” she added significantly, “give our systems some rest.”
