I never really got to know my wife's father Martin, but from the little I did see of him, he appeared to be a real tartar: Martin would invariably be glaring out of the window when I arrived to collect Alison for our dates and be standing there again when we returned. That return had to be no later than ten o'clock on midweek nights, or 10:30 at the weekends and with no 'loitering in the driveway making a spectacle of yourselves' when we did return.
The only times I ever crossed their threshold were to attend the occasional Sunday lunches to which I was invited and though Alison's mother Joan was a fantastic cook, pleasant memories of those meals were sparse. The lunches put me in mind of a job interview, or those times that I'd been called into the Headmaster's study during my schooldays; a barrage of questions, which had me considering what the expected/required answer was before I gave it; stressful rather than enjoyable and I invariably left as soon as good manners allowed.
I'd been dating Ali for almost a year when Martin died in a workplace accident and while I attended his funeral and said the right things, in all honesty I heaved a sigh of relief; I got the feeling that I wasn't the only one attending from nothing beyond a social obligation. Martin did at least leave his family financially secure: One life-insurance policy paid off the house, while a second provided a lump sum cash payout and an ongoing pension too. While there was no question of negligence our fault, Martin's employers arranged a similar cash payout and pension provision.
My own welcome, or up until then perhaps 'tolerance', in the Harris household changed overnight. On arriving to collect Alison the following Friday evening, Mrs H invited me inside to wait as Ali was 'running late' and during our conversation -- the first one we'd ever shared? -- she ventured that: "There's no need for you two to rush back on my account; you're both more than capable of deciding what's an appropriate time for yourselves." That said, we didn't press things and returned soon after eleven and while Mrs H wasn't patrolling at the window, the lights were on; she was obviously still up.
The following night we pushed the boat out and didn't get back until almost midnight; then I attended lunch on the Sunday too. That proved to be a far more enjoyable affair, the food was as good as ever, but now with an accompaniment of sociable, relaxed and comfortable conversation. It was during that meal when Alison's mother proposed that I drop the 'Mrs Harris' and in future address her as Joan, or Mum -- Wow! If that were not enough, she followed it up by suggesting that if I were planning to join them for lunch on the following Sunday, it would make sense for me to stay over on the Saturday night; even Alison was gobsmacked by that bombshell.
When I arrived on the Wednesday evening for our regular mid-week date, I was again invited in so that Joan might 'pick my brains for a few minutes' with regard to a few things that she didn't quite understand; Ali and I didn't get out at all that evening, but to be honest, it was no hardship. The majority of Joan's problems proved to be straightforward issues regarding household bills and the like, it soon became clear that these, along with everything else, had been dealt with by Martin; I was only twenty-one and living at home with my own parents, so back then I didn't have all the answers, but a phone call to my father resolved any that were beyond me.
Those sort of enquiries became a regular feature with more than a few needing explaining and/or dealing with more than once; Joan invariably mentioning how she 'struggled with such things and didn't find it easy without a man about the house to deal with them.' Before long I was co-opted into dealing with all such matters, though when Joan began to ask my advice with regard to the investment of her insurance pay-outs, I knew that I was out of my depth. I spoke to my father; who asked around then put Joan in touch with a suitably qualified adviser, though Joan insisted that I sit in on those meetings too, 'just to keep her straight'.
That first night I stayed over was suitably chaste and above board, Alison and I returned around 11:00 to find Joan -- as ever -- waiting up for us; though after showing me to their guest room and back down the stairs to where Ali was making coffee, she left us to our own devices; we didn't push it, a kiss and cuddle in the lounge, then up to our separate bedrooms where we stayed. Thereafter, either I stayed over at Joan's or Alison would come to stay at my parents house, almost every weekend; we lived twenty miles apart, so it allowed me to park the car and enjoy a beer or two.
Of course it also allowed me to enjoy Alison; the chaste and above board bit didn't last long, a quarter-hour after overtly parting on the landing, I would tip-toe along to Alison's room to enjoy an hour or two's lovemaking. Things progressed like that for a few months, though we increasingly spent our weekends at Joan's place rather than my own parents'; I was often doing small maintenance and repair tasks for Joan, but more importantly, it was easier for Alison and I to enjoy an illicit fuck when we were there.
The next evolution came one Sunday morning: Joan was invariably the first up and made Alison and I cups of tea in bed; she'd place mine on the table outside my bedroom door, knock solidly and call out to tell me it was there, then continue along the landing to deliver Alison's. As usual I woke to Joan's knock and call, the difference that morning was, that I'd heard her from Alison's room; it wasn't the first time that we'd fallen asleep after sex, but it was the first time we'd slept through until morning.
Alison's tea got delivered to her bedside, so seconds later there was a tap on the bedroom door, then Joan stepped into the room; Alison, was still asleep, so the first thing that Joan saw was my embarrassed face. The cup and saucer Joan was holding rattled, but she didn't spill a drop; with composure regained, Joan silently walked around to place it on the bedside cabinet beside Alison, then catching my eye once more she stuttered "it seems you'll be needing both cups in here this morning." Joan went back to the landing, returned with my tea and having handed it to me, departed and closed the door without uttering another word. Fuck!
The moment Joan left I woke Ali and gave her the bad news; we loitered over our teas, but couldn't put things off forever; half an hour later we headed downstairs to the kitchen. I don't know what we expected, but it wasn't what we got: Joan was preparing breakfast just like any other morning, similar conversations flowed and neither Joan nor ourselves made any reference to what'd transpired. Thankfully I'd arranged to play football that morning, so made my exit a little more promptly than I might otherwise. But speaking to Ali on the phone that evening she reported that Joan had continued to remain silent; Joan she still didn't mention it when I visited on the Wednesday evening.
It was with some trepidation that I arrived, the following Friday evening, this was surely the moment for the shit to hit the fan; I made a point of getting there late to provide Ali and I with a good excuse for leaving quickly. As Alison opened the door, Joan appeared in the hallway and her eyes locked on my overnight bag, my gut tightened as Joan began to speak: "If you're as late as Alison says, you two had better shoot off straight away; I'll put your bag upstairs for you Mike..." I managed nothing beyond a dumb nod as Joan took the bag from my hand "... there's no point in messing up two beds unnecessarily, so I'll drop it straight into Alison's room." Joan turned away as Ali while I looked at each other flabbergasted.
