The suitcases arrived first.
“You must be mad! Where on earth am I supposed to put all this?!” Margaret Wilkins shouted into the receiver, her free hand slicing the air. “I live in a one-bed flat, do you hear me? A one-bed! And how many of you are there—four?!”
“Mum, don’t shout like that!” Her daughter’s voice crackled through the line. “It’s just three of us—Chris stayed behind in Birmingham for his exams. Me, Michael, and little Emily will only be there a week, just until we find a place to rent.”
“A *week*?!” Margaret nearly dropped the phone. “Katherine, darling, do you have *any* idea how small this flat is? There’s barely room for Pudding the cat! And you have a child—where’s she supposed to sleep? On my sofa?”
“Mum, we’ll make do—throw down a blanket, whatever. The important thing is we’ll have a roof over our heads. Emily’s tiny, she doesn’t take up much space.”
Margaret’s gaze swept over her cramped flat. The fold-out sofa where she slept, the battered armchair inherited from her late mother-in-law, the narrow kitchen with its temperamental fridge. On the windowsill sat her potted geraniums—the only spot of joy in this shoebox of a home.
“Katie, love, what about a B&B? I’m on my pension, I barely have two pennies to rub together—”
“Mum, don’t be daft! We could barely afford the train tickets! Look, we’re already on the train—we’ll be there tomorrow morning. Just clear a bit of space, alright?”
The line went dead. Katherine had hung up.
Margaret sank into her armchair, staring at the phone. Katherine and her family were leaving Birmingham for London, chasing a fresh start. Her son-in-law, Michael, had promised better work in the capital. And until then? They’d be living with her. In her tiny flat on the outskirts of the city, where she could barely turn around without bumping into something.
Pudding, a ginger tabby with a white chest, wound around her legs, purring.
“Well, Pudding—” Margaret scratched behind his ears, “—better brace yourself. It’ll be like sardines in a tin.”
She stood, surveying the flat with a critical eye. The wardrobe swallowed half the room, shelves stacked with decades of accumulated *things*. Photographs in scratched frames, dog-eared novels, knick-knacks from holidays past.
“Suppose I’d better start clearing,” she sighed.
Her neighbour, Diane from across the hall, emerged with a bin bag just as Margaret began hauling out boxes.
“Margaret? What’s all this—spring cleaning in October?”
“Daughter’s coming. Staying a while.” Margaret kept it clipped, unwilling to elaborate.
“Oh, how lovely! Just for a visit?” Diane was a talker.
“No—indefinitely. Till they find a place.”
“But your flat—” Diane gave a meaningful glance inside. “Young people these days. Expect parents to sort everything, don’t they?”
“Diane, I’m in a rush,” Margaret cut in. The woman had opinions on everything, and Margaret wasn’t in the mood.
That night, over a weak cup of tea, she thought it through. Katherine—her only child—had married Michael after her first divorce. Little Emily was four now, and Margaret had only seen her twice, when she’d scraped together the fare for Birmingham. Pensions didn’t stretch far.
Michael had worked at a factory, but redundancies hit. Katherine stayed home with Emily, tutoring when she could. Then rent hikes came, and suddenly London seemed the answer to everything.
Pudding leapt onto her lap, curling into a loaf. Margaret stroked him absently.
“How on earth will we fit, Pudding?” she murmured. “And worse—how will we afford it? My pension barely feeds *us*, let alone five.”
Morning came with a sharp knock. Half six. Margaret flung on her dressing gown, padding barefoot to the door.
Katherine stood there with a suitcase wider than herself. Michael lurked behind with two duffels, and between them—Emily, blond curls mussed from sleep, rubbing her eyes.
“Mum!” Katherine threw her arms around her. “God, I’ve missed you!”
“Katie, love—” Margaret hugged back, feeling the sharpness of her daughter’s shoulders. “Come in, don’t stand on the step!”
“Hello, Margaret.” Michael set down the bags, offering a hand. “Thanks for having us.”
“Don’t be silly—we’re family.”
Emily peeked from behind her father’s leg, studying this unfamiliar grandmother.
“Em, don’t be shy!” Katherine crouched beside her. “Remember Nanny Margaret from the photos?”
“Hello, sweetheart,” Margaret bent down. “Oh, you’re gorgeous—just like your mum at your age.”
Emily managed a tiny smile but clung to Michael’s trousers.
“You must be starving,” Margaret fretted. “Come through—I’ll do breakfast.”
They shuffled in, and the flat instantly shrunk. Katherine and Michael exchanged a look. Yes—space was tight. Very tight.
“Mum, where do we put our things?” Katherine asked carefully.
“I cleared some space—wardrobe’s half empty. Suitcases can go under the sofa.”
“Under the—” Michael eyed the cramped fold-out. “And where do we sleep?”
“Sofa pulls out. Fits two. Emily—” Margaret hesitated, “—can have the armchair. She’s small.”
Pudding, hearing strangers, slunk into the room and froze.
“Kitty!” Emily squealed, reaching.
“Em, no—she might scratch!”
“She’s gentle,” Margaret corrected. “Pudding, come say hello.”
The cat sniffed Emily’s outstretched hand, then permitted a cautious stroke.
“Mum, does she use a litter tray? Emily’s got allergies.”
“Of course she does,” Margaret’s chest tightened. “Why—is that a problem?”
“No, just checking.”
Breakfast was strained. Margaret laid out everything left in the fridge—yesterday’s ham, bread, jam. Tea brewed strong.
“Mum, any milk?” Katherine asked. “Em won’t eat cereal without it.”
“None left. I’ll pop to Tesco.”
“I’ll go,” Michael offered. “Where’s nearest?”
“Round the corner—but they don’t open till eight.”
“Mum, do you have Wi-Fi?” Katherine pulled out her phone.
“What?”
“Wireless—so we can connect.”
“I don’t have internet. What do I need it for?”
Katherine’s face fell. “Mick, how am I supposed to send CVs?”
“Internet café. Or the library’s free.”
“Nanny, can I watch telly?” Emily pointed to the boxy old TV.
“Of course, love.” Margaret flicked it on, fiddling with the dials. Static flickered. “There—cartoons should be on.”
Michael left for the shops. The women sat with Emily.
“Mum, is the hot water working?” Katherine asked. “Em needs a bath—we’re shattered from the train.”
“Usually. Though they cut it sometimes in summer.”
“Mum, listen—” Katherine lowered her voice, “—we thought we’d find a flat in a few days. Mick’s got an interview lined up tomorrow.”
“Well, that’s something,” Margaret said, forcing brightness.
“Yeah, but rent’s steep. Deposit, first month, agency fees. Might take a fortnight.”
“A fortnight,” Margaret echoed, picturing five lives crammed into this space.
“Mum, we’re not just sponging. Mick’s job pays well—we’ll help out. Maybe fix the place up.”
“I don’t need fixing,” Margaret shook her head. “I just—”
“Just what?”
“Nothing, love. I’m glad you’re here.”
But she wasn’t. Not really. Just overwhelmed.
Michael returned, grim. “Everything’s twice the price here. Milk, bread—everything.”
“Tell me about it,” Margaret sighed. “Pension buys pasta and porridge, that’s it.”
“Mum, what if we cook?” Katherine suggested. “Em’s fussy, and we’re used to proper meals.”
“Fine by me,” Margaret said, though she dreaded three adults jostling in her galley kitchen.
“Got enough plates?” Katherine peered into the cupboards.
“It’s not the Ritz, but we’ll manage.”
“Nanny, can I feed Pudding?” Emily tugged Margaret’s sleeve.
“Course, love. Her food’s in that cupboard.”
Emily raced off, delighted. Pudding tolerated the tiny human’s offerings with regal grace.
“Mum,” Katherine said suddenly, “what if we rehome Pudding? Just till we’re sorted. Em’s allergies, and—”
“*What*?” Margaret went pale. “Pudding’s been withMargaret clutched Pudding tighter, whispering through gritted teeth, “She stays, or you all go.”
