The visitors arrived unexpectedly, and Helen flinched. She was overjoyed to see her son, but that *dragonfly* fluttering around Michael—ugh. The boy was besotted, grinning like a fool. Disgusting.
*”Mum, hello! We came to visit—me and Emily!”*
*”So I see,”* Helen muttered, forcing a tight smile as she hugged him.
*”Mum… we’ve got happy news.”*
*”What sort?”*
*”We’ve put in the notice—ta-daa!”*
*”Oh? Isn’t it too soon?”*
*”Too soon? What d’you mean, Mum? We’ve been together a year! We want to get married.”*
*”Well, you’ve done it now. Make yourselves at home. I’ll pop to the shops, fetch something nice.”*
Helen needed air. Alone. How had her little bear, Michael, grown up, moved to London, built a life there, working—and now *this*? A wife?
*”Mum, forget the shops, we brought loads—ham, cheeses, fruit, everything!”*
Helen slumped into a chair, arms limp. She wanted to cry, curl up like a child and sob. That *dragonfly*—that’s what she called Michael’s bride-to-be—wasn’t right for him. Too flighty. He needed a steady girl, someone local.
Like Annie Wilson—what a gem! Quiet, practical, trained as an accountant, worked at the library. Grew up with him, sat side by side in school! Perfect. They could’ve lived in the city, visited home, brought grandchildren. The Wilsons were good stock—respectable, solid. A match like that would’ve been an honor.
But no. He’d picked some flighty city girl, parading her like a prized poodle. Disgraceful.
The youngsters unpacked the food—*posh* food. Sliced meats, exotic fruits. Helen bit her lip. She’d need to clear space in the fridge.
And tomorrow—neighbors, family. A celebration. Had to be done. Though maybe there’d be no wedding after all. Who knew?
*”Where’s Dad? Lunchtime—did he eat at the works canteen again?”* Fine. She’d start prepping.
*”Mum, we’re off to the river!”*
*”Go on, then.”*
The river? That *princess*—if Michael had come alone, he’d have helped in the garden. But with her? Off they went, giggling.
Helen worked like mad, inviting folks for tomorrow, scrubbing, cooking. Exhausted, she lay down—just for a minute.
She jolted awake.
*”What the hell are you doing?”*
*”Mum! We’re setting dinner. Helping while you rested.”*
*”Dinner? With my good china? The crystal glasses? George, say something!”*
*”What? They’re doing right. That china just gathers dust.”*
*”You’ve lost your minds! My crystal! My salad bowls!”*
*”Mum, what’s wrong? We’re having a nice family meal. You’re crying over *bowls*?”*
Helen stormed off, spotting that *dragonfly* hacking up the expensive pâté.
*”Mum, change and come eat!”* Michael called.
She returned—*bloody hell*. The new linen, crystal goblets, *her* wedding china—all out. And George—*a shirt and trousers*? That shirt was for funerals!
*”Helen, love, put something nice on. It’s a celebration!”*
*”Celebration?”* she hissed. *”What ‘daughter’?”*
Michael took her hands, but she wrenched free, shrieking about *her* house, *her* rules, the *good* china ruined, the food wasted.
**”ENOUGH!”** George slammed the table. *”What’s this ‘special occasion’ nonsense? Where’s mine?”* He jabbed his throat. *”You think I’ve got time to wait?”*
They lived like beggars—eating from chipped mugs, sleeping on rags—while three full sets of china gathered dust.
*”This is *our* house, Helen. Michael’s got every right to use what’s here. Son, roll out that rug—moths’ve probably eaten it by now.”*
Helen gaped. Then—bizarrely—she marched off.
And returned.
Dressed in her finest: silk dress, gold earrings, stockings, heels.
Aunt Marge—nosy as ever—dropped by. *”Blimey! Helen’s done up like a bride! What’s happened? Someone die?”*
*”Oh, shut it, Marge! Sit down. Michael’s here—with his *girl*.”* Nearly said *dragonfly*.
*”Helen… you sure you’re not barmy? No one’s died?”*
*”For God’s sake, have a drink! Try this pâté—Michael brought it.”*
*”Fancy that!”* Marge sniffed. *”Not even dressed proper meself.”*
*”Dress up tomorrow,”* George said. *”Big day then.”*
*”Tomorrow? What’s today, then?”*
*”Just supper, Auntie.”*
*”Huh. ‘Just supper’. Swanky.”*
Marge scarpered, gossip already spreading: *George and Helen gone mad—china out, clothes fancy!*
By morning, the house was packed. Everyone came to gawk at the rebels using *good* things.
*”Eh, Petey—whisky tastes better in crystal, don’t it?”* George winked.
*”Don’t you dare, Peter!”* Linda, his wife, blushed, giggling.
*”Oh, we *dare*,”* George teased.
A revolution swept the village. Women dug out linen, buried china, wore *good* clothes.
*”Helen,”* George murmured later. *”When’s this ‘special day’ ever coming? We live like paupers, waiting. Why?”*
*”Well… you ought to keep *some* things back. Just in case.”*
***
Next door, chaos.
*”Margaret, have you lost it? Why’s the trunk open? That’s your mother’s lace!”*
*”Bugger that! We’re sleeping on *proper* sheets now! Lived like rats long enough.”*
*”You mad cow—she *knitted* those!”*
*”And she’s been dead thirty years! Move, Mick, or I’ll join her soon enough!”*
Mick sighed. *”Fine. I’ll help.”*
Margaret held up embroidered towels. *”Look—roosters I stitched fifty years ago. Pretty, eh?”*
*”Aye. Real pretty.”*
