Agatha Whitmore was just pulling an apple crumble from the oven when the doorbell chimed. She glanced at the clock—half nine in the morning. Early for visitors.
“Coming!” she called, wiping her hands on her apron.
On the doorstep stood her cousin Beatrice with her husband Nigel, both weighed down with bulging suitcases. Beatrice looked rumpled and exhausted, while Nigel scowled behind her.
“Aggie, darling!” Beatrice trilled, throwing her arms around Agatha. “We’ve come to stay! You wouldn’t turn away family, would you?”
“Bea?” Agatha blinked at them. “What’s happened? Where have you come from?”
“Manchester,” Nigel grunted, dragging a massive suitcase into the hall. “Bloody nightmare getting here, traffic all the way.”
“Come in, come in,” Agatha fussed. “Take off your coats. I just don’t understand—you didn’t call ahead.”
Beatrice shrugged off her jacket and hung it on the hook.
“It’s all gone pear-shaped, Aggie. Nigel’s lost his job, money’s tight. Had to sell the flat.”
“Sold it?” Agatha gasped.
“Debts,” Nigel waved a hand dismissively. “So we thought we’d bunk with you. You’ve got this big three-bed to yourself, plenty of space.”
Agatha stood frozen, blinking. Beatrice had already wandered into the kitchen, sniffing the air.
“Smells divine! Crumble, is it? We’re starved—didn’t eat a thing on the way, saving our pennies.”
“Sit down,” Agatha murmured, defeated. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
Nigel flopped into a chair, scanning the room.
“Not bad, this. Fresh paint, decent furniture. Living the high life, eh?”
His tone pricked at her. She’d lived alone since her husband passed eight years ago, treasuring the quiet and order. Worked at the library on a modest wage, but it kept her comfortable.
“Where are your things?” she asked, pouring tea.
“Right there in the hall,” Beatrice nodded at the luggage. “Nigel, take it all to the bedroom.”
“Which bedroom?” Agatha asked carefully.
“Whichever’s free! You’ve got three.”
“Bea, wait. Let’s talk first. How long are you planning to stay?”
Beatrice and Nigel exchanged glances.
“Till we’re back on our feet,” she said airily. “Find jobs, sort ourselves out.”
“And when might that be?”
“How should I know?” Nigel cut himself a hefty slice of crumble. “Month? Maybe six. Depends.”
Agatha felt something tighten inside. She couldn’t turn them away, but the thought of permanent lodgers in her peaceful life filled her with dread.
“Aggie, you wouldn’t chuck us out?” Beatrice clutched her hand. “We’re family. Family sticks together.”
“Of course not,” Agatha sighed. “It’s just… sudden.”
By evening, they’d settled in completely. Nigel sprawled on the sofa with the telly remote, shouting at the screen. Beatrice clattered about the kitchen, rearranging spice jars.
“Your system’s all wrong, Aggie,” she said, wiping a plate. “Tea next to salt? Sugar in the back? I’ve sorted it properly.”
Agatha stared in horror. Every item in her home had its place—now even her coffee tin was missing.
“Bea, why’d you move everything?”
“Because it was a mess! I’ve got an eye for these things.”
“Oi, women!” Nigel bellowed. “When’s dinner? I’m famished.”
“Coming, love,” Beatrice chirped. “Aggie, what’ve you got for supper?”
Agatha opened the fridge—slim pickings. A bit of ham, some cheese, two eggs. Her usual modest dinner for one.
“Not much, I’m afraid.”
“That won’t do! Nigel, nip to the shops.”
“With what money?” he grumbled. “Spent our last quid on the train.”
They all looked at Agatha. She pulled out her purse.
“Take what you need.”
“Oh, you angel!” Beatrice beamed. “We’ll pay you back, promise!”
They returned with bags of gourmet groceries—smoked salmon, fancy biscuits, a chocolate gateau. Agatha silently paid, watching half her wages vanish.
“Now we’re talking!” Nigel grinned. “Can’t live on scraps.”
That night, as they snored in her study-turned-guestroom, Agatha sat at the kitchen table, numb. Nigel had blared the telly till midnight. Beatrice had talked nonstop. Her ten o’clock bedtime was shattered.
“Aggie, why’re you still up?” Beatrice shuffled in, yawning. “Fancy a cuppa? Girl talk?”
“It’s late. I work tomorrow.”
“Oh, posh! That library won’t vanish. Tell me—no blokes since George passed?”
Agatha flinched. She loathed personal questions.
“No one.”
“Shame. A woman needs a man. Nigel’s a handful, but he’d fight for me.”
“Bea, I really need sleep.”
“Right, right. Oh—can I borrow your washing machine tomorrow? Mountains of laundry! And your face cream? My skin’s parched.”
Morning brought chaos. Nigel hacked coughs into the sink. Beatrice fried eggs, singing off-key. Agatha gulped coffee and fled.
At work, the librarian frowned. “You’re miles away, Agatha. Feeling poorly?”
“Just… unexpected guests.”
“Lovely! Company’s nice.”
If only she knew.
Home again, the flat was unrecognizable. Nigel’s socks littered the sofa. Unwashed plates crowded the table. A clothesline sagged with damp laundry.
“You’ve redecorated,” Agatha said faintly.
“Just freshening up!” Beatrice chirped. “Nigel fixed your telly—signal was rubbish.”
In the lounge, Nigel blasted an action film, walls vibrating.
“Could you turn it down?”
“Eh? Sounds fine. You going deaf?”
Dinner was agony. Nigel slurped. Beatrice prattled about old neighbors. Agatha longed for her book and silence.
“Aggie, can we borrow your car tomorrow?” Beatrice asked suddenly.
“Why?”
“Nigel’s got to sort benefits. I’ll pop by the job centre.”
Agatha’s old Peugeot was her pride—rarely used, meticulously cared for.
“I don’t lend it out.”
“Won’t hurt a bit! Nigel’s a brilliant driver.”
“Thirty years, no crashes,” Nigel boasted.
“But you’ve no license here.”
“Course I do! Left it at home.”
They took the car at dawn, returned at dusk. Nigel patted the bonnet.
“Sweet little runner. Thirsty, though.”
The fuel gauge sat near empty.
“Where’d you go?”
“Errands,” Beatrice said vaguely.
Later, unpacking shopping, she produced vodka and lager.
“What’s this?” Agatha asked.
“Nigel’s treat. Gets glum without a drink.”
“I don’t allow alcohol here.”
“Don’t be a prude! He’s civilized with it.”
Civilized went out the window by pint three. Nigel roared through football chants, then took offense when Agatha shushed him.
“Not allowed a song in me own home?”
“It’s not your home.”
“The hell it isn’t! Bea’s your blood, ain’t she?”
Beatrice flapped her hands. “Now, now!”
But Nigel was incensed. “Three rooms to yourself, greedy cow! We belong in the gutter?”
“I never said—”
“Got your posh little life, too good for us now?”
Agatha fled to her room, trembling. Behind the door, Beatrice scolded, Nigel rumbled. The telly roared back on.
At dawn, Agatha crept out. Beatrice cornered her at the kettle.
“Aggie, love… maybe we’ll find somewhere else.”
Agatha’s heart leapt. “Really?”
“Nigel says it’s cramped. We’ll manage.”
By noon, suitcases packed, they called a cab. Beatrice lingered.
“Your place is lovely. Pity it didn’t work.”
“These things happen.”
The cab honked. As they loaded up, Beatrice whispered, “We’ll come visit!”
Agatha waved, shut the door, and exhaled.
Silence. Glorious silence.
That night, sipping tea with her novel, she smiled. No clutter. No noise. Just peace.
Her friend Margaret rang late. “They gone?”
“Gone.”
“Good riddance. Blood’s not always thicker, dear.”
Agatha hung up, savoring the quiet. Relatives had come—and mercifully left. And she’d learned a vital lesson: even family must respect your borders.
