Mom, what are you thinking?I burst out. You expect me to spend two weeks under the same roof with a complete stranger?
Why stranger? Hes George, the son of my cousin Helen, a proper relative!
Remember how you used to play with him when we were kids? We were guests at their place then! my mother retorted.
Mom, Im almost thirty now. Wheres my youth? Are you trying to push me into marriage again?
Dont be ridiculoushes family, so be a good host. Nothing will happen to you, she said firmly, then hung up.
My mother always held family ties sacredblood is thicker than water. So she decided to thrust an elderly cousins son, who had just moved to the capital, London, the city of opportunity, onto me. Take him in as family, she barked, you cant turn away kin in London!
Im a literature teacher in a secondary school, wellread and aware that the adverb as a family member was a favourite of the notorious gossip columnist Derek Shank. He, like the infamous MrsHolliday, was notorious for his lessthancharitable deeds. So I offered my mum Id look after my distant cousin, being the good soul I am. After all, who wants a stranger crashing on their sofa?
But mum and dad lived in a tiny postwar council flat with a laughably cramped kitchenno folding table could even fit. How am I supposed to shoo George in here? Youve got to be kidding, Emma! she snapped.
My mood soured. Id been on my own for ages; a fleeting marriage didnt count. My first marriage had lasted half a year; the romance fizzled out and there was never a child to speak of. I didnt want any more entanglements.
I owned a solid Edwardian tworoom flat inherited from my grandmother. It was full of antique appliances, but they all worked: the washing machine spun, the fridge kept cold, the telly showed pictures. That was enough for me.
My job paid well, and my colleagues respected me. I wasnt short of friends, and my solitary evenings were kept company by my cat Muffinnamed after the beloved hunting dog in the classic Little Nemo tales.
I set up a spare room for the guest and waited, halfskeptical, for Georges arrival. Mother kept insisting, Youll grow to like him!
When George finally appeared, he inspected the flat as if it were an exhibition. What are you looking for, gold and jewels? Do you expect a golden lavatory for my arrival? I asked, trying to keep the tone light.
Just trying to figure out where Ill be staying, he replied.
And if you dont like something, youll just leave? I pressed, curiosity getting the better of me.
Ill stay, but
What? But what?
Nothing, really, he said with a vague smile.
We made tea and started to get acquainted. George even brought a slice of cake his aunt Helen had given him, and a small, tasty tart hed bought himself. He turned out not to be a leech at all.
In practical matters George was a surprise. He washed dishes without being asked, cooked tolerably well, and never left puddles in the bathroom. In short, he was toilettrained.
Thanks to Aunt Helen and Georges first wifewhoever that washed already been through a divorce.
My word, thats a catch! exclaimed my friend Lucy when I told her about my new houseguest. He sounds like a readymade husband, you should take him!
Lucy knew what she was saying; shed split from her husband Lev over similar reasons.
But were family! And I dont like him! I protested.
What kind of family are we talking aboutseventhwater jelly? Lucy retorted. How can you not like him? Is he a?
Not really, I answered. George was decentlooking, just not my type.
Still, he didnt click with me. Our rhythms clashedshes an owl, hes an early bird. I prefer a slow, measured life, guided by the old saying, Haste makes waste. George, however, was constantly buzzing, always moving forward as if hed got a motor instead of a heart.
On his first day he whisked me off to a theatre, tickets booked online in advance. I wasnt keen on live drama, but I went along, not wanting to send him packing on day one.
There are people like that, and theyre not few. Most just dont admit it. I love classic plays I stream online; modern reinterpretations never grab me. This time the lack of a curtain, the contemporary costumes, and the garbled delivery turned me off. The script wasnt even about our times! The director seemed oblivious. Thank heavens they didnt throw in any of that organic stage stuff, I muttered.
George, meanwhile, was thrilled and tried to convince me I was wrong, arguing passionately all the way home.
Why cant you see? This is progress! he insisted.
Its fine the way it is, I replied calmly. The old works for me.
He stared, bewildered. But isnt it about moving forward? He launched into a tirade about progress and about London, the city of opportunity, laying out grand plans.
Meanwhile, Muffin the cat bolted under the bedthe usual retreat when something displeases him. Apparently, Georges charms didnt win over the cat either.
By the second day George bought a new doormat and tossed the old one that had been folded on the stairwell. I accepted the change without comment; it was a silent upgrade. He also replaced an old saucepan that made porridge stick to the bottom with a newer, more efficient one. I didnt react; I was busy sipping coffee with toast. It seemed he bought the new pot for his own breakfastshe liked a substantial start to the day, not my light fare.
He even offered to foot the utility bills. Ill pay for water and electricity, he said. Im practically ideal, not a man of the house! I declined, sensing an intrusion on my space. Why would a guest cover the rent? I asked. Are you trying to take over my flat?
He laughed it off, insisting he was only looking out for himself.
George was also hunting for work, sending out countless CVs and attending interview after interview. He seemed convinced something promising was just around the corner.
As his fortnightly stay drew to a close, he started sneezing, his nose ran, and his skin broke out. He blamed it on the flats atmosphere.
One evening, annoyed, he shouted, Why are you wearing boots in the kitchen? Cant you manage without them? He also complained about the laundry detergent, You cant rinse this out of the clothes!
I felt like a fool, as if I were no longer the head of the house. Muffin stayed under the bed, ignoring George completely, only emerging when he was out of the room.
On the eighteenth day, George got a callhed finally landed a job in London. At last! They finally took me on, didnt they? he exclaimed. The news brightened his mood, but it also meant hed be staying longer. He was tidy, goodlooking, but still a complete stranger with his own habits.
The job was respectable by London standards, and he shared the good news with me, though he kept quiet about moving out.
I decided to confront him directly. George, are you getting tired of being my guest? I asked, setting a meeting for the next day. He replied that he had a medical checkup scheduled for tomorrownecessary before starting work.
The following morning I returned from school to find the table set for a celebratory dinner. Is this a farewell feast? I thought. Thank heavens, I wont have to bring up the awkward talk. My spirits lifted.
George, ever buoyant, poured wine and began to speak. Then, out of the blue, he declared, Emma, I want to propose to you. Not a business proposal, but a marriage proposal, despite our familial connection.
In my view we could make a decent pair, he said, earnest. Im not a bother to you. Youre attractive to me, and at our age we should think carefully about marriage. We already have a flat and good jobs. Love can be a nuisance; respect should be the foundation, and we respect each other.
I stared, mouth open, when Muffin leapt from under the bed, perhaps finally taking notice of George.
Is that your cat? George asked, surprised.
Yes, I replied, bewildered. First time youve seen him?
First time! BlastI’m allergic to cat hair! The doctor just diagnosed me with an allergy today. He looked horrified. You didnt notice the litter tray? You see everything else!
I didnt even think about it, I said. Well have to do something about it.
The doctor prescribed treatment, but you need to tackle the cause, not just the symptoms, he explained. I cant live with a cat in the flat.
Whos forcing you? Dont live here then! I snapped.
So, no marriage? he asked, baffled.
My allergys not going to slip into my brain, he retorted. Itll mess up the cat too!
Youd even suggest putting the cat down? I snapped angrily. Fine, Ill do it myself! I threatened, my voice shaking.
George took a sip of wine, stood up, and shouted, I never thought youd be so primitive!
I wish you goodbye! I replied, relieved as he stormed out.
When he left, the saucepan vanished, the new doormat stayed. I called my mother, How could you push him out? Hes already complained!
He wanted me to marry him. If youre so kind, marry yourself! He disgusts me, I told her before hanging up. No one called back; the matter seemed settled.
Perhaps next time a relative will be allergic to me, just as some husbands develop allergies to their wives dandruffa tale that never ends well.
So, Mum, if you ever think of housing more kin, remember: whoever devises the plan must also bear the consequences. As for me and Muffin, were managing just fine.
