How do you picture that, Mum? Emily snapped. You expect me to spend two weeks under the same roof as a total stranger?
What makes him a stranger? Hes George, the son of my cousin Lucy, our own blood!
Mum, Im almost thirty. Im not a child any more. Emily tried to make her mother hear. Or are you planning another marriage for me?
Dont be absurd. Hes family, so hes just a guest. Nothing will happen to you. Her mother said firmly, then hung up.
Mum had always revered family ties; blood was sacred. So she thrust upon her daughter the notion of taking in her twentynineyearold cousin George, who had decided to move to the capital London, the city of possibilities.
Take him in as family, she urged. You cant turn him away, not when hes kin in London!
Emily, a literature teacher in a secondary school, recalled that the phrase as family was a favourite of the infamous poetcritic Basil Glover, whose reputation was as tarnished as that of the fictional villain Miss Shapely.
She offered her mother to house the cousin herself, claiming she was a kind soul. After all, why let a stranger crash on someone elses couch?
But Mum and Dad lived in a cramped postwar council flat with a tinny kitchen that could barely fit a folding chair. They certainly couldnt be expected to host George there. You cant expect me to cram him into that kitchen, Emily! Mum scolded.
Emilys mood soured; she had long been accustomed to living alone. A brief marriage at university had lasted only six months, ending with nothing but an empty apartment. No children, no lingering ties. At thirty, she still had no husband, but she wasnt worried she liked her independence.
Her modest twobedroom terraced house, inherited from her grandmother, was full of vintage appliances that still worked: a washing machine that spun, a fridge that chilled, a television that turned on. Her teaching job paid well, and she had a tight circle of friends. The only companion in her solitary evenings was Morris, a tabby cat named after the hunting dog in the classic childrens tale of “Ned the KnowItAll.”
Emily prepared a spare room for her guest and waited, uneasy, for Georges arrival. Hell grow on you, her mother had insisted.
When George finally stepped inside, he inspected every shared space with a meticulous gaze.
Looking for treasure? Emily asked, halfjoking. Did you expect me to install a golden throne for your visit?
Just trying to figure out where Ill be staying, he replied.
What if you dont like it? Will you leave? Emily pressed, curiosity flickering.
Ill stay, but
Whats but? she prodded.
Nothing, he shrugged.
They moved to the kitchen for tea. George had brought a slice of cake his aunt Lucy had sent, plus a small, tasty pastry. He was not the presumptuous freeloader shed feared.
In practice, the man proved diligent: he washed dishes without being asked, cooked passably, and never left puddles in the bathroom. He seemed, in a word, wellbehaved.
Thanks to Aunt Lucy and Georges first wifewho knows who owes the credit, Emily thought, noting that George was also divorced.
Youve got a catch, dont you? her friend Claire exclaimed when Emily told her about the new housemate. Hes practically a husbandmaterial! Grab him.
Claire knew what she meant; her own split from Leon had been caused by a similar situation.
But hes family, and I dont like him! Emily retorted.
What kind of relatives are you? Like seventhwater jelly? How can you not like him? Is he a? Claire trailed off.
Hes decent enough, Emily sighed. Just not my type.
Their rhythms clashed: Emily was a night owl, George a morning lark. She preferred a measured, unhurried life, echoing the old adage, Haste makes waste. He was restless, always moving forward like a motordriven engine.
On his first day, George whisked Emily off to a theatre, tickets prebooked online. She felt forced to attend, though shed never cared for drama. Modern productions of classics bored her; the lack of curtain, contemporary costumes, and garbled delivery grated on her nerves. She missed the old staged versions she watched on the internet.
George, however, loved the experience and, on the way home, tried to convince her that her criticism was unfounded, arguing passionately about progress.
Why do I need the new? The old works fine for me, Emily answered calmly.
Because its forwardthinking! George exclaimed, launching into a monologue about progress and his grand plans for London.
Meanwhile, Morris the cat slipped under the bed, his usual retreat whenever something displeased him. The cat seemed to dislike George as well.
The next morning George bought a new doormat, discarding the worn one by the stairs without comment. Emily accepted the change silently. He also replaced an old saucepan that stuck to porridge, claiming he preferred proper breakfasts. Emily merely sipped her coffee and ignored the subtle shift in the kitchen.
When George offered to pay the utilities, Emily declined, sensing an intrusion on her domain. Why would you want to foot the bill for my flat? she asked. Im not giving you a handout.
Fine, I wont pay, George snapped, but Im still using the water and electricity.
He spent his days sending out CVs and attending interviews, hopeful for a job in the capital. Resumes flew, meetings stacked up, and something seemed to be on the horizon.
As the twoweek period drew to a close, Georges nose began to run, he sneezed wildly, and his face broke out in a rash. He was miserable, yet he refused to leave. He started shouting at Emily, Why did you wear boots into the kitchen? Were you trying to make a mess? And why buy that cheap washing powder? Itll never rinse out!
Emily felt herself turning into a bloated fool, as if she were no longer the master of her own house but a guest under Georges rule. Morris continued to hide beneath the bed, emerging only when George wasnt around.
On the eighteenth day, a call came: George had landed a job in London. He was delighted, but he kept the news to himself. Emily, finally fed up, decided to confront the overstayed relative.
Are you bored of us, sir? she asked, arranging a meeting for the following day. George, however, had a medical checkup scheduled that same morningmandatory before starting his new position.
The next day Emily returned from work to find the dining table set for a celebration. Is this a farewell dinner? she thought, a flicker of hope rising. The atmosphere was bright; George poured wine into glasses and began to speak.
Then, with a sudden grin, he announced, Id like to propose to you. It wasnt a business deal; it was a marriage proposal, despite the fact they were kin.
In my view, we could be a good pair, he said, eyes bright. Im not repulsive to you, youre attractive to me. At our age, marriage should be a conscious choice. We already have a home and stable jobs; love can be an unnecessary complicationrespect is what matters, and we respect each other.
Emily stared, mouth open, as Morris leapt from under the bed, startling both of them. Is that your cat? George asked, bewildered.
Yes, Emily replied, surprised. First time you see him?
Its my first! Damn, Im allergic to cats! The doctor just diagnosed me with an allergy today. How could that be?
You didnt notice the litter box, did you? You notice everything else! Emily retorted.
Exactly! I need to treat the cause, not just the symptoms, the doctor said. I cant live with a cat in the flat, George protested.
Whos forcing you? Leave then! Emily shot back.
Leave? You mean a wedding? George stammered.
What wedding, George? Has your allergy seeped into your brain? Emily asked, incredulous.
Its ours, George declared. The cat will ruin it!
Youd kill the cat? Emily snarled.
I could pay for it, he offered.
Id rather kill you! Emily hissed after a pause, her voice shaking. You, and stop looking at me like thatget out! Im speaking to you, not to Morris.
George took a final sip of wine, rose, and shouted over his shoulder, I never expected you to be so primitive!
And you, goodbyes! Emily replied, relief flooding her.
When he left, the saucepan vanished from the sink, the new doormat stayed. The phone rang: How could you throw him out? He already complained! her mother shouted.
He wanted me to marry him! If youre so kind, marry yourself! I cant stand him! Emily snapped, then hung up. No one called back; the matter was settled.
Perhaps next time a relative would be allergic to her, she mused. After all, there are tales of husbands allergic to their wives dandruff, and they never end well.
So, mum, if you ever want to help again, just remember: you invite the family in, and they stay. Emily and Morris would survive just fine on their own.
