Fed up with the Wife and Mother-in-Law
That evening I received a visit from the quietest, most long-suffering man in our little villageStephen Roberts. You know the type: the sort of chap you could build a bridge out of, all broad shoulders and hands like coal shovels, scars and calluses everywhere, but an expression as calm as a sleepy canal. Stephen was never one for idle chatter, never uttered a complaint. Patch a roof? Chop wood for Mrs. Booth down the lane? Theres Stephenno fuss, no ceremony, just a nod and off he goes.
But that night, there he was. I remember it as if someone had pressed play on a particularly bleak scene from EastEnders. Stephen sort of wafted in, the door to my little nurses office creaking open so quietly youd have thought it was just the autumn wind knocking. He stood, tufty old flat cap in his hands, staring at the floorboards. His coat was soaked through with drizzle, cuffs muddied, and he looked so folded in on himself, so completely undone, my own heart nearly took to my boots.
Come on in, Stephen, dont dither on the doorstep, I said softly, shoving the old copper kettle onto the hob. There are some ailments, after all, that only a cup of strong teaand maybe a biscuitcan put right.
He shuffled in, perched on the very edge of the camp bed, head still bowed. Silence pressed in, broken only by the relentless ticking of my wall clocktick, tock, counting out the seconds of his silence. And that quiet was heavier than any anguished howl. I put a mug of tea in his blue, frozen hands. They shook something terrible.
He hugged the mug for warmth, lips quivering as he took a sip. Then I saw ita big, fat tear rolling down his stubbly, wind-burnt cheek, soon followed by another. Not a sob, not a wail. Just silent tears, sliding away into his stubble.
Im leaving, Mrs. Simmons, he finally whispered, so low I barely heard. Thats it. I cant do it anymore. Im all done in.
I sat down next to him, my own hand rough as sandpaper on his.
Who are you running off from, Stephen?
The ladies, he muttered. From the wife. From Margaret from the mother-in-law. Theyve worn me out, Mrs. Simmons. Pecked me right to the bone, the pair of them. Cant do a thing right. Make soup while Margarets off at the dairyToo salty, you cut the carrots wrong! Fix a shelfCrooked, why cant you be handy like other men? Dig the veg patchShould have gone deeper, look at the weeds. Just endless picking, day after day, year after year. Not a kind word, not a warm glance. Just a constant grumblelike nettles, but with voices.
He stopped, took a shaky gulp.
Im no lord of the manor, Mrs. Simmons. I get that lifes hard. Margarets slogging at the dairy sunrise to sunset, comes home sour as old milk. Mother-in-law, Edna, bad legs, stuck in her chair, World War Three in her eyes. I see it all. So I get up at sparrows fart, stoke the fire, do the animals, drag the water, then off to work. Come home, and its still all wrong. One peep out of linethree days of rowing. If I keep quietWhat are you plotting, Stephen? Gone mute, have you? Soul isnt made of steel, Mrs. Simmons. It gets tired too.
He stared at the dancing light behind the stove and poured his whole heart outlike a dam finally burst. Weeks not speaking to him, like hes a ghost. Whispering behind his back. Hiding the best jam for themselves. He told me how hed saved up and bought Margaret a lovely woollen scarf for her birthday, only for her to toss it in the chest: Youd have been better off buying yourself new boots, you walk about like a scarecrow.
And there he was, big strong Stephen, who could wrestle a bull, snuffling like a schoolboy with a grazed knee. My chest fairly ached for him.
I built that house with my own hands, he sniffled, voice barely there. Every brick. Thought itd be a nest, a family. But it turned into a cage. And the birds in it, well theyre nothing but crows. Today Edna kicks off againThat door keeps me up! Calls me a joke of a man. I picked up the hatchet to fix something and just stared at the old apple tree outside and had the blackest thought. Shook it off, grabbed my bundle, a bit of bread, and came here. Ill kip anywhere, tomorrow Im catching the train and off I gosee where I end up. Maybe then theyll say something nice about me. When its too late.
Thats when I realised this wasnt just a tired man; this was a soul teetering on the edge. I could not, would not, let him walk out into that miserable night.
Right, Roberts, I said, using my best Nurse Voice. Enough of this now. Wipe your tears. Walking out is the easy bitever think whatll happen to them? Will Margaret run the farm alone? Ednas no good on her feet. Youre responsible for them.
And whos responsible for me? He managed a wobbly grin. Whod care if I vanished?
I would, I said fiercely. And you, my lad, are suffering from a very serious ailment. Its called soul fatigue. Theres only one cure. Youre going homequietly. Dont answer back to a thing. Dont look them in the eye. Lie down, face the wall. Tomorrow morning, Ill come to see for myself. And youare notgoinganywhere. Got it?
He glanced at me, doubt and hope sparking in his eyes. He drained his tea, nodded, and without a word, disappeared into the soggy English night. I sat a long while by the fire after that, considering what sort of nurse I was, if the one medicine people needed mosta kind wordwas the one they begrudged each other.
At first light, I was at their garden gate, rapping away. Margaret answered, scowling, hair like a birds nest.
What dyou want, Mrs Simmons, rattling about this early?
Ive come to check on your Stephen, I said, breezing in before she could close the door.
Inside, it was cold, unwelcoming. Edna sat hunched on the settle, eyes narrowed above her shawl. Stephen, as instructed, kept his face to the wall.
Nothing wrong with himlazy lump, snoring away, Edna shot, mouth pursed.
I touched his forehead, fussed with my stethoscope (mostly for show), and looked him in the eyespoor bloke was still as quiet as a church mouse, jaw clamped tight.
I stood to face the women, all business.
Things are not looking good, ladies, I said. Not at all. Stephens hearts wound tighter than Margaret Thatchers purse strings. Any tighter, itll snap. Youll be on your own then.
They exchanged glances; Margaret looked puzzled, Edna suspicious.
Oh do me a favour, Mrs Simmons, Edna scoffed. He was chopping wood yesterday, didnt see him waving a white flag then.
That was yesterday, I snapped. Today hes done inthanks to all your griping. Hes not made of stone, you know. Hes flesh and blood, with a heart thats now well and truly battered. Heres my prescription: complete rest. No chores. Bed rest. Andsilence. Not one nag, not one cross word. Just warmth and care. Treat him like a prized bit of crockery. Spoon-feed him rosehip tea, tuck him in with a blanket. Otherwise well, I might just have to send him to the town hospital. And everyone knows not all come back from there.
I saw itthe real, clammy fear in their eyes. For all their caterwauling, Stephen was their wall, their oak tree. The thought of losing him hit hard.
Margaret crept overthe first time in years, Id wagertouching his shoulder softly. Edna pursed her lips, but said nothing, gaze darting for a way out.
I left them to stew in their realisation. Then I waited.
The first days, Stephen later whispered, the house was wrapped in hush, every sound ringing out. Margaret tiptoed around, left him broth, retreated. Edna muttered prayers under her breath. Odd, awkward. But for once, no one was shouting.
And then, the thaw began. One morning, Stephen woke to the smell of baked appleshis childhood favourite, with cinnamon, just like his mum used to make. He rolled over. Margaret sat by his bed, peeling one. She jumped when he looked up.
Eat up, Stephen, she said, all soft and nervous. Its hot.
For once, he saw not irritation but something gentler: care, shy and hesitant, but real.
A day or two later, Edna shuffled over with a pair of thick wool socksher handiwork.
Keep your feet warm, she grumbled, but there was no sharpness in it. Terrible draught from that window.
And slowly, as he lay there, Stephen feltfor the first time in too many yearsnot like furniture, but family. Not just a pair of hands, but a person. Someone they were afraid to lose.
A week passed. I popped in againthe whole mood was different. The fire was going, fresh bread on the table. Stephen, still pale, but not so lost, sat in his chair while Margaret poured him milk and Edna fussed over pies. No one was pretending to be the Waltons, but the hush of despair was gone.
Stephen looked at me with clear gratitude, and when he smiledgenuinely smiledthe whole room seemed to catch the glow. Margaret, seeing it, ventured a smile herself. Even Edna, though she couldnt resist turning to the window, dabbed a tear discreetly away.
I didnt need to go back. They were, at last, each others remedy. No fairytale family, not by a country mile. Edna would still tut, Margaret would still snap if she was tired, but now, after every scold, Edna would make Stephen a cuppa with honey, and Margaret, after a hot word, would pat his hand and squeeze his shoulder.
Theyd learned to see not the faults, but the person. Worn out, familiar, irreplaceable.
Now, every so often, as I walk past, I see the three of them on the garden step. Stephen, fiddling with something; Margaret and Edna shelling peas, chatting away. It warms me through. Real happiness, it turns out, isnt in grand gestures or posh presents. Its in an evenings quiet, in the scent of apple pie, in a pair of handknitted socks, and in the certainty that youre needed, and youre home.
So tell me, my dears, whats the better medicinea bitter pill, or a kind word at the right moment? And do you suppose we all have to get properly frightened, just to start treasuring what we already have?
