The cottage will set things right
Have you lost your senses? I told Mrs Green you were coming! Arranged it specially so shed save you the best cut!
Evelyn froze by the kitchen doorway, clutching a shopping bag. Her mother-in-law, Margaret Fletcher, blocked the entrance, arms folded so tightly it looked as though Evelyn had just stolen from Fort Knox, not merely bought a bit of beef.
Margaret, I simply couldnt get to the market, Evelyn replied, keeping her tone steady. After work I popped by the dry cleaner for your dress, and then stopped at the chemist
And a phone call? Just warning someone would do! Mrs Green waited for you till closing! She was nearly in tears over the phone, going on about how Id let her down.
Evelyn set the bag on the table, feeling a little cold inside.
Its good quality, and fresh, she said, holding up the packaging. See, its English beefproper marbled, and not frozen.
Margaret didnt bother to look, just prodded the bag disdainfully with the tip of her finger.
Supermarket rubbish, stuffed full of chemicals. Simon wont touch that, you know his stomach.
But Simon bought the same last week himself, Evelyn blurted.
She realised her mistake too late. Margarets face turned crimson.
Exactly! Husband runs errands while his wife has God knows what on. Three years, Evelyn. Three years, and whats changed? Cant cook, not much help at home, not a hint of grandchildren
Margaret, thats not fair.
Unfair? Margaret scoffed. Why, I worshipped my mother-in-law! Id barely dare say boo. You? You flout my advice and make your own rules.
Margaret snatched her handbag off the hall stand with jerky, staccato movements.
Ive told Simondivorce while hes still got sense left! Find a real woman. One who values her husband, not She threw up her hands, leaving the rest unsaid, shoved her feet into her shoes without so much as fixing the heels.
Evelyn stood rooted in the kitchen, holding the doorframe, knuckles white.
Goodbye, Margaret.
Margaret didnt answer. The door clicked shut. Silence settled over the flat.
Evelyn slid down to the cool kitchen floor. The beef lay abandoned on the table. She didnt want to look at it, or the sparkling kitchen, or at the wedding photos where Margarets smile was so tight youd think she had a tack in her shoe.
Three years. All that time she tried. Studied Simons favourite recipes, smiled through Sunday roasts at Margarets, every meal met with, Simon likes his potatoes diced, not julienned. Nodding, apologising for faults that werent hers.
Still: useless. Still, Simon shouldve left you.
Evelyn tipped her head back against the wall. The ceiling needed repainting. Shed have to mention it to Simon.
Not that it seemed to matter now.
For two weeks, Evelyn lived like a fugitive. Simon answered his mothers calls, Sunday dinners were cancelled for urgent business, and a run-in at the corner shop ended with an awkward hello and quick retreat.
Then came the phone callfrom the solicitor.
Her grandfather, whom shed met maybe five times, had gone to his rest, leaving her a cottage forty miles outside London. A little patch of land in a village called Dawnvale. Poetic, though she wondered if it was meant ironically.
We should check it out, Simon said, fiddling with a strawberry-shaped keyring. Hows Saturday sound?
Evelyn agreed. Saturday it was.
There was only one thing she hadnt reckoned on.
Simon, dear, Ill come too! Margaret announced, turning up on their doorstep at half-seven, in wellies and clutching a picnic basket. There should be good mushrooming spotsMrs Green said so.
Evelyn packed the thermos, knowing full well what sort of wonderfuland she used the term looselyday awaited.
The reality matched her expectations. A wonky little house, overgrown garden, fence held up more by hope than nails. Inside, the air was thick with damp and old papers.
Simon, Evelyn whispered, tugging his sleeve, Lets sell. What would we do here every weekend? Pull weeds? Its not how we live.
Simon opened his mouth to reply, but Margaret swooped up behind them as if out of nowhere.
Sell? Are you mad? This is land! A proper English plot! Id give anything for this.
She pressed her palms to her chest, eyes suddenly moist.
Give me the keys, Ill set it right, plant flowers, patch the place up. In a year, youll thank me!
Evelyn surveyed Margaret, who stood ankle-deep in last years leaves, beaming.
Margaret, its
Eve, Simon squeezed her elbow softly. Let her. Its her dream. It doesnt hurt us.
She didnt begrudge it. It just felt odd. Arguing seemed pointless.
Evelyn handed Margaret the strawberry keyring.
…Two months passed in a surreal haze. Margaret called only with practical questions, never dropped by unannounced, andmost incredible of allnot once mentioned market beef, nor grandchildren, nor the unevenly-cut potatoes. She sounded almost jolly: Simon, Ive been ever so busy! Lets catch up soon!
Evelyn couldnt make sense of it. Some trick? The calm before a storm? Was she perhaps ill, hiding it?
Simon, she asked one evening, Is your mum really alright?
Never better, he shrugged. Cottage keeps her busy. Says she barely sleeps theres so much to do.
On Friday, Margaret rang herself.
Im expecting you Saturday at the cottage! Well grill, Ill show you everything. Done so much! Wait till you see!
Simon relayed the invitation. Evelyn groaned, Two months of peace, now this again…
She tried, come on. Shed be hurt if we refused.
Shes always hurt.
Please, Simons puppy-eyed look won her over.
Saturday it was.
But Margaret was transformed.
She greeted them at the gate in a linen dress, arms tanned, cheeks glowingnot a tense smile but a genuine one, with laughter lines that erased years. She flung her arms open and Evelyn, astonished, let herself be hugged. Margaret smelled of earth, dill, and honey.
The garden was unrecognisable. Neat rows of veg stretched along the sturdy facelifted fence, young currant bushes bursting with leaves, and marigolds blazing under the windows.
Come, let me show you! Over here, strawberriesbrilliant variety, Mrs Porter next door gave me cuttings. June and well have the first ones. Tomatoes and cucumbers down there. Ill make plenty of preserves in autumntake what you like; Ill just keep a couple of jars.
Evelyn met Simons wide-eyed stare. He was as gobsmacked as she.
Mum, you did all this alone?
Who else? Margaret laughed, light and youthful. Hands work, heads clear. Sometimes Mrs Porter or Mrs Webb pop by to help. Such lovely people here! Not like London folk.
Inside, the cottage gleamed: fresh curtains, clean windows, embroidered tablecloth. The musty smell was gone, replaced by pies and herbal scents.
Ive got fresh milk and meatMrs Porter two doors down, keeps goats and cattle. Youll take some home; theres cottage cheese and cream too.
Evelyn gazed at the parcelhomegrown meat, no talk of market beef or Mrs Green.
Margaret, she ventured, Do you like it here?
Margaret settled on a stool, something gentle in her eyes.
Eve, love, its what Ive always dreamed ofmy own bit of land, hands in the soil, mind at peace. London smothered me; I never realised why. But here…
She gestured at the window.
Here I live.
The drive home was silent. Simon steered, milk and cheese jars clinking behind.
You know, he said at last, Maybe we can think about children now. Weve got somewhere for summers.
Evelyn snorted but smiled.
I nearly sold that cottage. First day there, I wanted rid. Thought it was a burden.
I remember.
And now somehow it mended things between me and your mum. Two months did more than three years ever could.
Simon paused at a red light, turning toward her.
Mum was just unhappy. Now, shes not.
Evelyn nodded. London lights flickered outside; home waited. For the first time in three years, going back felt warm.
We ought to visit her more, she murmured.
And she was surprised to find she meant it. Truly, honestly meant it.
