Our relatives drifted into our flat on a peculiar Sunday, their arms a jumble of boxes and baskets, as if theyd raided a grocers dream. And soon, they began to hint, quite insistently, that their offerings belonged not on the shelf, but on the table, out in the open.
Somehow, I knew they were on their way. Old-fashioned as they are, they telephoned a day before. I told them as simply as I breathed: we’re not flush with cash, living by string and tape. Im on a pension, and my son, bless him, gets by on wages that sigh each week. Entertaining guests is mostly a luxury relegated to foggy memories.
But there they were, those uninvited guests with arms heavy from gifts and hampers. My son gave me that look the one that says just be polite and we tucked the gifts out of sight, like magpies hoarding shiny treasure. Id warned them, after all, that we were in no position for a fanfare.
Lunch was as modest as could be. Slices of white bread, a scraping of butter, a dish of plain digestives, and endless cups of hot tea with milk swirling lazily at the top. Our relatives chewed with the strained sort of silence that sounds louder than complaints, their faces as long as rain. I watched, unbothered. I had made it plain: were strapped what more could they expect?
By the time supper crept round, the kitchen was filled with the scent of thin broth, half a loaf, a dab of soft cheese, hastily made sandwiches filled with cool ham, and, once again, a strong dash of tea. The relatives looked as if theyd been promised a royal spread and handed gruel; their disappointment hung in the air like an unspoken fog.
One cousin, Charlotte or maybe Mabel, piped up at last. Why havent you served what weve brought? she asked, her voice going up like a kettle. I stared at her, mug paused mid-air. Was it a gift for us, or for them? If the food was meant for their own bellies, they should have said so and tucked it away in the fridge themselves.
A debate circled between us like a flock of startled birds, pecking and fluttering for hours, until the next morning, when they packed their bags and left in a whirlwind of curt goodbyes and clattered suitcases. To be truthful, I barely cared where they’d land next. They could haunt Marble Arch for all I minded. All that remained was a bounty of their ‘gifts’a bit of cake, some pate, fondant fancies, apples and oranges. At least something was salvaged.
That night, my son and I sat together in quiet, with a steaming cup of tea and a slab of homemade cake, the flat shrouded in the strangeness of it all. At least, for this fleeting moment, things tasted nice, and the world, however odd, was a little ours again.
