Yesterday
“Where are you putting that salad bowl, Tom? Youre blocking the cold cuts! And move the glasses, will you? Edwards coming any minute, and you know he likes plenty of room to wave his arms about when he talks.”
Tom scurried about, rearranging the crystal on the table, nearly dropping a fork with every move. Margaret sighed heavily, wiping her hands on her apron. Shed been at the stove since dawnher legs ached as if filled with lead, the familiar throb in her back right below the shoulder blades. But she hadnt a second to complain. Tonight was the arrival of the star guesther husbands younger brother, Edward.
“Tom, calm down,” she said, aiming for a steady voice. “The tables perfect. Did you get brown bread? Edward complained last time that we only had sliced white, and hes watching his figure, apparently.”
“Got it! Wholemeal with caraway seeds, just how he likes it.” Tom darted for the bread bin. “What about the roast, Maggie? Is it done? You know he fancies himself a bit of a foodieeats out all the time, wont be impressed by homemade burgers.”
Margaret pursed her lips. Of course she knew. Edward, forty, eternally single, self-styled creative soul but actually surviving on odd jobs and handouts from their elderly mum, fancied himself a culinary connoisseur. Each visit from him turned into an ordeal for Margareta test she knew shed fail before he even set foot inside.
“I made roast pork in a honey-mustard glaze,” she replied crisply. “Fresh from the market, cost me nearly £8 the kilo. If he doesnt like it, thats his affair.”
“Oh, come on,” Tom winced. “He hasnt come round in six months, he mustve missed us. Just wants a nice family evening together. Try to make it pleasant, could you? Hes going through a bit of a rough patch, searching for himself.”
“Searching for cash, more like,” thought Margaret, but said nothing. Tom idolised his little brother, believed he was a misunderstood genius, and bristled at any criticism.
The doorbell rang at precisely seven. Margaret quickly removed her apron, adjusted her hair in the hallway mirror, and stretched on her polite smile. Tom was already flinging open the front door, beaming like a brand new kettle.
“Ed! Mate! About time!”
Edward stood on the threshold, undeniably stylish: open trench coat, scarf slung carelessly over one shoulder, light stubble crafted for ruggedness. He spread his arms for Toms hug, but only patted his brothers back in response.
Margarets eyes flicked to his handsempty. No bag, no box of biscuits, not even a daisy. Hed arrived at a house he hadnt entered for half a year, to a table groaning with food, and brought nothing. Not for them, not for the kids (thankfully at their nans tonight), not even a bar of chocolate.
“Evening, Margaret,” he nodded, strolling inside, inspecting the hallway shoes before bothering to take off his own. “Wallpapers changed? Bit hospital, isnt it. Well, as long as you like it.”
“Hello, Edward,” she replied tightly. “Wash up, wont you? Here are your new slippers.”
“Oh, I didnt bring any; dont want athletes foot from borrowed pairs,” Edward dismissed. “Ill stick to socks. The floor is clean, yes?”
Margaret felt irritation bubbling up. Shed scrubbed the floors twice just for him.
“Pristine, Edward. Come to the table.”
They settled in the sitting room. The table was festive: crisp white cloth, matching napkins, three types of salad, cold meats and cheeses, red caviar, pickled mushrooms Margaret had made herself last autumn. Hot food steamed at its centre.
Edward lounged back, surveying the spread. Tom hurried to open the brandy he’d bought especially for his brotheraged, five years, not cheap.
“To family!” Tom announced, pouring the drinks.
Edward took his glass, swirled it, eyed the light, sniffed.
“Armenian? Really?” he grimaced. “I prefer Frenchfar more delicate. This is a bit strong on the alcohol, but never mind, beggars can’t be choosers”
He knocked it back without tasting, instantly reaching for the place with cold meats. Margaret watched as he picked the priciest cut of ham.
“Help yourself, Edward,” she said, sliding over a salad bowl. “This ones prawn and avocado, new recipe.
He speared a prawn, examining it like a craftsman inspecting a stone.
“Frozen prawns, I assume?” He didnt wait for the answer.
“Well, we dont exactly live by the sea,” Margaret replied. “King prawns from the shop.”
“Rubber,” Edward declared, dropping it into the bowl. “Theyre overcooked, Maggie. Prawns only need two minutes in boiling water, tops. These are tough. And this avocados not ripecrunches.”
Tom froze, serving himself salad in mid-air.
“Come on, Ed, it tastes great! I tried it earlier.”
“Tom, taste is an education,” his brother said patronisingly. “If you eat substitutes all your life youll never appreciate real cuisine. I was at a restaurant launch last week, had a scallop cevichenow thats texture. And here Was the mayo at least homemade?”
Margaret felt her cheeks colour. The mayonnaise was shop-bought, nothing fancy. She simply hadnt time to whisk eggs from scratch.
“Store-bought,” she said flatly.
“Ah,” sighed Edward, as if receiving dire news. “Vinegar, preservatives, starcha recipe for disaster. All right then, lets have your roast. You havent ruined it, I trust?”
Margaret silently placed a generous slab of roast pork on his plate, drizzled over the sauce, added roasted potatoes with rosemary. The aroma was mouth-watering; anyone else would have been thrilled. But Edward fancied himself a critic.
He cut a piece, chewed it for an eternity, gazing at the ceiling. Margaret and Tom waited, silent, for the verdictTom hopeful, Margaret increasingly angry.
“Dry,” pronounced Edward. “And the sauce the honey drowns everything, too sweet. Good meat should taste of meat, Maggie. Youve turned it into dessert. And you didnt marinade it long enoughthe fibres havent broken down. Shouldve left it in kiwi or soda water for twenty-four hours.”
“I marinated it overnight with mustard and spices,” Margaret murmured. “Everyone else likes it.”
“Everyone is vague. Your work mates might enjoy it, their palates are barely used to carrots. Im just being honest. You could eat it if starving, but pleasure? None.”
He shoved his plate aside, barely touched, £3 worth ignored, and reached for the mushrooms.
“Are these yours, or straight out of a can from China?”
“Homemade,” Margaret gritted, “picked and salted by us.”
Edward chewed one, winced.
“Lots of vinegar. Burn through your stomach, that. And saltyare you in love, Maggie, over-salting like that?” he laughed at his joke. “Tom, watch your blood pressure, mate. This dietll do you in.”
Tom tittered nervously, hoping to ease the mood.
“Nah, Ed, theyre great. Best thing with vodka. Pour another round, shall I?”
They drank. Edward grew flushed, loosened his scarf but refused to take off his coat, making it clear he wasnt staying long, like he was doing them a favour just by being present.
“And wheres the decent caviar?” he asked, poking his sandwich. “This is tiny, full of bits. Picked it up on special, did you?”
“Edward, it’s salmon caviar, £65 a kilo,” Margaret snapped, her voice trembling. “We bought it just for you; we never eat it ourselves, we scrimp every month.”
“Scrimping on food’s daft,” Edward mused, eating another sandwich with the inferior caviar. “We are what we eat. I’d rather go hungry than buy cheap sausage. And you lotstock the fridge with any old rubbish and wonder why you look tired, why the complexions grey.”
Margaret glanced at Tom. He sat silent, eyes in his plate, chewing the roast and pretending not to notice anything, his silence wounds deeper than Edwards jibes. Tom retreated, as always, hiding behind family harmonynever standing up for Margaret.
“Tom,” she asked, voice taut, “do you think the porks dry?”
Tom coughed, nearly choking.
“Er, no, Maggie, its lovely. Very nice. Its justEdwards got a keener palate”
“Oh, a keen palate,” she said, setting down her fork. The metal struck porcelain, sharp as a gunshot. “So mines rough and dull. And Im a klutz in the kitchen. And I cook poison.”
“Maggie, dont be melodramatic!” Edward sneered. “Im giving you constructive criticism. So you grow, improve. You should thank meinstead of getting lazy because Tom eats anything.”
“Thank you?” Margaret repeated. “You want me to thank you?”
She rose. The chair scraped noisily backwards.
“Maggie, where are you going?” Tom asked anxiously. “We havent even got started.”
“Ill get dessert,” she said evenly. “Edward loves a treat.”
On the kitchen counter stood her homemade Victoria Sponge, baked till two in the morninglight sponge, fresh cream, vanilla. She stared at the cake, at the empty bin.
Her hands trembled. Years of resentment boiled over, smothering logic. How many times had this man come, eaten, drank, borrowed money and never paid back? Criticised her home, her clothes, her children? And Tom always kept the peace, always made excuses. Hes sensitive, creative. But she, Margaret, was just supposed to endure.
She didnt touch the cake. Instead, she grabbed a large tray and returned to the dining room.
“So heres dessert?” Edward perked up, craning his neck. “Not another supermarket flapjack, I hope?”
Margaret methodically, silently started clearing the table. First the roast. Then the rubbery prawn salad. Then the cold meats.
“Oi, what are you doing?” Edward protested as his plate disappeared. “Ive not finished!”
“Why keep eating?” Margaret asked, looking straight at him. “Its all inedible, according to you. Dry pork, poisonous salad, rubber prawns, rubbish caviar. I wouldnt dare poison a valued guest.”
Tom jumped up.
“Maggie! Stop it! For gods sake, put the food back!”
“No, Tom, this isnt theatre. Theatres when someone arrives empty-handed, sits at a table we spent a quarter of your wages on, then slates me.”
“I didnt slate you!” Edward snapped, face blotchy. “I was just being honest! Free country, remember?”
“Exactly,” Margaret said, stacking dishes into the tray. “So I freely decide who eats in my house, and who doesnt. You said youd rather go hungry than eat poor quality? I respect that. Be hungry.”
She marched the food out to the kitchen. Silence thundered in the lounge.
“Youve lost the plot!” hissed Tom, chasing after her. “Youre shaming me in front of my brother! Put it back. Apologise!”
Margaret put the tray on the counter, turned to her husband. No tears, only steel.
“Im shaming you? When you sat there and nodded as he tore me apart, werent you ashamed? Are you a man or a doormat, Tom? He wolfed down £10 of caviar and called it rubbish. Have you ever bought that for me, just because? No. We save the best for guests, and this guest wipes his feet on us.”
“Hes my brother! Hes family!”
“And Im your wife! Ten years cooking, cleaning, scrubbing. I spent half the night at the stove, for what? To be insulted? Carry on blaming me, and Ill dump that Victoria Sponge on your head. Im not joking, Tom.”
Tom recoiled, shocked. Margaret had always been gentle, flexible, “easy”. Now she was a fury hell-bent on justice.
Edward appeared in the kitchen doorway, the swagger drained from his facenow just bewildered and wounded.
“Well,” he mumbled, “this is new. Never experienced a welcome like this. I bring my whole self and you throw bread in my face?”
“You bring yourself?” Margaret snorted. “Where does that show? In empty hands? Not once have you brought so much as a teabag here. You only come to feast and criticise.”
“Im skint! It’s just temporary!”
“Your temporary has lasted twenty years. But your coats new, and the scarfs not cheap. You find money for restaurant launches, but not to pay back Tom a single loan.”
“Margaret, stop it!” Tom barked. “Dont count other peoples money!”
“Its OUR moneyour familys! The money we pinch from ourselves and the kids so this so-called foodie can stuff himself!”
Edward clutched his chest with theatrical horror.
“Thats it. Im done. Not staying another minute in this house. Tom, cant believe you married such a shrew. I wont darken your door again.”
He spun on his heel, headed for the hallway. Tom ran after him.
“Ed, hang on! Dont listen to her, its just stress from work or something! Shell calm down!”
“No, Tomthe wound is deep,” Edward declaimed tragically, pulling on his shoes right over his socks. “The insult is unforgivable. Im off. Dont call until she apologises.”
The door slammed.
Tom stood staring at the closed door like paradise lost. Slowly, he turned and went into the kitchen, where Margaret calmly packed the roast into containers.
“Happy now?” he asked, voice hoarse. “Youve driven me and my brother apart.”
“Ive relieved us of a sponger,” she replied without looking round. “Sit and eat. Still warm. Or do you find it dry, too?”
Tom slumped at the table, head in hands.
“How could you? He was a guest”
“A guest should act like one, not a health inspector. Tom, listen to me. Ill neverneverhost him again. If you want to see him, go to him. Or meet in a café, at your expense. My time and our money are not for him.”
“Youve become hard,” he muttered.
“Ive become fair. Eat. Or shall I clear up?”
Tom eyed the roast. His stomach growled treacherously. Despite all the commotion, the scent was irresistible. He gingerly picked up his fork, cut a piece, tasted.
It was flawlesstender meat, sweet sharpness from the sauce, mustard heat. Perfect.
“Well?” Margaret asked, catching the way his eyes closed in pleasure.
“Its delicious,” he admitted softly. “Really delicious, Maggie.”
“Glad you think so. Your brothers just an envious failure who boosts himself by pouring scorn on others. Try to see that.”
Tom chewed, lost in thought. For the first time ever, it dawned on him his wife might be right. He remembered Edwards empty hands, his tone, the discomfort he himself felt at the relentless criticism.
“What about the cake?” he asked. “Shall we have some?”
Margaret smiledgenuinely, for the first time tonight.
“We shall. Ill put the kettle on. With thyme, just how you like.”
She fetched the Victoria Sponge, glorious and generous. Sliced it thickly. They sat together in the kitchen, sipping tea, eating cake, tension ebbing away.
“You know,” Tom said, finishing his second slice, “he didnt even get Mum a birthday present last month. Said he himself was the gift.”
“See? Eyes opening at last,” Margaret nodded.
Toms phone buzzed with a message from Edward: Couldve at least let me take a sandwichleft hungry. Owe me £50 for emotional damage.
Tom read it aloud. Silence. Margaret arched her brow.
“So, what will you say?”
Tom looked at his wife, their cosy kitchen, the scrumptious cake. At the phone. Slowly, he typed: Eat out, youre supposed to be a gourmet. Im broke. And pressed Block.
“What did you write?” Margaret asked.
“Said were heading to bed,” Tom fibbed.
Margaret let it pass, seeing his screen, and hugged him from behind.
“Youre a good man, Tomslow to see things sometimes, but good.”
That evening, they learned something essential about each other. To preserve a family, sometimes you have to cast out those who do it harmeven if theyre kin. And the pork was exquisite, whatever self-styled experts with empty wallets had to say.
