You wouldnt believe the Saturday I had. Picture this: Im at my allotment, up to my elbows in earth, sweat trickling down my face, trying to get on top of the never-ending list of jobs Id mapped out for the weekend. Suddenly, above the drone of next doors lawn mower, I hear my mother-in-law, Margarets, unmistakable clarion call from the front gate: Well, whats the hold up? Open up, love, were all on the doorstep! She shouts it like Im barricading myself in against a siege. Weve brought goodies, and joy, and yet someones locked up tight like its an air raid shelter in here!
This was not in my weekend plans. Not in the slightest.
I looked over at Tom, my husband, who was loitering by the shed, hammer in hand, looking just as flummoxed as I felt. He gave me that sheepish shrug he does, mouthing, Wasnt me.
Tommy! Margaret bellowed again, this time with that little tinge of woe she loves to add. Have you dozed off? Mum and your sister have come all this way and youre hiding?
I peeled off my filthy gloves, wiped my brow, and gave Tom a look. Might as well let them in now, right?
As the gates swung open, a shiny silver Range Rover rolled in, looking completely out of place amidst my prized potatoes and battered shed. Out tumbled the in-laws: Margaret, resplendent in a floral dress and sun hat, leading the charge; then Toms sister, Emma, in immaculate white shorts, showing off shimmering new nails and more skin than strictly necessary; and her husband, Mark, stretching like hed just had a lovely afternoon nap.
Out came the loot: bags of charcoal, an armful of lagers, and tubs of marinated meat.
Blimey, its roasting out here! Margaret fanned herself. Lizzie, love, you look like youve been rolling in the dirt! We thought wed surprise you. Called Tom, no answer, so I thought, why not pay you a visit? Weathers glorious perfect for a barbie and a sunbathe. You are near the river here, arent you?
Honestly, I couldve screamed. That allotment, you see, wasnt just a plot of earth it was my little slice of peace inherited from my nan. Since Tom and I got married, Id poured every spare penny and ounce of energy into bringing it back from overgrown wilderness. Tom helped, if I asked (with a bit of prodding), but his lot only ever turned up once it was all looking lovely to stuff their faces with strawberries and swing in the hammock.
Hello, Margaret, I said with as much composure as I could muster. Surprise, indeed. Were having a working weekend.
Work wont run away, Mark quipped, hauling out the beer. Weekends are made for putting your feet up! Tom, fetch the barbecue, lets relax!
Emma was already on a recce around the plot. Liz, where are the loungers? I need some sun. Have your raspberries ripened yet? Mind if I have some?
Raspberries arent ready, I said pointedly. And the loungers are in the shed. Bit dusty.
Oh, Tom will get them out and clean them up, Margaret announced, breezing onto the veranda before I could object. “Now, Liz, go tidy yourself up cant have the lady of the house looking like a navvy! Lay the table, will you? Slice up those cucumbers from your garden. Men can handle the grill.
She dropped into my favourite wicker chair on the porch the one I used for reading in the evenings and began a critical survey of the garden. That grass along the fence is absurdly high. Tom can deal with that after lunch.
I looked over at Tom, who shuffled his feet and barely met my gaze. These weekends were meant for proper work, hard graft. We had big plans new beds to dig, fencing to paint, the battered old greenhouse to dismantle. Compost was being delivered that evening. But with them here? Now it was down to me to play the happy hostess while the dear guests turned my patch into their holiday resort.
I felt something snap, but I kept my cool.
Tom, I called, and we stepped aside to the water butt. Did you know they were coming?
He looked genuinely guilty. “No, hand on heart! Mum rang this morning, asking what were up to. I saidallotment. She didnt say a thing about visiting! But we cant exactly turf them out, can we? Family and all. Lets just grit our teeth, fire up the barbecue, call it quits for the day
Oh really? I laughed, bitterly. Last weekend we had to skip work here because your mum wanted a lift to Bluewater. Weekend before that Emmas birthday bash. Were in peak season, Tom. If we dont get this done now, all the seedlings die and the fencell rot before autumn.
Liz
No Liz. This is my place, my rules. If they want food and country relaxation, brilliant. Fresh air does wonders for the soul.
I strode to the shed and came back with a decent haul: three spades, a rake, a hoe, and a tin of paint. I dropped them right at their feet.
So then, dear guests, I said, voice clear as day, since youve descended on us unannounced, lets mix business with pleasure. Time for a family work day!
Emma recoiled from the dirt-covered spade, looking appalled. Youre joking, right? I came here to chill!
Im not your childrens entertainer or your cook, I told her, flat. I was planning to work here. Stay and muck in, or dont but whoever doesnt work, doesnt eat. Thats an old English saying for you.
Margaret paused, apple halfway to her lips, mouth agape. Liz! How dare you? Were GUESTS! Weve come to see our Tommy! Tom, arent you going to say something? Your wifes lost it making your own mother slave away!
Tom came and stood beside me, but didnt say anything not yet.
Im sorry, Margaret, I said, taking charge. “But the allotments mine, inherited from my nan before Tom and I even met, as you well know. Im head gardener here. Tom helps out, because were a team. The rest of you only show up when its lovely, expecting everything laid on. You want a barbecue? Heres your task list.
I started handing out the kit, ignoring the dramatic sighs.
Mark, I said, handing him a spade while he clung to his lager, You get the toughest bit the clay patch by the fence needs turning. Well get the barbecue going once its all dug over.
He almost choked on his beer. Youre kidding? My backs in bitsIm on holiday, Liz!
Best remedy for back niggles is movement, I told him, not missing a beat. Emma! She was shrinking into her chair. Rake for you. You can collect the cut grass behind the shed and weed the carrots. You were after an even tan nows your chance. No strap marks.
I am NOT! she screeched, clutching her nails. I paid a fortune for these! Mum, do something!
Margaret stood up, trying to loom, all bluster and indignation. This is enough, Tom. Get rid of this nonsense. Were here for dinner. You she jabbed a finger at me, if youre so inhospitable, just say so! Making your own family toil like field hands its beyond rude! Were not young anymore, you know.
Didnt you just do three hours of Zumba last week? I replied, cool as you like. So, youll manage. Ive saved the delicate job for you painting the little picket fence by the flowers. Fresh brush, no pong.
Thats it, were leaving! she practically roared. Mark, get the bags! I am never setting foot here again! Tom, see what youve married? Shes a nightmare, throwing your own family out!
I folded my arms. No ones throwing anybody out. Its a straight swap: help out, or dont get in our way. Im not sweating over a stove while you snooze in the sun. I have a schedule.
Tom! Margaret wailed. Say something! Are you a man or a doormat?
Tom took one look at his mothers furious face, his sister sulking, Mark scowling at the lost promise of beer, and then at me: tired, mucky but determined. He remembered how much I loved this place, how Id plan the garden for weeks, how excited I got about every new shoot, how wed dreamed about a new greenhouse.
Mum, he said, quietly at first, then firmer, Liz is right.
What?! all three gasped at once.
Its her place. We came here to get things done. I said Id help her. You lot just showed up out of nowhere. If you want to relax, try the country club on the main road theyve got deck chairs, chefs and all that. Weve got jobs.
There was a stunned silence, punctuated only by the drone of a bumblebee over the peonies. Margaret opened and closed her mouth, so shocked she couldnt speak. For her, her son taking my side mustve felt worse than any spade to the shins.
Well she hissed, collecting herself, thanks for the welcome, son. Lets go, Mark! Quick! I wont breathe the same air as this She couldnt even come up with a name nasty enough.
They packed up faster than Ive ever seen before, Mark carting the beer back to the boot with an audible sigh, Emma stomping her sandaled feet. Margaret shot me a glare that couldve curdled milk. Youll regret this! And when youre old and need a favour, dont come crawling!
The Range Rover revved off, kicking up a cloud of dust.
The quiet, once theyd gone, was sweeter than tea on a hot day. My shoulders finally dropped and my legs went a bit wobbly, so I flopped down on the veranda steps.
Tom dropped down beside me, took my grubby hand in his warm, a bit clammy.
You okay? he asked.
Im fine, I exhaled. Figured Id be cursed for life, or at least shouted at.
Oh, probably cursed, Tom chuckled. But itll blow over. Mum always comes round when she wants something. Emmall sulk for a bit longer, though.
Ill survive, I said, resting my head on his shoulder. Thanks for backing me up. I honestly thought youd just you know, keep your head down.
Bit sick of it, to be honest, Tom sighed. All they ever do is show up and expect a spread. Never ask how we are. Just do this, fetch that, set the table. Youre always flat out here. Made me feel guilty. This is your space. You know every blade of grass.
I smiled. OUR space, Tom. If youre in it for more than just the barbecue.”
I am, he said, serious for once. Actually, Mark forgot his spade out back. Bit of a waste if that patch doesnt get turned over. Ill give it a go.
And with that, he got up, grabbed the spade, and headed towards the fence. My heart properly swelled. For the first time in ages, I felt like we were partners, not just two people sharing a roof.
I got up too, dusted off my knees. The sun was still up, plenty to do, but suddenly the work felt so much lighter.
An hour later, with Tom sweat-soaked and grinning, I brought him a tall jug of homemade lemonade.
Break time! I called, clinking the glasses.
We sat together on the veranda, where earlier thered been nothing but sound and fury.
You know, Tom said, after a long sip, they never got it, did they?
Got what?
That it wasnt about the work. If theyd just asked, Can we help? wed probably have settled them down with a drink after an hour. But no they just barged in, assumed everything was for them.
Its respect, love. English manners dont turn up empty-handed, dont act like the world revolves around you, and never, ever dismiss someone elses hard work.
Toms phone went off. He groaned. Message from Mum. ‘Country club’s a rip-off, foods rubbish, youve got no heart.'”
I burst out laughing. Well, theyre having their holiday, no plants, no spades.
And no barbecue, Tom added. Did they leave us any meat?
They took it. But weve got new potatoes, dill, and some smoked mackerel. And quiet.
The evening drifted over the allotment so gently you could barely notice it. Crickets started their chorus, a dog barked somewhere in the distance. By twilight wed finished painting the fence and were sat in the kitchen, feasting on hot potatoes and herring, and honestly, it tasted better than anything served at a gastropub.
You know, I said, dunking bread in sunflower oil, I think we all learned something today.
Did they?
We did, too. Saying no isnt the end of the world.
It was terrifying, Tom admitted. But totally worth it. Next weekend just you and me, no visitors? No spades, just a proper rest?
Deal, I grinned. Though we really do need to sort out that greenhouse.
Just then, a car pulled up. I froze, fork halfway to my mouth. No way, I thought, not round two? Tom yanked back the curtain.
False alarm thats just old Mr. Peterson next door.
I laughed, all the tension finally draining away. That day proved to me: Tom had a backbone, and my allotment really was our fortress against all the nonsense the world and family could throw at us.
But, and this is England, the story didnt end there. The next Wednesday, back at our flat in town, someone rang the doorbell. Margaret stood on the step; no hat, no Emma, just a humble little carrier bag.
May I come in? she asked, barely meeting my gaze.
I blinked, but stood aside. Go on, come through.
She perched on the edge of a kitchen chair, placing her bag on the table. Brought some pasties. Made ’em myself.
Tom, hearing voices, appeared in the doorway. Hi Mum. Everything all right?
She sighed. Not really. Ive been ashamed of myself all week. My neighbour, Jean, told me about her daughter-in-law who booted her out for sticking her nose in. Got me thinking I wasnt any better, was I? Barged in, bossed you all around. And you two well, you work so hard. The allotment looks lovely.
She fiddled with her bag before glancing up. Ive just got to say sorry. I still see Tom as my little boy, always did what I told him. But hes grown up now. And his wife shes strong. Thats a good thing, these days.
I caught Toms eye; neither of us had expected this.
Margaret, seriously, its water under the bridge, I said quietly, putting the kettle on. Were not angry. We just want you to understand weve got our own ways.
She nodded. Got it. No more dropping by without warning, and less bossing about. Though that Emma shes still sulking, said shed have ruined her nails! Kids, eh? Shell grow out of it.
We spent the evening sipping tea and eating pasties. The words came slow at first, but something had shifted. The lines Id drawn that weekend hadnt broken us, but made things healthier. Respect, especially with a spade in your hand, lasts far longer than polite resentment.
And now the tools stand right by the shed, a little reminder: hard works what made us who we are and turned our stroppy visitors into thoughtful guests. And the next time the family rang beforehand and asked, What can we do to help?, well, I knew wed finally won that little battle.
You have to stick up for your own patch in life, dont you? Thats what keeps it and you flourishing.
