“Well, just look at this, Lottie! Run your finger along this, go on. Thats not dust, its practically felt at this point. You could grow potatoes in it, honestly!” The shrill, demanding voice of an older woman cut through the flats silence like a knife through an overripe melon.
Charlotte exhaled heavily, snapped her laptop shut, and dragged herself away from the dining table. The clock read eight in the evening. Shed been home only half an hour, all day juggling year-end accounts at work, and her head thrummed like an engine. The last thing she needed was a lecture on cleanliness, but Mrs. Janet Wright, her mother-in-law, was not someone who could be ignored. Janet stood in the middle of the lounge, clutching a china elephant, her expression wrought with the outrage of a slighted saint.
“Janet, I did a thorough clean on Saturday. We keep the windows open, the main roads right there, dust gets in instantly,” Charlotte tried to reply, though she knew it would make no difference.
“Everyone keeps their windows open, dear, but only the carefree ones let it get this filthy,” Janet retorted, pointedly wiping her finger on a tissue she seemed to have produced for just this sort of occasion. “Matthew comes home tired and hungry, and he walks into chaos. A man needs creature comforts, Lottie. Cosiness and order. And in your kitchen, there are two mugs in the sink. Two! Since morning, I wager?”
“We were running late,” Charlotte replied softly, heading to the kitchen to put the kettle on. “Matthew made his own coffeehe could have rinsed his cup.”
Janet shuffled in after her, her own slippers (she always brought a pair, claimed she wouldnt wear ‘borrowed’ ones) scuffing across the laminate with an irritating sound.
“A man shouldnt have to wash up,” Janet protested, flinging her hands up. “Thats a womans job. Guardian of the home, ever heard that? Instead, youre hell-bent on your career. Accounts, figures… Meanwhile, my son gallivants about in creased shirts. I saw him yesterday when he dropped by for those jars; his collar didnt crackle, fabric all limp! The shame, Lottie. People will think: Matthews got no wife, poor thingall alone while his missus lives and breathes!”
Charlotte grabbed some biscuits from the cupboard, forcing herself not to slam the door. Inside, everything was boiling. Five years of marriage, five years of the same song. She used to try: starching, scrubbing, simmering stew and pie. But a senior finance managers job demanded time and energy. Matthew, to be fair, never complained. He didnt mind Friday-night takeaways or unseen dust atop the wardrobesunless you went looking for it with a magnifier. But his mum would not accept it.
At that moment, the front door clattered shut.
“Im home!” Matthew’s upbeat voice sounded from the hallway.
“Darling!” Janets face transformed, smile plastered, hair quickly fluffed, rushing to greet her son. “Just popped round with some cabbage pasties, your favourite. I know Charlotte hasnt got timealways busy at work, poor thing…”
Matthew swept into the kitchen, kissed his mum, pecked Charlotte on the cheek, and collapsed onto a chair with a groan.
“Mum, those pasties are a godsend. Starved. Lottie, is dinner on?”
Charlotte froze, kettle in hand.
“Ive only just got in, Matt. I thought Id whip up some pasta bake, got the mince defrosted.”
Janet clutched her chest. “Pasta? Again? Matthew, do you hear? Carbs and nothing else. You need proper food, hearty food, a rich stew or a roast. Your father, God rest him, always had fresh soup each day, never a bellyache till seventy. And what do we have here…”
She pursed her lips, glancing mournfully at the empty hob.
“Mum, leave it,” Matthew grimaced as he chewed on a pasty. “Its fine, shell sort it in a minute.”
“Leave it? How can I? I only want whats best for you! Look at you, gaunt, pale. Poor diet and shambles at home, thats why. A woman should make a home you want to run back to. And what is this? Dust, dirty mugs and pasta bake. Your wife, Matt, is no housekeeper, I told you that even before you married”
“Janet!” Charlotte set the kettle down with a loud thunk.
The room silenced. Janet looked astoundedshe wasnt used to Charlotte raising her voice. Usually, Charlotte swallowed any harsh words.
“What, Janet? Cant I speak the truth?” Janet scowled. “Ive lived a life. I know how to keep a family together.”
Charlotte’s eyes swept the kitchen. At her weary husband gnawing on a pasty, at her triumphant mother-in-law, at the defrosted mince oozing in its bowl. Suddenly, something snapped inside hera calm clarity.
“Youre absolutely right,” Charlotte said, dangerously level. “Im a terrible housekeeper. Appalling. I dont have time to starch shirts, I dont make stew every day, and I dont dust the top of the wardrobes on Wednesdays. I work and bring in half the moneylike the savings you use for your new car, which Matt will drive you to your cottage in. But anyway, no excuse.”
“See? Even you admit it!” Janet looked delighted, missing the sting. “Self-awareness is the first step to change!”
“No, Im not changing,” Charlotte shook her head. “I havent the resources. But I have found a solution. Janet, since you care so deeply and know exactly how to run a household, and since you have plenty of time now youre retired… why dont you take over for me?”
“Take over what?” Janet was baffled.
“Everything. The housework. Ill step back completely. From today, Ill just sleep here and pay my half of the bills and mortgage. You, the paragon of English housekeeping, can show us how its really done. You live two stops down. Youve got a set of keys.”
Matthew stopped chewing, staring at his wife.
“Lottieare you serious?”
“Why not?” Charlotte beamed. “Mums right, you deserve better. I clearly cant cope. Let her help, not just with words but with action. One month. Lets test it for a whole month. If you prefer this, Ill sign up to domestic science night classesor even quit my job.”
Janet blinked in confusion. She was used to criticising, offering advice, pointing out failingsbut actually running a home for a grown man and a three-bed flat? That hadnt featured in her evident expertise. But with her pride at stake, there was no backing out.
“Fine, Ill show you!” She tossed her head. “Ill prove it! At least my Matthew can have a decent meal for once. On one conditiondont interfere. The kitchen is my domain.”
“Wholly yours,” Charlotte spread her arms theatrically. “I wont even touch the cooker. Ill eat at work or out.”
“Splendid!” Janet barked. “Ill be round first thing tomorrow. Its an embarrassment, the way things are.”
The rest of the evening was tense. Matthew tried to talk, once they were in bed, but Charlotte faced the wall.
“Go to sleep,” she said. “Tomorrows the start of your brand new, happy life. With starched collars and all.”
The next morning, with Charlotte already off to work, Janet Wright swept into the flat with the energy of a general. She began with a deep cleanscrubbed windows, washed curtains (which she swore were grey when they were just beige), emptied every kitchen cupboard and sorted the pantry by category.
By the time Charlotte returned, the place was unrecognisable. The air reeked of disinfectant and onions. Janet was banging pans around the kitchen, cheeks flushed, tied into an apron. Matthew, at the table, faced a mountainous bowl of stew with cream, surrounded by plates of meatballs, mash, and a traditional salad.
“Oh, here comes the career woman,” Janet grumbled, not turning. “Wash your hands, sit down, go on thenIll pour you a bowl. Proper stew, simmered for three hours on the bone.”
“Thank you, but I ate at the office,” Charlotte replied politely and escaped to the bedroom.
There she discovered a surprise. Her meticulously organised underwear had been stacked in colour-coded piles on the wardrobe shelves. Her bedside things had been tidied away. Her bookleft open by the lamphad vanished.
Charlotte returned to the lounge.
“Janet, wheres my book? It was by the bed.”
“Oh, that old thing?” Janet called, hands on her hips, drying her hands on a towel. “Put it in the wardrobe. No need for clutter. Bedside tables should be clearmuch easier for dusting. Honestly, youve got your underwear and socks muddled in your drawers. I sorted them. A womans drawers should be neat, like a chemists cabinet.”
Charlotte clenched her jaw. The invasion of her privacy was enormous, but she reminded herself: “Its just an experiment. Tolerate it.”
“Thank you for your concern,” she bit out, heading to change.
The first week was a parade of culinary abundance. Matthew was thrilled. Every evening, a feast awaited him. Stew, roasts, cakesJanet came round at lunchtime, cooked, tidied, cosied up with her son, asked about his day and left only around 9 p.m.
Charlotte came home, nodded a greeting, then retreated with her laptop or a book. She discovered she suddenly had three free hours every evening. No more rushing to the shop or the hob, no more stacking the dishwasher (Janet insisted on hand-washing, claiming machines never really clean). Charlotte started swimming, read new books, even wandered around the park after work.
But by the second week, Matthews enthusiasm started to wane.
“Lottie,” he whispered one night. “How much longer is Mum going to… keep going like this?”
“A month, darling. We agreed. What, dont like it? Starched collars and hearty stewyou always wanted that.”
“Yeah, I mean, it’s nice, but… shes everywhere. I get home, just want to veg in front of the telly or not talk for a bit. But she hovers over me, goes on about her aches, her neighbours, rising grocery prices. Keeps fussing: Eat up, love, Whyve you left that?, Shall I rub your back? I feel like a five-year-old.”
“Thats the price of home comforts,” Charlotte said, grinning in the dark. “At least youre well fed.”
“And she keeps moving my stuff! Yesterday I tore the place apart looking for my lucky socks. Shed thrown them awaysaid they had a stain. Lottie, they were my socks!”
“Tell her. She’s doing it for you.”
“I tried! She sulked: I break my back here, and youre so ungrateful!”
By the third week, Janet herself was flagging. Age and unfamiliar exertion took their toll. Cleaning a three-bed flat, hauling home shopping (“Veg from the markets better than your supermarkets!”) and daily roasts all proved too much at sixty-five.
One night, Charlotte came home to find Janet lying on the sofa, a damp flannel on her brow, the flat smelling strongly of valerian drops. Matthew sat nearby, looking guilty.
“Whats happened?” Charlotte asked.
“Its her blood pressure,” Matthew groaned. “Mum was boiling up a stock pot all day, then on her hands and knees scrubbing because apparently a mop spreads the dirt. Now this…”
“Oh, Lottie…” Janet muttered weakly, not opening her eyes. “My back… cant straighten… and my hearts pounding.”
Charlotte fetched the blood pressure monitor. It was raised, but not dangerousmainly exhaustion.
“You need a few days rest, Mrs. Wright,” Charlotte said, easing the cuff off. “No point making yourself ill.”
“But wholl feed Matthew?” Janet tried to rally. “He’ll starve! You… you wont do it.”
“I wont,” Charlotte confirmed. “That was the deal.”
“Mum, never mind the food!” Matthew pleaded. “Well order pizza or Ill throw on some pasta. Youre working yourself into the ground.”
“Pizza…” Janet huffed with disdain, but lacked the energy to argue. “Fine. Order in. But Ill be back tomorrow. Got pastry proving in the fridge.”
But she didnt return the next day. She rang to say she couldnt get upher sciatica had seized up.
Matthew heaved a sigh of relief. That evening, he and Charlotte ordered sushi, opened a bottle of wine, and sat in companionable peace, relishing their general being absent.
“Lottie, please, lets end this experiment,” Matthew said, dipping a roll in soy sauce. “I cant carry on. I love Mumbut from a distance. Let her visit on Sundays. Ill eat pasta daily if need be, just so nobody moves my things or tells me how to live.”
“Dont you miss the homey comforts?” Charlotte joked. “Starched collars?”
“To hell with collars. Ill buy non-iron shirts. Seriously, Lottie, you were right. Its relentless work and if youre also working full-time… I dont know how you did it.”
Charlotte beamed. That was all she needed to hear.
A few days later, Janet recovered and popped over “to check on things.” She arrived, clocked the pizza boxes in the bin (Matt had forgotten to take them out), the unwashed mug in the sink, and… said nothing.
She sat at the kitchen table, shoulders slumped.
“Lottie,” she said, as Charlotte poured her tea. “I had a thinklying there. Its hard.”
“What is?” Charlotte asked gently.
“Thisall of it. Your place is massive. Those floors, the cleaning… My backs killing me. And Matthewhes such a slob, I never realised. Socks everywhere, crumbs on the worktop. I couldnt keep up. Id tell him, and hed just snap at me.”
“But hes a man,” Charlotte teased, echoing Janets old words. “Needs creature comforts.”
“Creature comforts, yes, but a bit of respect too!” Janet bristled. “Im his mother, not his maid. I spent three hours rolling cabbage for him and he says the leaves are tough. I told him: Do it yourself! and he goes Mum, stop nagging. Can you believe?”
Charlotte bit back a laugh. The golden-boy myth collapsed when Mum became the daily skivvy.
“Janet,” Charlotte said, taking her hand. “Youre a wonderful housekeeper. I could never manage what you do, but thenI dont want to. Weve got our own way, Matt and I. We both work, both get tired. Sometimes the flats a bit of a state, sometimes its takeaways. But were happy. When we want proper stew and a pristine home, well visit you. May we?”
Janet was silent, looking down at her hands, rough from weeks of bleach and baking.
“You may,” she sighed. “Just give me warning first. My soaps are on, and Ive seedlings to tend… Actually, I fancy a trip to Bath, rest up for a bit. Tell Matthew his shirts are pressed and in the wardrobebut next time, he can do ’em himself. Or you can. Or he can go out creased for all I care. Health comes first.”
She finished her tea, stood, straightened her cardigan.
“Oh, and your books back on your table. Cant imagine why you read all that fantasy rubbish, but still, your choice.”
When Matthew got home, the place was quiet. It smelt just of fresh air and Charlotte’s perfume, not bleach or onions. Simple sausages simmered away on the hob, and a tin of peas sat on the table.
“Has Mum left?” he asked hopefully.
“Gone,” Charlotte nodded. “Said shes retiring. Experiment overearly, on health grounds.”
Matthew wrapped his arms round his wife and kissed her head.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“For what? Sausages?”
“For being wise. And for giving me my peaceful life back. I love youeven if youre a bad housekeeper.”
“Im not bad,” Charlotte smiled, hugging him close. “Im just modern. And for the recordthese sausages are best of British, top notch.”
Since then, of course, Janet couldnt help offering the occasional tipthats just her way. But now, whenever she ran a finger over a dusty shelf, she just gave a meaningful sigh. And if she began to lecture about a womans duty, Charlotte would only ask, “Janet, fancy doing a week here? Ive got a business trip coming up…” At which point, Janet remembered her milk was boiling, or the cat needed feeding, or Emmerdale was startingand hastily retreated.
Domestic peace was restored. As for the dustwell, it collects, but it bothers no one. What really matters is that people dont stop each other living their own lives.
