Oh, for goodness sake, Emily, take a look at thisjust run your finger across the shelf, will you? This isnt dust anymore, its practically felt. You could plant potatoes up here! The high, authoritative voice of Margaret Turner, my mother-in-law, sliced through the quiet of the flat like a bread knife through a ripe melon.
Emily sighed heavily, closed her laptop, and slowly stood up from the table. The clock read eight oclockshed barely been home half an hour, after a long day balancing quarterly accounts at work, her head still ringing with numbers. The very last thing she wanted was another lecture on cleanliness, but Margaret was simply impossible to ignore. She stood centre stage in the lounge, holding up a porcelain dog (straight from the top shelf) and looked at her daughter-in-law with the affronted dignity of one whos discovered a crime against decency.
I gave it a good clean on Saturday, Margaret, Emily tried, knowing it was futile. We keep the windows openits a busy road, the dust settles in minutes
Everyone opens windows, dear, but only lazy ones let it build up, retorted Margaret, ostentatiously wiping her finger on a tissue shed produced from her handbag. Oliverll come home tired and hungry, and whats he to find? Chaos. A man needs comfort, Emily. He needs order, not two mugs sitting forlorn in the sink since breakfast!
We were running late, Emily murmured, bustling into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Oliver made his own coffee, he couldve rinsed his cup out.
Margaret followed in a flurry of her own slippers (she brought her own so as not to wear house ones). Their rubber soles squeaked over the laminate as if to irritate each nerve.
A man shouldnt be doing the washing up! huffed Margaret, throwing up her hands. Thats a womans job. Keeper of the home, ever heard the phrase? But oh no, youre set on a career. Work, figures, reports Meanwhile, Olivers walking about in crumpled shirts. I saw him yesterday when he popped in to pick up those jarshis collar wasnt crisp! The fabric looked worn out! Honestly, Emily, its embarrassing. People will think Olivers a bachelor!
Emily took out a packet of biscuits without slamming the cupboard door, though it took restraint. Five years of marriage, and Margaret had been harping on about it since day one. Early on, Emily had tried to please: shed starched, shed scrubbed, shed cooked three courses. But her job as head accountant demanded all her time and energy. Oliver never complaineda few Friday night takeaways and a bit of dust were fine by him. But his mother? Never satisfied.
At that moment the front door slammed shut.
Im home! came Olivers cheery voice.
Son! Margaret transformed instantly, beaming as she hurried to the hallway, quickly fluffing her hair. I just popped in with some cabbage pasties, your favourite. Poor Emily never has time, shes always working
Oliver entered the kitchen, kissed his mother on the cheek, gave his wife a quick peck, and collapsed tiredly into a chair.
Mum, those pasties are just what I needed. Im starving. Emily, any chance of dinner soon?
Emily froze, still clutching the kettle.
Ive only just got in, Oliver. I thought Id whip up some pasta baketheres mince defrosted.
Margaret gasped, clutching her chest.
Pasta, again?! Oliver, did you hear? Its all starch! What about a proper meala hearty soup, a nice stew! I made your father homemade soup every day, bless him, and he never had a days trouble with his stomach. Honestly
She pursed her lips at the bare stovetop.
Mum, dont start, Oliver said, biting into a pasty. Its fine, really. Shell cook something.
How can I not say something? Margaret protested, gathering steam again. I just care for you. Look at youso pale and drawn! Its all that dreadful diet and lack of order. A womans meant to make a home you want to run back to. Here? Dust, mugs in the sink, and dried up pasta. Shes not a housekeeper, Oliver, I said so from the start
Margaret! Emily cut across her, setting the kettle down with a thud.
The room fell silent; Margaret looked at her, surprisedEmily had rarely raised her voice before.
What, isnt one allowed to speak the truth? Margaret bristled. Ive lived long enough to know how a home should be run.
Emily looked around the kitchen, at her tired-looking husband pretending not to hear, at the triumphant mother-in-law, and at the bowl with half-defrosted mince. Something inside her suddenly clickedcold, clear logic.
Youre absolutely right, Emily said, her voice eerily calm. I am a terrible housekeeper. I dont get around to starching shirts, or making soups every day, or dusting the cupboards every Wednesday. I work and earn the moneywere saving for the new car so Oliver can drive you to the coast, by the way. Still, thats no excuse.
Margaret beamed, missing the undertone. See, you admit it! Self-awareness is the first step.
Im not going to change, Emily shook her head. I just haven’t the energy. But I have got a solution. Margaret, since youre so passionate about Olivers wellbeing, and youre retired with plenty of time, why dont you take charge?
Margaret blinked. Take charge of what?
The house. All of it. Ill step aside. From today, Im a lodger hereIll pay my half of the bills and mortgage, but youre in charge now. Cooking, ironing, cleaning, the lot. You live two bus stops away. You have your own keys.
Oliver stopped chewing, staring at his wife.
Em, you serious?
Absolutely, Emily smiled sweetly. Mums right. You deserve better. One month. Lets try it for a month. If you say its better that way at the end, Ill sign up for domestic skills coursesor give up my job.
Margaret, caught off guard, wasnt used to her advice being taken literally. But her pride as the perfect housekeeper was on the line.
Fine! Youll see! she drew herself up. Oliver shall finally have decent meals. But no interferingIll rule the kitchen.
All yours, Emily declared grandly. Ill eat out or at work.
Sorted then! Margaret barked. Ill be round first thing tomorrow. Honestly, people will soon see the difference.
The rest of the evening was tense. Oliver tried to talk to Emily as they got into bed, but she just rolled over.
Get some sleep, she said, tomorrow your new, well-pressed life begins.
The next morning, while Emily dashed to work, Margaret swept in, general on manoeuvres. She started with a deep clean: windows polished, curtains washed (dreadfully dirty, not just beige!), cupboards emptied and reorganised.
When Emily came home that evening, she barely recognised the place. It reeked of bleach and fried onions. Margaret was at work in the kitchen, flushed and apron-clad. Oliver sat at the table, faced with a monstrous bowl of beef stew, a plate of chops and mash, salad and cold meats.
Oh, youre backthe career woman returns, Margaret grunted, not looking up. Wash your hands, sit down, Ill dish you up. Real stew, three hours simmered.
Thank you, I already ate at the office, Emily replied politely, retreating to the bedroom.
There, she found all her things re-arranged. Her carefully folded underwear now stacked by colour. Her things from the bedside table hidden in the drawer. The book she was reading had vanished.
Back in the lounge, she asked, Margaret, wheres my book? It was beside the bed.
Oh, that thing? called Margaret, wiping her hands. I put it away. No need for the mess. Bedside tables should be clear for dusting! And really, Emily, your wardrobes a shamblessocks everywhere with knickers! I sorted it. A womans wardrobe should be orderly, you know.
Emily gritted her teeth. Her boundaries had been trampled. But: This is an experiment, she told herself. Bear with it.
Thank you for your efforts, she said and went to get changed.
The first week was a feast. Oliver was thrilled: hearty meals greeted him, his mum fussed over every detail. Margaret bustled through every daycooking, cleaning, chatting about neighbours and her ailments, leaving only at nine every evening.
Emily, meanwhile, found herself with hours of free time. No shopping, no cooking, no arguing with the dishwasher (which Margaret refused to use, as machines never truly clean). She joined a swimming class, started reading up on her profession, and took long evening walks in the park.
By the end of week two, Oliver was less enthusiastic.
Em, he whispered one night, how long is Mum going toerrun the place?
Another couple of weeks. Why, arent you happy? Crisp shirts, proper meals, exactly what you wanted.
Yeah, its tasty and all But shes just everywhere. I just want to switch off after work, maybe watch TV, but shes always theretalking about her blood pressure, asking why Im not eating more, trying to rub my back. I feel like Im five again.
Well, thats the price of home comforts, Emily smirked. Least its not just pasta.
Andshe moves my things. My lucky socksshe chucked them because of a stain! Those were my socks, Em!
Tell her.
I tried! She took offence. Said I was ungrateful.
Midway through week three, Margaret hit breaking point. The flats size, the shopping runs (The greengrocers better than the supermarket!), and keeping up with three cooked courses a day were proving too much.
One night, Emily found Margaret sprawled on the sofa with a damp flannel on her forehead, the flat stinking of eucalyptus. Oliver looked sheepish.
Whats happened? Emily asked.
Blood pressure, Oliver mumbled. Mum spent all day making pork pie and then mopped the floors on her hands and knees because mops just smear the dirt. Now she cant get up.
Oh, Emily… groaned Margaret, eyes squeezed shut. My back, my heart
Emily checked her blood pressure. Not dangerous, mainly exhaustion.
You should rest a couple of days, Margaret, Emily said, packing away the cuff. This is too much.
But wholl look after Oliver? Margaret cried, trying to sit up. Hell starve!
I wont. We had a deal.
Mum, its fine! Oliver said, almost pleading. Well order a pizza! OrIll do some pasta. Dont overexert yourself!
Pizza, indeed… Margaret sniffed, but she had no energy left to argue. Alright. Just for today. But Ive got dough chilling for pasties
But the next day, she didnt arrive. In the morning she rang, saying she couldnt get out of bed: her back had seized.
Oliver looked positively relieved. That evening, he and Emily ordered sushi and opened a bottle of wine, content in the unexpected peace.
Em, lets call this off, Oliver said as he dunked a sushi roll in soy. Honestly, I love Mum, but not like this. Lets go back to her just visiting on Sundays. Ill happily eat pasta every night, just let me keep my own socks and not have Mum lecture me.
What about crisp collars? Emily teased.
Who cares? Ill buy non-iron shirts. Its more work than I ever realised. How did you manage all that and a job?
Emily smiled. That was exactly what shed wanted to hear.
The story reached its real end a few days later. Margaret, a little recovered, appeared again to inspect the post. After spying pizza boxes in the bin (Olivers fault), and an unwashed mug at the sink, she didnt say a word.
She sat down heavily at the kitchen table, looking thoughtful.
Emily, she said as her daughter-in-law entered, Ive had a think, since I was forced to take to my bed. This is hard work.
What is? Emily asked, pouring her a cup of tea.
All of it. You have a big flat. Those floors my backs killing me. And Oliverhes much messier than I realised! Drops crumbs everywhere, leaves his socks lying about. I spent half my day following him round. Told him off, and he talked back!
Well, he is a man, Emily replied lightly, echoing Margarets own words. He needs comfort, remember?
Comfort, yes, but theres a limit! Margaret grumbled. Hes my son, not my client. I rolled cabbage rolls for three hours, and he sniffs and says, the cabbage is tough. I told him, You do it then! And he says, Mum, stop nagging. Ungrateful!
Emily barely contained her laughter. The perfect son myth unravelled quickly when his mother became full-time staff.
Margaret, Emily sat across from her and took her hand, youre a wonderful housekeeperbetter than Ill ever be, honestly. But this is our way of living. Oliver and I both work hard and get tired. Sometimes the place is a tip, sometimes we have a ready meal. But were happy. When we want real stew and a shining home, well come to you. Deal?
Margaret looked at her cleaning-worn hands and sighed.
Deal, she agreed quietly. Just give a bit of warning. Ive got my gardening to get on with, and Id like a little break at the spa myself. Ive ironed Olivers shirtstell him the next time he wants them pressed, he can do it himself. Or you can. Or he can wear them crumpledI dont mind. Health comes first.
She finished her tea, stood up, straightened her cardigan.
And your books back on your bedside table. Its fantasy, but I suppose you like that sort of thing.
That evening, when Oliver got back, the house was peaceful. It smelt not of bleach or onions, but just fresh, with a hint of Emilys perfume. A pot of sausages simmered, and a tin of peas was open on the side.
Mums left? he asked hopefully.
She has, Emily nodded. Shes officially retired. Experiment terminated for the sake of her health.
Oliver hugged her tightly, nuzzling her hair.
Thank you, he whispered.
For what? Sausages?
For being wise. For giving me back my peaceful life. I love youeven if youre a bad housekeeper.
Im not bad, Emily said, hugging him back. Just modern. And these sausages are finest British pork, thank you very much.
Since then, Margaret never really stopped offering her adviceold habits die hardbut now, whenever she passed a dusty shelf, shed just sigh meaningfully. And should she ever start to raise the sacred issue of a womans domestic duties, Emily would smile and ask, Margaret, do you want to stay for a week and help? Ive got a business trip coming up Immediately, Margaret would remember an urgent errand, her cats supper, or the latest crime series, and make her excuses.
Peace was restoredand as for dust, well, dust quietly settles where it will. What truly matters is letting others live in peace, in their own way.
For in the end, happiness at home is about understanding, not perfection.
