My boyfriend and I rented a room in a lovely old ladys house. Weve been living with her for eight months now.
We share her fridge, though Id hardly call it sharing since her shelves have always been as bare as Mother Hubbards cupboard. The only staple: a battered pot filled with oats and water. Soap? Strictly for the laundry. Cooking oil? The kind that needed a warning label and cost pennies. The shoes in the hallway looked like relics from the Blitzpatched and scuffed within an inch of their lives. The whole flat practically hollered poverty.
Our landlady never interfered in our business. She spent her days out and about, foraging for empty cans and flyposting about the neighbourhood. Every Sunday, shed treat herself to a feast of bruised fruit from the marketbanquet, it was not.
I pitied her so much it nearly brought me to tears. And when she had the rare visitor, Id sob at the injustice of it all.
Have you got the money ready? inquired a woman of about 45, who breezed in using her own key.
Yes, love. Here, take it, our landlady replied, handing over her pension in a crumpled envelope.
Thats not enough. Ill be back tomorrow with my daughter.
Whose clothes are those? You have lodgers?
I had to let a room. Ive got to eat, havent I? I give you every bit of my pension, the old dear pleaded as she tried to explain.
Well, Ill just go see these tenants of yours. Rumour has it theyre trouble, the woman declared, flinging open the door to our room.
Well, well, who do we have here?
Such a cavalry charge into our perfectly-paid-for quarters left me staring at her, gobsmacked.
Madam, kindly close the door behind you! I fired back.
And who are you to tell me what to do in my own house? Im the lady of the manor here! Youll pay me directly from now on, heres my number, and heres my bank details, she announced, marching in with muddy shoes and scattering paperwork on the table. Dont you dare pay late, or youre out! When did you last pay the rent?
Sweetheart, let her be, please. I paid the electricity debt with this, they were about to cut me off. How would I live without light? Our landladys voice wobbled on the edge of tears.
Dont you dare take rent off them anymore, theyll send it to me. Im done. Tomorrow Ill bring my daughter, just as I promised.
The Bully-in-Chief left, and our landlady slumped onto a chair in the hallway and burst into tears. I went over, hugged her and tried to soothe her.
Dont cry, itll all work out.
Put the kettle on, would you, love?
I had never actually seen her make a proper cup of tea beforeshed usually brew herself some raspberry or currant leaves, bundles of which hung from hooks in the kitchen.
The old lady wrapped her hands around her mug and began telling me her story.
I brought up my daughter alone. My husband disappeared years ago and never darkened my door again. I poured my heart and soul into that girl. She grew up bold as brass, forever chasing after men. Found herself a husband at 35 and made me a grandmother. But her husbands tighter than two coats of paint. I started helping them outher and my granddaughter.
Thats when helping them turned into an obligation. She takes my whole pensionand if I dont hand it over, she wont let me see my granddaughter. I thought if I took in a lodger, I might at least be able to buy myself something to eat. But now she wants that, too. Where did I go wrong in bringing her up?
She was sobbing now, her tea forgotten.
And now she wants to move me outsell the house, shove me in a one-bed flat on the far side of Croydon. Maybe leave me on the street, shes started dropping hints. If I say no, she uses my granddaughter like a pawn. Id sell my house in a heartbeat just to see my little darling.
When my boyfriend got home from law schoolhes a fourth-year undergrad, you knowI ran all of this past him. What could be done to help the old lady?
We did a round of the neighbours, whod all heard the daughters shrieking about money, asked them to be witnesses, and gathered enough support to take the matter to the court. Together, we helped the old lady submit a request to secure proper visitation with her granddaughter.
We also advised her to get letters from the GP and, who knows, maybe a psychiatristfor all we knew, the daughter might cook up stories for court.
We won. Now, the landlady gets to see her granddaughter, legally, every other Saturday for three hours. Her pension is finally hers and the daughters lost her power to blackmail. Shes now treating herself to roast chicken, and theres always a bowl of ordinary fruit on her table. We help out with the odd spot of decoratingno grand designs, but we can wield a paintbrush and help her swap out her glorious 1980s wallpaper.
As thanks, she insists we stop paying her rent for the room. We try handing it over anyway, almost have to force it on her.
How can anyone treat their own mother like that? Snatching away a meagre pension without a second thought about what she might eatthe woman who carried you, raised you, loved you? The sheer ingratitude!
Love your parents. You exist only because of them!
