A friend of mine is in a stateher son has announced he wants to marry a girl from quite the wrong background. I genuinely sympathise; with children of my own, Id worry too.
But it brings to mind a certain Mrs. Thompson.
Her own son simply presented the fact: Heres Emily, weve already been to the registry office. In the Thompson family tree: a university professor, two lecturers, a ballet choreographer, a chief engineer, a literary critic, a renowned heart specialistthe list went on.
And yet here stood a girl of questionable lineage and, without doubt, questionable manners. Father was nowhere to be found, mother a milkmaid (a milkmaid!), qualificationspainter and decorator, plain as porridge. It felt as if fate had aimed carelessly and struck home.
Admittedly, Emily the decorator kept to herselfso quiet youd barely know she lived there, slipping through the corridor like a shadow.
Just wait, Mrs. Thompsons friend Helen would say. Shell make herself at home, and youll rue the day.
Autumn came and Mrs. Thompsons son went off on a business trip to America. The very idea that this strange creature is skittering about the flat is enough to make me dread going home, she told Helen.
He returned for Christmas, but by March he broke the news: first, hed been offered a contract in the States; second, hed met Nicole there; third, he and Emily would be divorced on Thursday, and Friday he would fly outDont fret, Mum, Ill call every week.
There were tears, a goodbye at the airport, a wave.
Emily packed her thingsan old holdall and a supermarket bag, her entire world right there. She looked for all the world like a stray dog.
Mrs. Thompson forced herself to ask, Do you have anywhere to go?
Emily murmured, Therell be a bed free in the hostel in a month. Meanwhile, the girls will let me kip in their room, just on a camp bed.
Mrs. Thompson thought for a bit, and then said, Unpack. Stay a month. You can move when youre settled. She called herself a fool for it, something Helen later confirmed.
Each morning Emily left early for her painting jobs, came back late, worn to the bone, her face ashen with exhaustion. She stubbornly tried paying her way, insisting she made enough to cover the room.
Three weeks passed like this. Then Mrs. Thompson was suddenly, seriously illsix weeks in hospital, barely pulled through. The son rang a few times, saying, Hang in there, Mum! Ill send you a photo of me and Nicole at Niagara! The girl didnt even seem that specialhardly worth all this.
Helen came to visit now and then, harried by her own family and worries.
Emily cooked broths, made homemade cordials, steamed chicken cutlets, coaxing Mrs. Thompson to eat just a spoonful more.
This Good Samaritan act is suspicious, Helen declared. Are you sure she hasnt put herself on the lease? Run off with the silver? Will you eat your cutlet? No? Sure? Im starving after work.
Mrs. Thompson was discharged at last, and Emily brought her home, helped her up the stairs, but didnt stayshe had to dash back out.
The place was immaculate, not a speck of dust. In the kitchen, Mrs. Thompson found a note:
Mrs. Thompson, thank you. Lunch is in the fridge. Wishing you a speedy recovery. Emily.
She checked her stashed moneyeverything untouched.
Looking in her sons old room, it was as though Emily had never been there at all.
After a week, Mrs. Thompson walked down a long echoing corridor and knocked on a hostel door. Three beds, a table, and a camp bed shoved underneath.
She said, When youve got a flat of your own, you can go. For now, pack upweve a taxi waiting and the meters running.
In September, they went to buy an autumn coatpoor girl, it was shameful what she had to wear, and good boots were a must. In the shopping centre, they ran into Helen.
Helen remarked, You cant find decent help for love or money these daysI should know! And yours even works for free. Well played, Mrs. Thompson!
Shes not help, Helen. Shes my daughter-in-law. Come on, Emily, lets find a bag, some trousers, and I fancy a new scarf.
Mrs. Thompson would say, Emily saved her own deposit, never took a penny from me. The house should be finished soon. Im looking for just the right wallpaper, but Emilys always too busy, work every day from dawn, comes home barely able to stand; I turned away to pour her tea and shed already fallen asleep sitting up.
Shed add, I worry myself sick. Young, lovely, got a good head on her and soon her own placeEmilys no fool, but even clever girls can be taken in. Honestly, I lose sleep thinking shell fall for some scoundrel or waster, someone just not quite… our sort.But then, sometimes in the evenings, Mrs. Thompson would glance up from her knitting to see Emily ladling her own portion of soup, boots kicked off and hair already coming loose, and shed catch her humming some tune, lost in her thoughts. For a moment, Mrs. Thompson would see the reserves of quiet strength in herhow she tucked her worries away, just so, to carry on.
And shed remember how things had begun: so much attention always paid to a persons name and background, as if that could ever hold the whole story of who someone might become. Sitting side by side with Emily at the kitchen table, listening to rain against the window, Mrs. Thompson understood what so few ever didsometimes, you didnt choose family. Sometimes, you simply recognized it: patient, resilient, and right there beside you when you needed it most.
She reached out and quietly set her hand over Emilys, earning a startled glance and a soft, warming smile. Then they both carried on with their suppertwo women weathering what life brought them, neither quite the same as they were, and neither ever quite alone again.
