I dare say my brother made a rather poor match in his marriage. Looking back, I recall how earnestly I tried, in those early days, to foster a polite relationship with my sister-in-law. My brother and his wife lived with Mother and me for a spell. From that time, I moved myself into the box room, Mother stationed herself in the sitting room, and the main bedroom was handed over entirely to George and his wife.
But Beatrice was determined from the outset to show us, through her manners, that we were somehow beneath her. You see, she was the daughter of a headmaster. My brothers wife did not believe it her duty to lend a hand with the cleaning, nor would she bother to cook, contending that she was not the lady of the house. When Beatrice fell into expectation, she insisted that absolute peace and quiet was essential for her wellbeing. Mother, ever the peacemaker, bore all this in silence. I couldnt even have my friends over, for that, apparently, would disturb Beatrices serenity.
She demanded the finest food and a tranquil home. Mother now found herself preparing separate meals one for the rest of us, and one for Beatrice. Time and again, I tried to persuade Mother not to indulge her daughter-in-law, who merely grew bolder with each passing day. Near the due date, Beatrice firmly declared that her unborn child would require its own nursery. She went so far as to suggest that I move into the lounge with Mother, relinquishing my own space. I couldnt abide it anymore. Beatrice dissolved into tears and raised her voice, as if we might force her into premature labour. George sprang to his wifes defence and called me childish.
Eventually, Mother asked George to sort out their living arrangements. In time, they moved out. I never even learnt exactly when their son was born, nor when the christening took place. My sister-in-law told us not to bother with gifts, that cash for the baby would be more useful and she even went so far as to state a specific amount in pounds.
Mother protested that she didnt have that sort of money. After that, we were forbidden from seeing the child. Mother was upset at first, but in the end, they would bring the boy round to us themselves. Sometimes Beatrice left her son with Mother and me if she wanted to meet friends at a nearby tearoom or nip out for a manicure. And yet, whenever she collected the child, it was always with complaint: hed been dressed in unsuitable clothes or given the wrong food.
When the boy turned one, George and Beatrice called by. They said it was about time they sorted out their housing issues. Since they couldnt get a mortgage, Beatrice decided she would go out to work, and proposed leaving their son in my care in the meantime.
Youre at teacher training college, arent you? Thatll be good practice for you. We cant go on with Georges salary alone, but we cant pay you. And your own studies? Well, you could transfer onto part-time. You really ought to help us out, she said.
Of course, I refused.
I never could make George see that his housing troubles had nothing to do with me, and I was not about to throw away my own future for their convenience. Afterwards, I had to endure Beatrices resentment, as she accused me of neglecting her son.
She called us selfish, and declared they would never darken our doorstep again. For about six months, they kept their word. Then, one day, George returned home. It transpired that Beatrice, having found work, had become acquainted with another chap there. She promptly divorced George and demanded child maintenance.
Now she uses the child to bargain with my brother if he pays the upkeep, he may see his son, if not, hes not to hope for access. The catch, however, is that the new man in Beatrices life is already married and in no rush to wed her. So Georges former wife still dwells in a rented flat which, by the by, George continues to pay for. My brother has since apologised to Mother and me, vowing that next time, hell choose a wife with greater care.
