An acquaintance of mine is in distress: her son has decided to marry a girl whos simply not from our social background. I sympathise with herI have children myself and Id be worried too, if I were in her shoes.
But it reminds me of something that happened to Mrs Thompson. Her son put her in front of a fait accompliHeres Emily, weve already signed the registry.
Mrs Thompsons family history is rather impressive: a professor, two lecturers, a ballet mistress, a chief engineer, a literary critic, a leading cardiologistan endless list of respectable careers.
And heres this girl of dubious background and clearly lacking any proper upbringing. Her father nowhere to be found, her mother a dairy farm worker (a cowwoman, honestly!), and she herself trained as a decorator and plasterer, plain as day with not a hint of refinement. It felt as if fate took aim, spat, and hit the target just to spite her.
The decorator, in fairness, behaved herself respectablyquiet, almost invisible, youd barely notice her fluttering down the hallway.
Just wait, Mrs Thompsons friend Charlotte would say, once she gets comfortable, youll be crying your eyes out.
Later that autumn, Mrs Thompsons son left for a work placement in America. I cant stand the thought of that creature shuffling about the flat, Mrs Thompson told Charlotte, shuddering at the idea of going home.
He came back for Christmas and, by March, dropped another bombshell: Firstly, hed been offered a contract in America; secondly, he met Nicole over there; thirdly, his divorce from the decorator was finalised on Thursday; and fourthly, hes flying out Friday. Dont fret, Mum, he tells her, Ill call you.
She shed some tears, waved him off, and that was that.
The decorator packed her thingsan overnight bag and a supermarket carrier bag, all she owned. She looked like a stray mongrel, beaten down by life.
Mrs Thompson pushed aside her pride and asked, Have you somewhere to go?
The decorator replied softly, Theres a bed coming free in the hostel in a month, but for now the girls in my room will let me sleep on a camp bed.
Mrs Thompson looked her over, thought for a moment, and said, You can go in a monthcome, unpack your bag.
And promptly called herself an idiot. Charlotte only emphasised this point.
Every morning, the decorator would dash out early to her plastering jobs, returning late, barely able to stand, her face grey with exhaustion. She tried to offer money for her keep, insisting she earned enough to pay her way.
Thats how they lived for three weeksthen suddenly Mrs Thompson fell gravely ill, spent six weeks in hospital, barely pulled through.
Her son rang now and then: Stay strong, Mum. Ive sent you a picture of Nicole and me by Niagara Falls.
Nicole was nothing special, Mrs Thompson thought. Hardly worth all this.
Charlotte visited in hospital occasionallyshe had her own family and commitments.
The decorator made soups and stews, cooked chicken cutlets, coaxed her to eatJust another spoonful, please.
Charlotte cast a suspicious eye: Im not sure about all this Samaritan businessare you sure she hasnt registered herself here? Taken half the flat? Will you eat a cutlet? No? Are you certain? Im starving!
When Mrs Thompson was discharged, the decorator took her home and helped her upstairs, but didnt come in, saying she needed to get back to work.
The place was spotless, not a speck of dust. On the kitchen table, a note: Mrs Thompson, thank you. Lunch is in the fridge. Wishing you well. E.
She checked her stash; all untouched.
She peeked into her sons old room, as if the decorator had never been there.
A week later, Mrs Thompson walked through the echoing corridors of the hostel, knocked on a doorthree beds, a table, camp bed shoved under it.
She said, When youve bought your own flat, then you can move out. Right now, pack up; the taxi is waiting, meters running.
In September, they went out to buy an autumn coatcouldnt stand to see the girl going round so shabbilyand a decent pair of boots. At the shopping centre, they bumped into Charlotte.
Charlotte said, You cant find good help for love nor money these daysand youve got a housemaid for nothing! Clever as anything, you are, Mrs Thompson!
Shes your housemaid. Mine, shes my daughter-in-law, Mrs Thompson shot back. Come along, Emily, lets look for a handbag and a nice pair of trousers. I want a new scarf, too.
Mrs Thompson said, She saved up every penny herself for the house depositdidnt take a single pound from me. The builders are almost finished, and now Im searching for good wallpaper. She hasnt got timeshes out working from dawn to dusk. The other day, she came in so weary she fell asleep sitting up while I was busy making tea.
Mrs Thompson added, I cant help worryingyoung, pretty, hard-working, and soon with her own place. Emilys a bright girl, but even clever ones can be taken in by chancers or cads, someone not of our sort. I cant sleep for thinking about it.Sometimes, Mrs Thompson would look at Emily across the tea table and catch her lost in thought, lips moving as she read over fabric samples or calculated, in her head, how many days she needed to work for the next thing on her goal list. Once, Mrs Thompson reached out and touched her hand, surprising them both. Emily looked up, startled; Mrs Thompson said, careful as if stepping on ice, If ever you find someone worthy, bring him here first.
Emily ducked her head, and after a moment answered, I promise.
They sat in companionable silence, the kettle humming. Through the window, the beginnings of autumn sighed in the trees, gold and russet blotches stippling the street. Mrs Thompson watched her daughter-in-lawher Emilymanage the business of living with an understated dignity the whole world had seemed determined to overlook.
She sipped her tea, suddenly certain of something: family, after all, wasnt always a matter of pedigree or plans. Sometimes it was just a door quietly opened, a place carefully tended, and the quiet faith that, with enough patience, kindness would make a home.
And as the light outside softened, Mrs Thompson realizedwith a small, unexpected smilethat she did, at last, feel at peace.
