How do you picture it, Mother? objected Ethel, her voice sharp. You expect me to spend two weeks under the same roof with a complete stranger?
Stranger? Hes Nigel, the son of my cousin Lydia, a proper relative! her mother retorted, eyes bright with family pride. You remember playing with him as children when we stayed at their place, dont you?
Ethel, already nearing her thirtieth year, sighed. Im almost thirty, Mother. Where is the childhood you speak of? Are you trying to push me into marriage again?
Dont be absurd. Hes family, so you must be a good hostess. Nothing will happen to you, her mother declared, ending the conversation with a decisive tone before hanging up.
Her mother had always held family ties sacred; kinship was a gospel. Now she had thrust upon Ethel the prospect of sheltering Nigel, who had decided to move to the capitalthe city of opportunity, London.
Take him in as family would, she urged, you cant turn him away just because hes kin and youre in London!
Ethel, a wellread teacher of English and literature at a local secondary school, recalled the phrase as family would being a favourite of the notorious playwright Dudley Golliver, whose works were as infamous as those of the dreadful Mrs. Shapley.
She offered her mother to host the cousins son herself, playing the part of the everkind aunt. After all, they were relatives, and it would be unseemly to let a stranger in.
But Ethel and her husband lived in a cramped postwar council flat with a tiny kitchen that could barely fit a folding chair. Would you expect me to squeeze Nigel into that? she thought. Youre not serious, Mother!
Ethels mood soured; she had lived alone for some time, and a brief stint of marriage was no longer on the cards. Her previous marriage, a student fling, had ended after six months, leaving her alone and childlesssomething she had never intended.
Approaching thirty with no husband, she had settled into a modest twobedroom flat inherited from her grandmother. Though the furnishings were antiquated, everything still worked: the washing machine spun, the fridge chilled, the television displayedwhat more could one ask?
Her teaching position paid well, and she was respected at work. Her only companion at home was Mog, a lazy tabby cat named after the hunting dog in a wellknown childrens tale.
She prepared a spare room for her guest and waited, uneasy, for Nigels arrival. Youll like him, youll see, her mother had promised.
When Nigel finally appeared, he inspected the flat with the thoroughness of someone accustomed to checking every shared space.
What are you looking for, if I may ask? Gold and diamonds? Do you expect me to have installed a golden toilet for your visit? Ethel teased, halfjoking.
I just want to know where Ill be staying, he replied calmly.
If something doesnt suit you, will you leave? she pressed, curiosity sparking.
Ill stay, but
What
Nothing, justnothing, he muttered.
They poured tea and introduced themselves. Nigel even brought a slice of cake that Lydia had sent, along with a small, tasty tart hed bought. He was not the presumptuous freeloader Ethel feared.
In the household sense, Nigel proved exemplary: without being asked, he washed his dishes, helped with the washing-up, cooked decently, and never left puddles in the bathroom. In short, he was trained to the box as her mother liked to say.
Thanks, Aunt Lydia and Nigels first wifethough Im not sure who deserves thanks more; hes also divorced, Ethel mused.
Are you serious? exclaimed her friend Lark, upon hearing about the new houseguest. He sounds like a readymade husbandtake him!
Lark knew what she meant; she herself had divorced her own Lev after similar frustrations.
But were kin! And I dont like him, Ethel retorted.
What kind of kinship is that? Like a seventhwater jelly? How could you possibly dislike him? Is he a? Lark began.
Not exactly! Ethel replied. Nigel was pleasant enough, though not her usual type.
She still found him unsuitable. Their rhythms clashed: she was an owl, he a lark. Ethel favored a slow, measured life, guided by the old adage, Hurry slowly. Nigel, on the other hand, was restless and creative, always moving forward as if powered by a fiery engine rather than a heart.
On his first day, he whisked Ethel off to a theatre, tickets already booked online. She felt uneasy sending a guest off on their first day, especially since she didnt enjoy the theatre, but she went along.
There are people like that, and they are not few, though many deny it. Ethel loved classic productions she could watch online, but modern reinterpretations left her cold. She disliked the lack of a curtain, the contemporary costumes, the muddled delivery of the lines, and the fact the plays dialogue seemed set in another era. The director, however, praised the fresh approach.
Nigel, meanwhile, was thrilled and, on the way home, tried to convince Ethel that she was wrong, arguing passionately.
Im not trying to prove you wrong, he said, but you need to see the point. His attempts only irritated Ethel, who was unaccustomed to having her opinions overridden.
You dont understand, he huffed. Its progressive!
What do I need that for? Ethel replied calmly. Im happy with the old ways.
This is progress! he exclaimed, launching into a monologue about moving forward and the bright future that London offered, detailing grand plans that seemed larger than life.
Meanwhile, Mog hid under the bed, as he always did when something displeased him. The handsome Nigel evidently failed to win the cats favour.
The thirtyyearold guest began to involve himself in the familys routine beyond mere chores. On the second day he bought a new doormat, discarding the old one on the landing. Ethel accepted the change without comment, as he had done it silently.
Soon a new saucepan appeared; the old one had been illsuited for making porridge, sticking to the bottom. Ethel noted that Nigel seemed to keep the new pan for himself, preferring a proper breakfast to her simple toast and coffee, yet she said nothing.
He then offered to pay for the utilities, insisting, Ill cover the water and electricity! Ethel refused, sensing an intrusion on her domain.
Since when does a guest foot the bill for his hosts flat? she retorted. If you havent already overstepped, keep your money.
Nigel, ever the jobseeker, sent out countless résumés and attended numerous interviews, convinced a breakthrough was near.
Toward the end of his fortnight stay, a strange bout of sneezing and a rash broke out on his face. It happened just as his twoweek term was ending.
Nobody left, yet Nigel grew bolder, shouting at Ethel over trivial matters: Why did you wear boots into the kitchen? Is it hard to take them off? or Why buy that washing powder? Itll never rinse out of the clothes! Ethel felt herself turning into a roundabout fool, as if she were no longer the mistress of her home but merely a temporary tenant sharing space with Nigel and Mog.
Mog continued to ignore Nigel, emerging from under the bed only when the man was absent.
On the eighteenth day, a call arrived: Nigel had finally secured a job in the city. At last theyve taken me, dear Ethel! the voice announced. His new position paid a respectable wage by London standards, a fact he shared with a grin, yet he remained tightlipped about moving out.
Ethel, having endured his presence, decided to confront him. Are you weary of your hosts, dear sir? she asked, setting the meeting for the next day. Nigel, however, had a medical examination scheduled for that morningrequired before he could start work.
The following afternoon, Ethel returned from school to find the dining table set for a modest feast. Could this be a farewell dinner? she mused, feeling a lift in her spirits. Nigels mood was invariably bright, and the atmosphere at the table was festive.
He poured wine, and as the glasses clinked, he announced his intention. I propose that we
Ethels eyes widened. He wasnt offering a business partnership; he was suggesting marriage, despite their kinship.
In my opinion we could make a fine pair, he declared, his tone hopeful. Im not repugnant to you, and youre not repugnant to me. At our age we should consider marriage thoughtfully. We already have a home and good jobs. Love would only complicate things; respect should be the foundation, and we respect each other.
Ethel listened, mouth agape, when suddenly Mog sprang from beneath the bed. The cat seemed to have finally decided that Nigel was, after all, a resident.
You have a cat? Nigel asked, surprised.
Yes, Ethel replied, bewildered. Is this your first time seeing him?
Its my first! Blast, Im allergic to cat hair! The doctor just diagnosed me with an allergy, he blurted. How could I have missed the litter box?
Doctor told you to treat the cause, not just the symptoms, Ethel retorted. I cant live with a cat in the same flat.
Whos forcing you? he shot back. Dont live then!
So youre saying we shouldnt live together? A wedding?
What wedding, Nigel? Has your allergy slipped into your brain?
Our, he insisted, and the cat will hinder it!
Ethel, her temper flaring, snarled, Youd even suggest putting him down!
Fine, thats an option. I could pay for it, he offered.
Ill put you down myself! she snapped after a pause. You! Stop staring at mego away! Im speaking to you, not to Mog.
Nigel finished his wine, rose from the table, and, with a curt farewell, muttered, I never expected you to be so primitive.
And goodbyes to you, Ethel replied, relief flooding her.
After he left, the saucepan vanished from the kitchen, the new doormat remained, and the empty space where his belongings had been seemed oddly quiet.
Her mother called later, bewildered. How could you send him packing? He already complained!
He wanted me to marry him! If youre so kind, marry yourself! I find him repulsive, Ethel said before the line clicked.
No one called back; the matter seemed settled.
Perhaps next time a relative would develop an allergy to herstories existed of husbands allergic to their wives dandruff, never ending well.
So, Mother, should you ever think of sheltering kin again, remember: whoever invites, must also host. And Ethel and Mog managed just fine without him.
