“In Close Quarters, but Not in Anger”
“Emily, it’s no trouble—just make a little room. She’s your own sister, after all,” their mother said, her voice steely and unyielding.
“Mum, what do you mean, ‘make room’? This is our flat—Anthony and I live here! Where exactly are we supposed to squeeze her in?” Elizabeth barely held back her fury.
“Oh, so she should stay in that filthy dorm instead? We can’t afford rent—have you seen the prices? It’s settled: Lucy will stay with you. I’ll sleep easier knowing she’s looked after.”
“Mum, we never agreed to this!”
“We have now. Family helps family.”
“Family? Really? Then maybe you should remember when—”
“That’s enough. I’ve no time for this. I’ll book her ticket and let you know.”
The call ended abruptly. Elizabeth stood in the middle of the kitchen, gripping her phone as if it held answers. She was stunned by her mother’s audacity—though she shouldn’t have been.
Elizabeth had always been the lesser-loved child. When her mother remarried and had Lucy, six-year-old Elizabeth was forced to grow up overnight.
“You’re the eldest—you must help with your sister,” her mother would say. Chores piled up: vacuuming, mopping, nappies, groceries, playtime, and later, cooking. Her stepfather left soon after Lucy’s birth, leaving the three of them alone.
Lucy was doted on. The sweetest chocolate for her, new clothes for her, cafés for her, films of her choosing. She grew up coddled, never lifting a finger while Elizabeth slaved.
Lucy flung her things about, never cleaned, only whined:
“Sophie’s parents got her the new iPhone—I want one too!”
“What’s for dinner? Leftovers again? Let’s just order takeaway!”
“Where are my favourite jeans? Liz, you didn’t wash them? Why should I? I don’t know how!”
“Clean? Not now—I’ve a headache. Do it yourself.”
Their mother never argued. Whenever Elizabeth protested, she’d hear:
“Lucy grew up without a father—it’s harder for her.”
“So did I!”
“But you’re strong. Lucy’s delicate, like a flower. She needs more care.”
Their mother spent her whole wage on Lucy, even took loans for her whims. When Elizabeth needed new trainers or a coat, she was told to hunt for sales or buy second-hand. No one asked how she was doing in school.
Exhausted by the injustice, Elizabeth vowed to escape. She studied relentlessly, took odd jobs—handing out flyers, writing essays, courier work. Every pound went into a tin hidden on her shelf.
One evening, after hours handing out leaflets in the cold, she found the tin empty.
“Lucy! Did you take my money?”
“What money?” Lucy mumbled through crisps.
“From my tin!”
“That measly bit? Yeah, I took it. Needed to pay for a delivery—new clothes and trainers. Mum didn’t leave cash. Oh, and we got takeaway.”
“Are you mad? That was my savings!”
“Big deal. You’d fuss over a few quid for your sister?”
Elizabeth locked herself in her room and wept.
That night, their mother scolded her:
“How could you begrudge Lucy? So she borrowed it—what’s the fuss?”
“Mum, she blew it on takeaways and clothes!”
“Must you be so selfish? Family supports family!”
“And who supports me?”
“Enough whinging! Go wash the dishes.”
Elizabeth aced her exams and won a place at a top university. Life eased—she studied, worked part-time, made friends. Their mother only called for Lucy’s birthday reminders. Elizabeth sent money and heard nothing more.
After graduation, she landed a bookkeeping job. Suddenly, her mother called often, hinting at help. Elizabeth sent small sums, but she and Anthony were saving for a mortgage.
They married in a small ceremony. Her mother declined:
“Honestly, Liz—no proper dress, just a registry office? Hardly a wedding. And the train fare’s dear. We’re off to a spa—can’t afford both.”
Two years later, her mother announced Lucy would move in for uni. No asking—just informing. There was no space, nor willingness, but guilt gnawed: without them, where would Lucy go?
Anthony reluctantly agreed—temporarily.
Lucy arrived with a sneer:
“God, what a dismal area! Couldn’t you afford somewhere decent?”
“Hello to you too,” Elizabeth said flatly. “Wash your hands—dinner’s ready.”
“This flat’s a shoebox.”
“Feel free to rent a palace.”
“With what money? You know how things are.”
“You’ll sleep there.” Elizabeth pointed to the airbed. “Clothes go on the shelf.”
“On the floor? Some hospitality.”
“Don’t push it, Luce.”
With Lucy there, Elizabeth relived her childhood—clutter, dirty plates, no help. Groceries cost more; Lucy never chipped in. Their mother only asked if Lucy was fed and warm in their “hovel.”
One morning, Anthony frowned.
“Liz, did you take the cash from the tin? I hadn’t banked it yet.”
“What cash?”
“Nearly fifteen hundred quid. Three months’ mortgage.”
The tin… the money… Elizabeth knew.
She stormed in. “Lucy! Did you take it?”
“God, keep your hair on!”
“Where is it?”
“Gone. Spent it. Money’s meant to be spent.”
“On what?”
“A decent phone. Sick of that brick you gave me.”
“You stole it!”
“Borrowed! Mum always says—family helps family.”
Shaking, Elizabeth called her mother.
“So she took it—big fuss! Young folks want nice things. You should help your sister.”
Elizabeth hung up—their last conversation. That evening, she shoved Lucy’s suitcase into the hall.
“Get out. And don’t call me again.”
Lucy wailed, pleading she had nowhere to go. Elizabeth slammed the door so hard the walls shook.
Then she laughed—from relief. She was finally free of a family that never valued her.
Maggie
Maggie had always been wild, untidy, and hopeless. Her mother knew it, keeping her in line—though not always successfully.
All girls were proper—except this one.
Each morning, her mother plaited Maggie’s riot of hair with bright ribbons, making her look sly as a fox. Starched dress, ironed pinafore, lace-trimmed socks. Collar and cuffs perfectly sewn—after two attempts under watch. Polished shoes. A picture-perfect girl!
By evening, something else returned: socks crumpled, cuffs stained, knees (and forehead) smeared with burrs. Ribbons hung loose, hair a tangled mess adorned with thistles.
Her pinafore bore a grease spot—Maggie had tucked a meat pie inside during lunch. Not her fault if reading made her peckish!
Miss Abbott, their young teacher, sniffed it out, confiscated the pie, and binned it. Maggie howled:
“You can’t waste food! You lectured us on waste!”
The class erupted. Just days ago, Miss Abbott had read them *The Selfish Giant*, moving them all—especially Timmy Briggs, who wept for the boy. Now he bellowed too. The teacher flushed, stammered excuses—useless. The lesson collapsed; her authority crumbled.
She lied, saying she’d “feed it to the birds later.” Who’d believe that? Maggie’s book bore the note: *Disrupted class with pie!!!* With a (D-) lest she alter it.
After scolding, scrubbing, and an hour’s confinement, Maggie vowed: never argue—just do things her way. Grown-ups lied. That was that.
Thus, a school pie set her on a stubborn, independent path.
Maggie’s father? A hero, her mother said.
“In the war?” Maggie’s eyes welled.
“Not… exactly.”
“He nosedived,” her gran cut in. “Went down in flames.”
Gran knew the truth—but why hurt a girl so like him? Let her think him a hero. A rake, more like.
When Elizabeth (Maggie’s mum) was seven months along, he’d fancied another—a long-limbed ballet dancer with a heron’s gait. Next to Elizabeth’s rosy warmth, she looked starved.
Elizabeth was the sort men once showered with gold. Now? Skinny herons ruled.
