Oh, you wont believe what happened with my mum and her daughter-in-law at their allotment this summer the tension was unreal. So, picture this: my mum, Margaret Thompson, has always been a massive fan of her little plot out in the Cotswolds. She treats it like her pride and joy rows and rows of carrots and beetroots, the whole shebang. Now, her son, James, recently married a city girl proper Londoner called Emily. Emilys the type who wouldnt be caught dead with dirt under her nails, you know? Even her name sounds posh.
So its a sunny May bank holiday, and theyre all down at the allotment. Margaret is in the veg patch, hoe in hand, hair tucked under a floppy hat, sweat peppering her brow. Meanwhile, Emilys lounging on a sun recliner, glass of homemade lemonade in one hand and her phone in the other, shades practically glued to her face. She just looks up and goes, “Margaret, honestly, we agreed the allotment is supposed to be a sanctuary, not a punishment. I dont come here to bend over backwards pulling weeds. Ive just had my nails done and my backs killing me from the office. Weekends are my chance to breathe, not break my back shovelling earth!”
My mum, bless her, is just holding back you can hear the frustration in her voice, but shes being so gentle. “Emily, Im not asking you to till half of Oxfordshire. Just a quick go at the strawberries, thats all. Itll be twenty minutes I just cant keep up with all these weeds. Imagine how nice itll be when James gets here and can have a bowl of fresh ones.”
And Emily doesnt even look her way, just twiddling on her phone. “If James wants strawberries, he can get them from Waitrose. Theres fruit all year round no need to get your hands dirty these days. The whole grow-your-own thing, Margaret, is a bit old fashioned. Honestly, if you add up your petrol, all the fertiliser, the back pain, and everything else, that carrotll cost you more than at the shop.”
It always turns into a bit of a back-and-forth, honestly. Since James married Emily, the allotments been like a battleground between two worlds. Margaret and Dad thats George, by the way they believe in rolling up your sleeves and putting in a good shift. They grew up with allotments. Emily grew up on Sainsburys delivery and thinks the nearest thing to gardening is picking rosemary off a packet meal.
James, when he showed up, was manning the barbecue. Always tries to keep the peace, that one, but you could tell he felt bad for his mum. Because, fair play, hes not keen on a row with Emily hed much rather sneak off and water the garden when no ones watching. Emily, of course, picks up on it: “Youre here to relax, not work yourself to the bone!”
So James shouts from the barbecue, “Just leave her, Mum. Once were done with the barbecue, Ill give you a hand with watering.”
Even George, groaning as he sorts out the onions, says, “Watering’s all well and good, son, but weeds arent going to pull themselves.” Then he just cracks on, real salt-of-the-earth type.
The weekends went on like that. Every Friday night, Emily and James would roll up in their estate car, arms full of marinated meats and a bottle of wine or two. Emily snoozed til midday then wandered out in a swimsuit, spread her blanket on the perfectly cut lawn (which, incidentally, George tends every week), and sunbathed. Meanwhile, Margaret was running about like a mad thing pulling weeds, watering, prepping the beds, cooking up fry-ups and full roast dinners because, “all this fresh air makes you ravenous.”
Never saw Emily offer to cook, either. Shed say, “Margaret, your beef stew is just incredible. Id never manage it like that and those cheese scones! Youre a kitchen wizard.” And Margaret, who couldnt resist a nice bit of praise, would just grin and make another batch, while Emily flicked through a magazine on the veranda.
One day in early July, when the raspberries were perfect, Margaret asked, “Emily, could you just pick the raspberries before they drop? Ill make jam for you two to have in winter.”
Emily scrunched her nose. “Theres nettles in there and the mosquitos bite. Want me to nip out for some jam from Tesco instead?”
Margaret finally snapped. “Theres nothing in that supermarket stuff but gloop and colouring! This is the real thing. Surely you could spare half an hour?”
Emily just groaned, “Half an hour too long! Im not your berry picker, Margaret. Do it yourself.”
Poor James ended up collecting raspberries in secret when Emily went to have a shower. He came out scratched to ribbons but with a bucketful, and Margaret just felt for him stuck in the middle, really.
As July turned to August, the kitchen looked like a canning factory. Tomatoes coming out of her ears, cucumbers piling up, peppers ripening on the counter. The smell of herbs and garlic was everywhere. Emily, though, was suddenly excited she loved the pickles and home-conserved stuff. “Ooh, the pickles! James goes mad for those with his mash. And did you make chutney this year, Margaret? Last years was just to die for.” Margaret just nodded, barely looking up from her marathon of sterilising jars, feet throbbing from standing all day.
And then September came: potato harvest always the toughest weekend of the year. Digging, drying, sorting, lugging sacks down to the cellar. Margaret was certain the kids would finally step up. After all, theyd planted enough for two families.
But Friday night comes, and James rings her: “Sorry, Mum, not coming this weekend. Emilys friends birthday were off to The Ivy for dinner instead. Can you and Dad manage? Or just leave it til next weekend?”
Margaret sighs, “Weathers turning next week, love. Theyll rot in the ground.”
“Well, maybe hire some local help. Ill transfer you some money.”
But you cant exactly get the locals everyones got their own plots, and you cant rely on any of them anyway. So Margaret and George were left to it, two pensioners stooping and digging from morning till night mixing up their Voltaren with tea breaks and soldiering on. By Sunday, the cellar was packed: twenty-five sacks of King Edward spuds, carrots, beetroots, squashes row upon row of jams, pickles, the lot.
A couple of weekends later, when the hardest jobs were done and the garden was ready for winter, along come James and Emily. Emilys all smiles, traipsing in with armfuls of empty Waitrose crates. “Hi guys! End of the season, is it? Were here to collect our share. James, fetch the crates to the cellar well need plenty of apples this year, and five or six sacks of potatoes, enough carrots and beets to last, and I need my pickled cucumbers. Oh and all the jams, please, especially the raspberry.”
Margaret just watches from the window sees James popping open the boot, Emily directing the operation without a flicker of shame and all she can feel is a cold knot in her chest. She remembered the mosquito bites, the sore backs, the way Emily had lounged around while they did all the work, and she made a decision.
She calls George over: “Do you see this, love?”
“I see it,” he nods, steady as always.
“What are we going to do?”
“Whatever you think is right, Marg. You did the hard graft, your call.”
So Margaret squares her shoulders, straightens her skirt, and heads out onto the front step. Just as James is about to start fetching from the shed, she says, loud and clear, “James, stop. Dont bother with the keys to the cellar.”
James freezes, confused. Emily stops mid-apple bite, eyebrows up near her hairline.
“What do you mean, Margaret? Weve come for the vegetables. Winters coming!”
“Exactly, Emily. And as you know from the story of the ant and the grasshopper you cannot expect to take all the food when youve not lifted a finger to help. You remember that fable?”
“Mum, surely youre joking!” James laughs nervously.
“No, James. This harvest isnt yours. Its Georges and mine. We did all the digging, all the weeding, all the cooking, all the lugging. You were out for dinner when we needed help. And the jams when I asked you to pick the fruit, Emily, you couldnt be bothered.”
Emily, face going blotchy with anger, tries to protest: “You mean to tell me we cant have any? Thats insane youll never eat it all!”
“If it rots, it rots. Thatll be my hard work wasted. If theres too much, maybe well sell some or give it to the neighbours you know, the ones whove given us a hand when you were having cocktails at the posh restaurants. But you wont get a single jar. Or a single potato.”
Emily sours: “So, thats it? Punishing us? Trying to teach us a lesson, is that it?”
“Its not punishment, Emily its only fair. You said all summer how pointless and expensive home grown is, how you could buy it at the shop. So go on, fill your trolley at Tesco. Get your lovely, clean, plastic-wrapped, tasteless carrots and potatoes. I know ours are overpriced for you anyway, considering you never joined in the work.”
Emily’s voice hit a screech: “But supermarket stuff is rubbish! Yours is actually delicious!”
“And good food takes effort,” George finally chimes in, joining Margaret on the step. “And you didnt put in an ounce. Didnt even pick your own berries. Now youre here with empty crates, like its a free-for-all. Not happening.”
James just stands, cheeks burning. He remembers all the times he ignored his mums pleas, convinced himself that a barbecue and a few hours watering was enough. “Mum, Dadsorry,” he mutters, staring at his feet. “I shouldnt have let it get like this.”
“Go on, son,” Margaret says quietly. “No hard feelings, but you cant just take without giving. Thats not family. Real loves in the little things in showing respect for someone elses work.”
James gives his mum a hug, shakes his dads hand, and they leave empty-handed. The car pulls away, and the autumn wind rustles through the garden, yellow leaves skittering across the grass.
As the weeks passed, things were a bit frosty. James might ring now and then, but conversation was stiff, and Emily never called at all.
Then in December, just before Christmas, theres a knock at the door. Its James, standing there with a bunch of daffodils and a massive bag. “Hello, Mum. Can I come in?”
They have tea together, sharing the very jam Margaret had feared would sit untouched. James looks older somehow quieter.
“Hows Emily?” Margaret asks, cautious.
He sighs. “Alright. Still working. Butwell, the potatoes in the supermarket were dire. Watery, went black overnight. Pickled gherkins three quid a jar and all vinegar, chucked them straight out. I told her, ‘If you want good food, you have to put the work in.’ She started to see sense. Yesterday, she even said maybe we got it all wrong we let you both do everything while we just showed up for the spoils.”
He digs around in his bag, pulling out an envelope. “Here. Weve worked out what good produce costs at the farmers’ market. Heres some cash. Not as payment for the food think of it as us buying a proper share. We want to do it right.”
George straightens, ready to refuse, but Margaret touches his arm. “Well accept, James. Not for whats already done but for next year. Were going to mend the greenhouse and get proper compost in. Let this be your investment in that.”
She gets up, heads to her special cupboard, and fills a bag to the brim with goodies for them jars of pickles, bottled tomatoes, Georges favourite beetroot relish, a sack of potatoes and carrots.
James is honestly made up. “Thank you. Weve decided next May Day, well come to help properly. Ill fix the greenhouse roof. Emily says shell tackle the flowerbeds and herb garden she even reckons gloves will help save her nails.”
George beams, clapping him on the back. “Everyone will have their job. Trust me, the barbecue tastes a lot better after a days work.”
After James leaves, Margaret stands by the window, watching him head into the snowy night, feeling like a weights finally lifted. This was a tough lesson maybe even a harsh one but now shes sure that next summer, itll be a real family allotment at last. She knows already the potatoes will taste even sweeter when everyones pulled their weight.
And that Christmas, when Emily dished up pickles onto her plate at dinner, she didnt just say, “So yummy, Margaret!” She quietly added, “Lets plant more courgettes next year. Ive found a recipe for homemade relish thats meant to be even better than store-bought. I want to try making it myself.”
Margaret couldnt have dreamed up a better Christmas present and thats what James told her later.
So, what do you reckon? Was Margaret too tough, or was she spot-on? Sometimes youve got to be cruel to be kind, havent you?
