Hand Over the Key to Our Flat
Weve made up our minds, love, Margaret set her hand gently atop her sons. Were selling the cottage. Well give you £40,000 for the deposit, and its time you stopped darting between rented places.
Andrew froze, teacup poised midway to his lips. His wife, Emma, stopped chewing, her fork stranded with a piece of apple crumble.
Mum, what are you saying? Andrew carefully set his cup down. The cottage? You and Dad spend every summer there
Well cope, she replied crisply. Tom, tell them.
His father, whod been absentmindedly stirring his jam, finally looked up.
Your mums right. The old place is falling apartforty years old. Roof leaks, fences rotten. One headache after another. And you two still havent got a home.
Dad, well save up ourselves, said Andrew, shaking his head. Two or three more years, tops
Three years! Margaret threw up her hands. Three more years in rented boxes, and the baby arriving soon? Emma, you must see!
Emma looked at her husband, then her mother-in-law, confusion clouding her face.
Mrs. Webb, its such a huge sum. We cant just
Yes, you can, Margaret said flatly. End of discussion. Weve spoken to the estate agent alreadyviewings Saturday.
Andrew tried to interject, but Margaret pressed on.
Son, your fathers blood pressures been all over the shop, and Ill be sixty next year. What do we need with a cottage? Planting tomatoes? Ill get them at the market. But your kids should clamber around in a proper home. Their own, you see?
A charged silence. Emma squeezed Andrews hand beneath the table. He massaged the bridge of his nose, his usual habit when lost for words.
Mum Well pay it all back. Maybe not at once, but every penny.
Oh, dont be silly, Tom waved a hand. Whether you repay or notits more important the grandkids have somewhere to crawl.
Six weeks later, the cottage was sold. Margaret handled the paperwork herself, counted out the cash, and wired £40,000 to her sons account. Three months after, Andrew and Emma moved into a two-bedroom flat on Lilac Avenuea new build, ninth floor, windows overlooking the park.
The housewarming buzzed with fifteen guests. Emmas parents brought crockery, friends gifted heaps of towels, Andrews colleagues pooled together for a coffee machine. Margaret drifted through the rooms, brushing the wallpaper, peering into wardrobes, nodding her headwas she pleased or merely calculating? Impossible to say.
Late in the evening, as guests meandered through the flat, Margaret caught her son in the hallway.
Andrew, a quick word.
She steered him to the front door, out of earshot.
The key, please.
He blinked.
What key?
The spare for the flat, Margaret lowered her voice. We helped you, didnt we? Ifheaven forbidsomething happened, wed need access. And, anyway, respectable children always give parents a key.
Andrew shifted his weight, struggling for words.
Mum, its just Emma
What about Emma? Shes against it? Margaret narrowed her eyes. We bought you this flat, and she wont give me a key?
No, thats not what I meant
Come on, stop fussing about.
He rummaged in his jeans pocket, produced a shiny new key, and handed it over.
There you are.
Margaret admired it for a moment, added it to her own key ring, slotting it securely between house and garage. Metal clicked quietly.
Well done, son, she said, patting his cheek. Lets go. The cake wont eat itself.
The night was a success.
Margaret ran her hands over the cushions, scrutinising the seams. Velvet, warm mustardperfect for Emmas grey sofa. Shed bought two, one terracotta. She had a vision: cushions at each end, and between them, the knitted throw shed spotted last week.
On the bus, she pressed the bag to her chest, watching gardens, swings, parked cars pass by. Lilac Avenue, her stop.
The stairwell smelt of fresh paintrecently refurbished. Margaret climbed to the ninth floor, found the right key, and let herself in. The lock turned smoothly; the door opened quietly.
Silence. Empty.
She slipped off her shoes and entered the lounge. As she suspected, the sofa was bare and forlorn. She arranged the cushions, stepped back, and admired. Much better.
Though the dust on the shelf nagged at her. And a mug sat unwashed on the windowsill. Margaret shook her head, resisting the urge to clean. Not her place. Not yet.
That evening, the phone rang around nine.
Mum, did you drop by our place?
Andrews voice was tight, strained.
Yes. Left some new cushions. Did you see? Lovely, arent they?
Mum A pause. You couldve let us know. Emma came home and her things had moved. New cushions
New cushions? Margaret scoffed. They were £30 each, if you dont mind. And tell your Emma, its filthy there. Dust everywhere, dirty mugsand I checked your fridge. Nearly empty. Are you two starving? We didnt give you all that money for you to live like students.
Mum, please, just let us know beforehand, alright? Call first
Oh, Andrew, Margaret rolled her eyes, though her son couldnt see it. Right, I must dashyour fathers calling.
She hung up before he could respond.
The following week, Margaret dropped off a set of satin bedding. Emma was home but in the showerwater thundering behind the door. Margaret left the package on the bed and slipped away, leaving no note. Surely they’d work it out.
Three days laternew pans, to replace their tatty, peeling ones that made her shudder.
Saturday, Andrew and Emma came to the parents house for dinner. At the table, they ate steak-and-kidney pie, talking about weather and the neighbours renovations. Polite, bland, awkward.
Emma set down her fork.
Mrs. Webb
Yes?
Could you just call before you stop by? So we know.
Margaret dabbed her lips with her napkin, unhurried.
Emma dear. Weve given you £40,000. Forty. Thousand. So I think Ive every right to come and go as I please. After all, its our flat too.
Mum, Andrew tried to interject.
What, Mum? Am I not right?
Silence. Tom picked at his pie, determined not to get involved.
Well, thanks for dinner, Emma said, getting up. Andrew, lets go.
They left quickly, clumsy smiles and awkward goodbyes. Margaret closed the door, returned to the kitchen, clearing away the dishes. Something made her look out the windowjust as the couple exited the block.
The sash was open a crack, and Emmas voice drifted up, sharp and clear:
We either pay this debt off or we split up. I cant do this anymore.
Margaret stood frozen, plate in hand.
Debt? What was she on about?
Below, Andrew replied, but his words blurred. A car door slammed, engine roared.
Margaret placed the plate in the sink, hands trembling.
No. This was all very wrong.
Margaret twisted her key in the lock, stepped insideand almost collided with Andrew, waiting in the hallway. Emma peered out of the kitchen, drying her hands.
“Oh, youre here,” Margaret faltered, then steadied herself. “I brought…”
“Mum, wait.
Something in his voice stopped her. Andrew reached into his jacket, pulled out a thick envelope.
I want to give you this back.
She took it automatically. Looking inside, her knees nearly buckled.
Money. Stacks of it.
What?
Forty thousand pounds, Emma came closer, standing beside Andrew. We got a loan.
Youyou took out a loan? Why?
Because we dont want to be indebted, Emma said, calm, direct now. Mrs. Webb, were exhausted. By your visits. Checks. You coming and moving our things without warning.
I didnt go through your things! I brought cushions! Bedding! Pans!
Mum, Andrew rested his hand on Emmas shoulder, gentle. We’re changing the locks. The locksmiths coming tomorrow.
Margaret blinked, not understanding at first.
Changing the locks?
Yes. You wont have a key anymore.
Thick, suffocating silence. Margaret looked from her son to her daughter-in-law and back. Her throat tightened, her cheeks burned.
Youyoure being petty. Petty and ungrateful. We sold the cottage for you! And now youre treating me like some criminal, kicking me out of your home?
Were not kicking you out, Emma kept her voice steady. Were just asking you to leave.
Margaret clutched her key ring in her pocket, her fingers numb.
“Andrew, son. Are you really going to let her speak to me this way?”
Andrew dropped his gaze, then looked his mother directly in the eyes.
“Mum. This was our decision. Together.”
Without another word, Margaret turned and walked out.
She rehearsed what shed say when Andrew rang to apologisetomorrow, maybe the next day. Hed come to his senses.
A week passed. The phone stayed silent.
Margaret several times considered calling, but always put the receiver down. No. Let them come first. Let them apologise. She was their mother, after all. She meant well.
A month later, over dinner, Tom quietly asked if relations had thawed. Margaret just shrugged, switching the subject.
Two months on, she had stopped flinching at every phone ring.
Threeshe understood.
Her son wasnt going to ring. Not tomorrow, not next week, not ever.
In the kitchen, she stared at her cluster of keys. The house key, the garage key. And between themthe old key that once opened the door on Lilac Avenue.
Shed wanted to help. She truly did. Cushions, pans, beddingwasnt it care? Isnt that what parents do? Parents help, children are grateful, everyones happy.
But something, somewhere, had broken along the way. And Margaret, no matter how she sifted through memories and visits, couldn’t find exactly where.
And maybe she didnt want to.
It was too late to mend it now.
