I gave my mother-in-law a gift so striking it might make her feel quite faint the moment she saw it! And every time her eyes landed on it, shed be seized by the same shiver. But she couldnt simply toss it away or tuck it in a drawer, oh no. Shed have to keep it right out in the open, always on display! Thats the way it would be. Like they say, even the cat has to answer for the mouses tears! Nasty old Margaret Turner, thats who she was! For all the fifteen years Ive been married to Peter, not a kind word from her once. Others might mutter a halting compliment from time to time, but her? Silence. And those coal-black eyes always darting my way. I try never to visit, and even my annual five-minute appearance is already more than enough. Thats what I was confiding to my friend Sophie.
She listened, nodding with a kind of eager agreement, because she too, truth be told, never much liked her own mother-in-law, Mrs. Pearson. It was one of those afternoons where the three of us friends since childhood gathered every other Saturday, a time-honoured ritual. I styled hair for a living, so naturally, Id give them all a new look whenever we met. Today, though, I couldnt stay long appointments awaited. Sophie, a chef at the local pub, always brought what Daniel, my own lad, gleefully called mountains of treats. Our third, Isobel, a nurse, had only recently changed jobs, and we meant to ask her all about it, before the talk veered as it always did into mothers-in-law.
I simply cant stand her! She means nothing to me. Life would be easier if she were out of the picture I began again, but Isobel, quiet until now, broke in with a sly smile.
Would it, Alice? Would you really feel lighter inside?
I exhaled, stilled by her tone. My mind wandered, unbidden, back to that morning: carrying the gift, a malicious little smile on my lips, handing it to Margaret Turner. She tore at the wrapping with childlike impatience, but Id told her: Open it after I leave. No matter what, Id spoiled her birthday for her, I thought.
Girls, you asked where Im working now, Isobel said suddenly, changing course, and we both turned towards her.
Private clinic? I guessed.
Raking in the cash now! Sophie snickered.
Hospice, Isobel said, simply.
The room seemed to still around us.
But why? Isnt it difficult? Sophie breathed, looking lost.
You could hear Sophies heart begin to beat faster in the silence. I shook my head. What about the money, Isobel? Isnt it frightening?
Why on about the money? she snapped, gentler now but strangely hurt, Alice, forgive me, but I can only say one thing: idiot.
Whos the idiot? You mean my mother-in-law? I scoffed.
No, Alice. You! Because what youre doing and saying its cruel. Maybe Margaret Turner never praised you. But when you and Peter needed cash for the bigger flat, who sold her place in town and moved out to that tiny house on the edge of nowhere? Margaret. Without so much as a sigh or complaint.
And when Daniel was terribly ill, who ferried him to the London specialist, whose own mother happened to be Margarets childhood friend that very doctor who saved your boys life? Not everyones so lucky, Alice. And when you had one too many at that school reunion and woke up at your old classmates flat? Isobels eyes fixed on me. Nothing happened, true. But Peter you know him would never have forgiven that. Who covered for you, told him you were at hers? Margaret Turners the one. Yet here you are, biting the hand that feeds you.
She went on, How many times have we come here, Alice, and enjoyed the jams, the chutneys, the cakes? All from Margaret. You couldnt tell a tomato plant from a dahlia, yet you laugh at her, sneer at her simple words. There are people who speak with their hands, not with words. They love by action.
I winced, but Sophie for once remained silent, five cabbage pasties deep anxiety always made her nibble but today she didnt even add her usual support to my tale.
By rights, I ought to have stomped off, slammed a door or two, grandly cut Isobel out of my life. I nearly did. But something inside a worm of doubt wouldnt let me. It held me rooted. For years, Id fed that worm with my poisons, nurtured it with petty schemes, feeding off Margarets discomfort. But now, to my surprise, it was wriggling with unease.
A hush had fallen. Isobel broke it, quietly: Youve forgotten Ive no mum, havent you? Fifteen years like you, Alice, but for me every days a kind of ache. I keep the phone number. Sometimes I top it up, ring the number, and just listen to the silence. I even still have her old blanket. On bad nights, I talk to her, though she cant answer. You ever think how lucky you are? To have two women in your life a mother and a mother-in-law? Why raise yourself up so high above Margaret? Remember how you used to call her country bumpkin? You style all our hair, Alice, but when did you last cut or colour Margarets?
The worm cinched up inside me, tight as a drawn bow. And quietly, as if another voice were speaking, I answered, Never.
Youre joking? Never? Sophie gasped. Thats just not right. I mean, mines actually not so bad, really. Ignore what I said earlier.
I spoil her rotten, Sophie declared, cakes and scones every Sunday! And when she smiles, her hands flutter like little birds, all soft and dear, bless her soul!
My own worm lay silent now, and I could finally stand and move. And in my mind, I saw Margarets hands. Sophies mother-in-law had plump little mitts Margarets were nothing like that. Id always called them crab claws big, veined, rough. Not pretty. And that furrowed old face? Secretly, I called it a shrivelled potato. But what did I truly know about her life? Very little.
Yet Margaret had always been there when it mattered. Peter told me he once had two sisters, both gone after long illness. His father too, nursed by Margaret until the end. Her son, my Peter, was all she had left her late child, her pride.
And I still loved him, now as much as fifteen years ago. Handsome, clever, hardworking. All thanks to her, I supposed. He could have been a brute, could have refused to bring home his wages, found himself another woman. But Margaret raised him well! Why can I never say anything kindly to her? I style everyones hair, never hers. Why do I mock her, spit venom like some viper?
The voice of that worm started up again, louder, sharper this time and I actually jumped. Alice, you all right? Isobel leaned near. I shook my head, fighting the sting in my eyes and that burning behind my nose. It felt like a dam on the verge of breaking. I had to change the subject, I thought, had to leave.
Hows work, Isobel? I croaked.
She sighed. Its the eyes. Their eyes, girls. Ill never forget. Even in pain, theres light, hope. They speak of eternity, of what they wished theyd done. And theres always weeping so much weeping from those left behind. There was a young businessman, so successful, just gold raining all over him. But his mother wanted to go back to the countryside, her home. He kept putting it off. After she died, he was on his knees begging her to come back, promising the world, but far too late.
Then there was the ex-military man. His daughter, Janey, had no hair left. Showed me old photos rich honey locks all the way down her back. Each visit, he brought a new hair slide strawberry ones, crystal combs, pearly clips. Janey kept them in a tin, bright as sweets. Another nurse questioned, Why bring clips? Shes no hair. Yet Janey would light up, waiting him. He promised hed braid her hair himself, once it grew back. She believed it saw a future. Even though he knew it was impossible, he played along. When she passed, he gave away the clips, eyes dry as stone.
We must cherish what we have, you see? Some shrivel at a funeral, others fight illness, some just waste their own lives, filling them up with bitterness. Theres always a reckoning not all of its ours to control. Isobel breathed out, spent.
Sophie fanned her face, stared at the empty plate pies gone. Never mind, shed bake more tonight, with her own mother-in-law and father-in-law round for films and nibbles. She sent a quick text, inviting them for the evening, sleepover and all.
Im off! Family gathering night! Sophie trilled, wriggled away like a fish and was gone. I too stood, hands trembling, searching for my keys, scattering the contents of my handbag to the floor. Isobel helped me put it all back in silence.
We parted, still silent. Tasks and appointments waited. But as dusk thickened, I couldnt shake the thought. Out on the edge of town, at that very moment, the woman Id convinced myself detested me was probably staring at my malicious gift. And if shed done something like that to me, Id have been crushed, birthday ruined.
I called my clients, apologised, promised discounts, and cancelled all plans. Then I drove to Margarets.
Peters phone went straight to voicemail. My palms began to sweat: what would he say? This was his mother, after all.
Evening had already fallen. The windows of Margarets cottage glowed through chintz curtains speckled with daisies, the potted geraniums suddenly looking cozy, even dear.
I rehearsed apologies, wondering if I should grab a different gift, but there was no time. At least promise something nice, I scolded myself. Why did I do this?
I stepped through the gate, the door open. In the main room, a big Spode platter piled with beef and ale pie, cucumber sandwiches, and fresh scones Peters family favourites sat waiting. My husband chatted with our son, who was tucking into Margarets famous cottage pie. She, in her neat blue frock with the lace collar and her stout braid wrapped round her head, stood by the fireplace. Nearby, two elderly neighbours and a cheery, twinkly-eyed old gent. Clearly other guests.
Look here, isnt it wonderful? Margaret cooed, holding up my so-called present.
She went on, Its Alice, Peters lovely wife. Like a princess, pale and delicate, a real beauty! She was painted by an artist, can you believe! I burst into tears of joy. Nothing could make me happier!
My cheeks and ears flushed scarlet. Burning with shame, I looked down, remembering how, in my mind, Id fantasised that her living room would become a little torture chamber, this very portrait of myself tormenting her with my presence for years. Now, I watched as Margaret was beaming with pride over it.
Shes so beautiful, I dare hardly speak for fear of spoiling the moment. A doll, really, with eyes blue as cornflowers, features straight from a painting. Not like old, clumsy me I was never taught to talk fancy. I just fumble. Sometimes, when she stayed over, Id tuck the blanket around her while she slept. The Lord took my daughters early, but gave me another my dear Alice. I tell Peter all the time, hes a lucky man for such a golden wife.
That worm inside me let out one last sigh and finally died away. There wasnt time to promise Id put things right someday. It was already happening. My boy ran to hug me, Peter rose to greet me.
Whats happened? I thought you were working? he whispered.
I cancelled. Margaret can I call you Mum, now? Happy birthday! The lump in my throat was hard as a pebble.
I nearly went to my knees in gratitude, to be forgiven so easily. Just as Isobel had described kneeling before sheer kindness, wisdom, forgiveness.
Alice! You found time to come, thank you, love. For old Margaret to see you the worlds right again! She gazed up with awe and pride.
Even the old gent croaked his approval, peering from me to the portrait, and soon everyone was laughing, buzzing with joy.
And I, for the first time, marvelled at my own blessings. It was a true celebration: I had parents soon to arrive, a loving husband and son, a caring mother-in-law, a job Id chosen myself. Thats wealth, real wealth.
To the table, everyone! Margaret urged, bustling about.
Afterwards, Beauty Day! Fancy a hairdo, anyone? Or a fresh trim or colour? Free of charge, all of you! I grinned.
That, too, was my gift, at last for all of them.
