Im not your free canteen! Mother said, meeting her children at the door.
It was a Saturday, and Mary Fuller had finally planned a little trip out. The first in two years.
Her friend, Margaret Collins, had found a coach tour to Bath, tickets bought in advance, and Mary had even treated herself to a new hata navy blue one with a bobble. It suited her, or so she thought, glancing at the mirror in the hallway.
At eight in the morning, she was sipping her tea when the front bell rang.
Mary paused, the cup motionless in her hand.
Oh, not now, she muttered, quietly dreading. The bell rang again.
And again, and then a familiar voice called out:
Mum, open up! Our hands are full!
Outside stood her son, David, his wife, Julie, two children aged seven and nine, and four bulging bags. As if theyd come for the winter, not a couple of nights.
Mum, the waters been cut off at ours, David announced with the grave air of delivering news of national importance. Were here just for a few days, if thats alright?
Mary glanced from the bags to her grandchildren.
Come in, then, she said.
What else could she say, really?
While Julie wrangled coats and the kids immediately turned the TV up, Mary found herself in the kitchen, hands already reaching into the fridge. Out came the eggs, milk, and onions, almost without thought, while her mind lingered on the coach leaving at ten, and the blue bobble hat sitting on the hook, going nowhere now.
At quarter past ten, Margaret called.
Mary, where are you? The coach leaves in five minutes!
I cant come, Mags. The children arrived.
A sigh travelled clear down the line, one that could have reached Bath itself.
At half eleven, the bell went again. This time, her daughter, Susan, showed upthirty-seven, divorced, dragging a holdall and wearing a face desperate for home-cooked food and motherly solace, though officially, she claimed shed just popped by, only for a bit.
Come in, Mary sighed.
Off she went, frying up some pork chops.
Truth be told, this wasnt the first time. Not the second. Not even the fifth.
Marys children visited regularly. Davids appearances came, typically, for two reasons: either something in their flat had broken, or he and Julie had had another little tiff and needed to ride it out. Susan, on the other hand, came without causesimply boarded the Underground and arrived.
Mary always knew. And yet, somehow, shed always end up in the kitchen.
Some people are just drawn to the cooker by instinct. Forty years feeding the local school sharpen such habits more than Pavlovs bell. If there were peoplefeed them. If notsomeone would arrive soon. Her hands peeled potatoes before her mind finished deciding if it was necessary.
By midday, there were three pans and a skillet on the hob.
Mash. Chops. And some soup cobbled together from whatever was in the cupboard.
By then, the grandchildren had migrated, scattering toys all over the rug. David, pacing between rooms like a cabinet minister, held forth on his phone. Julie lounged in the bedroom with a novel. At the kitchen table, Susan updated her mother on her exthe very one shed divorced two years ago but never ceased to mention.
Mum, he messaged me again last night. Can you imagine? What does he want, eh? Mum, are you listening?
Yes, yes, I’m listening, Mary replied, stirring the soup.
So she listened. In her way.
What do you think, Mumshould I reply to him or not?
Im not sure, love.
Oh, Mum! You always say that, Im not sure.
Mary didnt answer. Skimming a broth needed concentration.
At three, David finally finished his calls and poked his head in.
Mum, are those chops nearly done?
Theyre cooking now.
Weve not eaten properly since breakfast. Only grabbed a coffee on the way.
Mary nodded.
Lunch was noisy. The grandchildren refused soup, demanding chopsno onions, mind. Susan didnt want bread, having started another new diet. David went for seconds. Julie, emerging at last, declared herself not even hungry, but still helped herself to a chop.
Afterwards, David flopped onto the sofa. Susan washed her hair in the bathroom. The children started on toys in a different room.
Mary did the washing up and gazed out the window. On the bench outside sat Mrs. Williams, her neighbour and Wednesday-walking companion, basking calmly in the sunno dinner to fret over, no sink stacked with plates.
Mary sighed and reached for the next pan.
By the evening, with the soup finished, the plates scrubbed, the kitchen floor wiped of muddy footprints, Mary dropped onto a stool, worn out, just as David reappeared in the doorway.
He looked content, belly full, t-shirt rumpled.
Mum, are there any chops left? I could eat another.
Mary looked at her son.
There were, indeedthree tucked away under a plate, reserved specially, as shed scarcely eaten herself all day from standing at the cooker.
But David was watching her. Something inside her snapped.
Mary looked at her son and thought of the blue bobble hat on the hook. Of Bath, which she would not see. Of the coach, which had left at ten without her. Of Margaret, likely sharing cake in some pretty tearoom by now.
She dwelled on all this, and on those chops.
Mum? David repeated. Did you hear me?
Mary put her mug down.
Took off her apron.
Folded it neat, laying it across the chair back.
By the table, Susan was busy with her mobile. In the lounge, the grandchildren had cartoons on at full volume, some villain cackling maniacally as if to fill the whole house. Julie shuffled by to the bathroom, dropping her towel in the hall, not bothering to pick it up.
The towel lay abandoned.
Mum? David shifted awkwardly. Are you alright?
Mary spoke then, voice calm, firmone that had known her words for years but never voiced them, and now simply couldnt wait any longer.
Im not your free canteen. Nor your hotel.
The kitchen fell silent. Even the cartoon villain seemed to hush.
Susan looked up from her mobile.
Davids jaw dropped.
This morning, Mary began, I planned to go on a trip. To BathMargaret and Vera and I. We booked in February. I bought a new hat. A blue one. Its hanging in the hall; see for yourself. The coach left at ten. At just past eight, you arrived, David, family and all. By eleven, Susan turned up.
No response.
I didnt go on that trip, Mary continued. Instead, I stood at the cooker. Because thats always how it is. The grandchildren want chops, Julie needs something light, youre all hungry.
She paused.
But I do have a life, too, Mary said. You dont think of that. Im not blaming you. Habit, really. I let it happen. But not today.
Not what, Mum? Susan asked, quietly.
Not cooking. Not serving.
David stared at her, as if his entire world were shifting, creaking along like a heavy old wardrobe.
Mum, we dont mean anything by it.
I know, David. And thats worse. When you do things unkindly, at least you know. But you act from habit. Open the fridge, theres food. Shut it, move on.
The grandchildren kept watching TV. That villain cackled again, then was subdued into quiet.
Mary took her bag from the chair, grabbed her coat from the hall stand, and the blue bobble hat.
Where are you going? David didnt move, just watched.
To Margarets. She rang. Theyre back, having tea, showing photos. They asked for me.
What about dinner? David asked, and then, from his face, realised hed said something wrong.
Mary looked long at her sonthe look, somehow, that makes grown men feel ten again.
There are eggs, pasta, and cheese in the fridge. Breads in the bin. Youve got hands. The hobs not rocket scienceyoull figure it out.
She pulled on her coat, fastened her buttons, donned the blue hat. Adjusted the bobble. And left.
Four adults and two children remained in the flat, along with an untouched frying pan and three chops that Mary had saved for herself.
The towel still lay where it was.
David stared at it a while.
Then bent, and picked it up.
Mary returned just before eleven.
It was lovely at Margarets. Mint tea, Bath buns rustling in paper, holiday photos on her mobilehere, whitewashed Abbey; here, bustling shops; here, Vera sipping mead and pretending it was apple juice. Mary watched, thinking perhaps shed go next time. Margaret already had news of another trip.
The blue hat lay on the sofa. Not Bath, but outsomewhere.
Her key turned easily in the lock.
Now the hallway was neat. The grandchildrens boots, which earlier had sprawled in chaos, were lined tidily by the wall. The towel had vanished.
Mary hung up her coat and wandered through.
The kitchen light was on.
She stood in the doorway.
David stood at the sink, washing out a pan with the careful focus of someone doing it for the very first time, determined to get it right. On the hob, a saucepanshed later find it contained rather overcooked pasta, but effort counted. Plates, washed, stacked.
Susan sat nearby.
From the hush, the grandchildren must have been asleep.
David heard her and turned.
Paused a moment.
Mum, we never realised how hard it was for you, he said quietly.
Marys eyes drifted from the pan, to the neat pile of plates, to Susan.
It wasnt anything grand.
Yet Mary, whod spent forty years feeding folk without ever asking thanks, suddenly felt her eyes sting. Silly, really. Over a saucepan.
Sit down, Mum, said Susan, gently. We saved you some.
At the corner of the table was a plate. Covered, just for her.
Mary sat.
Lifted the cover. Pasta with cheese. Clumped a bit, slightly cold. Cheese grated in a rush, large curls.
She picked up her fork.
And honestly, it was the tastiest pasta shed had in years. Odd, really, when you think about it.
