Margaret Parsons called on Thursday evening. James answered the phone, talking for about ten minutes before he came into the kitchen wearing the expression of a man who’d just heard some unwelcome news and wasnt quite sure how to put it.
Mums coming to stay, he said. For a couple of weeks.
Emily stirred the soup thoughtfully.
When?
Saturday.
Emily turned off the hob.
A couple of weeks. She knew exactly what a couple of weeks meant when it came from Margaret Parsons. It was as vague as saying just a pinch of salt in her recipesdeeply subjective, subject to change without notice.
Margaret arrived on Saturday at noon sharp, dragging a big suitcase whose contents clanged ominously, and with that particular look people have when arriving to carry out an inspection. Assessing, as if she were about to buy the flat.
Well, she said, surveying the hallway, no dust. Thats promising.
James chuckled. Emily managed a smile.
That was, by Margarets standards, a compliment.
Margaret made a beeline for the kitchen, peered into the fridgecasually, as if by accidentand said, with a quiet, thoughtful tone, Do you always get one-percent milk? James really needs whole, given his stomach.
He asked for it himself, Emily replied.
Well, just because he asks doesnt mean its right. Margaret closed the fridge with the air of someone whod just made a weighty discovery.
That evening, once James was in the shower, Margaret sat on the sofa and, folding her hands in her lap, addressed Emily calmly, almost kindly.
Emily, dont take this the wrong way. I just want to understand what youre really like.
Margaret was a practiced professional.
She went about her checks quietly, like a conservator removing layer after layer of an old painting. Every remarkprecise, paired with a light smile, almost innocent.
On the second day, she found the towels.
Emily, she said, standing in the bathroom with a towel in her hands, you do know youre supposed to hang towels with the loop at the bottom? Helps them dry.
Ive always hung them like this, Emily replied.
Yes, yes, Margaret agreed, and switched her towel to the proper wayloop down, like a flag of new authority.
Jamess shirts hung ironed and colour-coordinated in the wardrobe. Margaret studied the wardrobe, nodded approvingly, then muttered, almost to herself, Collars are slightly creased. Though perhaps thats intentional.
Emily stood nearby, thinking: Thats not a question. Thats a statement specifically made so you cant respond.
The plant on the windowsillher old ficus, which had moved with her across two boroughswas, in Margarets opinion, quite improperly watered.
Emily, ficus plants hate being watered from above. Must be from the tray.
This ficus has lived with me for eight years, Emily said.
Eight, is it? It could be doing better.
The ficus, wisely, stayed silent.
Margaret gave detailed lectures on the arrangement of groceries in the fridge: dairy on the middle shelf, meat only on the bottom and only in a box, greens in a bag with holes or they wilt, eggs in their tray and not the doorbecause of the movement when you open it. Emily listened and nodded. Nodded and listened. The eggs stayed in the door.
In the evenings, Margaret made phone callsEmily could hear them from the kitchen, not on purpose, but the flat had thin walls and Margarets teacherly tone carried.
No, Pam, its alright overall. Shes trying. But its obviousshes just not cut out for this. She makes stew with beansyou wouldnt believe it, beans! Of course James eats it, hes polite, wouldnt say a word. But I see. And she doesnt even hang towels properly, or know about plants
Emily stood at the sink, washing a mug, thinking: How much longer is this? It already feels like Ive failed the test. Whats next?
James watched it all with that special masculine detachment. Meaning: I see everything, but Im pretending not to, because Ive no idea what to do and I hope it resolves itself.
In the evenings, hed say,
Dont let it get to you. Shes just looking out for us.
I know, Emily replied.
She means well.
I know, James.
She just needs to see that everythings fine here.
I know.
He looked at his wife with mingled guilt and relief. Thank goodness she understood. Thank goodness she didnt pick a fight. Thank goodness she kept calm.
Thank goodness, Emily thought, as she went off to wash up.
On the tenth day, Margaret Parsons left a mess in the kitchen on purpose. Emily returned from work at half six to unwashed mugs, breadcrumbs on the table, and an open pack of butter. Margaret was in the sitting room watching TV.
Emily cleaned up. Washed everything. Wiped down every surface.
That evening Margaret cornered James in the hallway, thinking Emily was in the bathroom.
James, did you notice the kitchen was a mess again? I suppose she cant keep up.
Emily, holding a towel in the corridor, overheard.
Well, Emily thought. Now its clear.
She didnt get upset. At least, not so anyone could tell.
The next day, over breakfast, Margaret announced that three of her sisters would be coming over next weekJust a visit, to get to know you properly.
Emily smiled and replied, Wonderful. Well be delighted.
James was slightly taken aback. Margaret eyed her with mild suspicion. Emily finished her coffee and went to get ready for work.
Well see, as Margaret often liked to say.
The guests arrived that Saturday just before three.
Margarets three sistersJoan, Patricia, and Ednawere practical women of a certain age, with strong opinions and voices shaped by life itself. They entered the hallway, looking around briskly like expert appraisers, then began to shed their coats.
Nice flat, said Joan. Very bright.
Did you do the place up long ago? asked Edna.
Three years back, Emily answered.
Shows, Edna commented, though just what showed was left unsaid.
Margaret welcomed the sisters with the air of a theatre director who has just sent the actors onstage and now awaits the unfolding drama. James helped with the coats. Emily stood slightly off to the side, calm, faintly smiling, showing not a hint of fluster.
This made Margaret slightly uneasy.
Everyone went to the sitting room and settled in. Joan glanced about, adjusted a cushion out of habit, and asked,
So, Emily, whats on the menu today?
Thenthis was the moment no one anticipatedEmily turned to Margaret, quite composed. No theatrics, no pressure.
Margaret, I was counting on you taking charge in the kitchen today. After all, youve said so many times youre better at it than me, and everything tastes much nicer when you cook. I wouldnt want to embarrass myself in front of your guests.
Silence.
Margaret looked at Emily, who met her gaze with open and sincere friendliness, as if she couldnt understand what caused the sudden pause.
I Margaret began.
Everything you need is there, Emily added, Chicken, veg, some herbs. Bought it all this morning. James always spoke highly of your cooking.
James suddenly became intensely interested in the carpet pattern.
Patricia exchanged a glance with Joan. Edna looked at Margaret with growing interest.
Well then, Margaret said. If you insist.
And off she went to the kitchen.
Emily sat beside Joan, breezily asking, How was the journey? Much traffic?
Joan, caught off guardclearly expecting something else entirelyreplied. Edna added a tale about the motorways. Patricia complained about gridlock in her own part of town. Conversation picked up, awkward at first, then naturalas happens when silence feels too heavy to maintain.
Sounds drifted from the kitchen. First the fridge door, then a long silence, then more banging, then pots clattering, then the familiar shuffle of someone hunting in cupboards and not finding what theyre after.
Emily! called Margaret from the kitchen, Wheres your roasting tin?
Bottom cupboard, right-hand side, Emily called back, not moving from the sofa.
A pause.
Dont see it!
Under the baking tray.
A long pause.
Oh! Found it.
Joan cleared her throat. Patricia busied herself examining a painting on the wall. Edna stared innocently out the window.
Emily turned to Patricia: Cup of tea while we wait? Ill pop the kettle on.
Lovely, Patricia replied, clearly relieved.
Emily went to the kitchen and for a moment, stood beside Margaret, who hovered over the chopping board like a general unexpectedly assigned to peel potatoes.
No words passed between them.
Emily set the kettle on, grabbed some mugs, and left.
Dinner was, in the end, served. Nearly two hours laterit wasnt quick, it was rather chaotic, the chicken a bit dry, the sauce a bit thin. Margaret laid the table with quiet diligence, but it was clear shed prefer to be anywhere else.
Joan tried the chicken. With utmost diplomacy, remarked, Margaret, youve always been such a wonderful cook.
It was rather quiet at the tablenot uncomfortable, just quiet. Everyone understood, and no one intended to mention it aloud. They chatted, complimented the food half-heartedly but with genuine effort.
Emily didnt say anything dramatic during supper. She asked after Patricias children. Wove into the talk about gardens. Poured tea for everyone.
Margaret sat at the head of the table, silent.
After the guests left, and the dishes were done, Margaret stepped out of the kitchen drying her hands on a towel. On her way by, Emily noticed it hung loop side down.
Emily sat in the living room with her mug of tea. James nearby.
Margaret stood in the doorway a moment, then crossed and sat in an armchair. She was quiet. Night had settled and the faint television sounds of neighbours filtered in.
You handled that rather well, Margaret said quietly.
I just know what I want, Emily replied.
Margaret nodded. Got up. Walked towards her room, pausing at the door, not looking back:
By the way, that stew with beansit wasnt bad at all.
And she left.
James looked at Emily. Did you plan that? he asked softly. With the kitchen.
When you didnt say anything in the hallway, she responded.
He nodded. And never brought it up again.
Three days later, Margaret left for home. Booked her own cab, packed her own bag. She hugged James goodbye and, after hesitating for a second, hugged Emily as well.
Emily shut the door behind her. Then, walking into the bathroom, flipped her towel back to her usual wayloop up, as always.
