Mother-in-Laws Meatballs
Thomas and Alice had been married for three and a half years, and in all that time, Alice had only visited her mother-in-laws house four times at the most. Those visits were fleetingquick stops for major holidays, hours clipped carefully from their lives before theyd slip away again, back to their little London flat.
But now Thomas had begun to glow with a sudden, restless energy: his mother had rung for the third time that week, saying she’s been missing them, that Dad had put his back out fixing the shed roof, that the borders were wild with weeds and there was no strength left for gardening…
Thomas, it had to be said, was a dutiful son. He phoned his mother every Sunday without fail, as if by clockwork, politely agreeing with anything she said, even if he privately disagreed. Now, over dinner, he was chewing pasta and sausages, his eyes pleading with Alice.
Alice, he began, nudging his plate away and folding his hands, Mum rang again. She says we dont even remember what she looks like. What do you saybank holiday weekend in the countryside? Just three days, no more. Please.
Tom, Ive got an appointment with my hairdresser Saturday, Alice attempted, although she knew even as she spoke that it sounded feeble.
Just reschedule, Thomas replied, as though it were the simplest thing in the world. You know what shes likeshell have her feelings hurt. Shes promised us meatballs and pies. She misses us.
And your dad? Is his back better? Alice asked, part out of formality, their relationship always tepid, never warm.
Oh, hell be finehe always has something wrong! Anyway, its settled. Friday evening there, home Sunday night. Ill ring Mum, tell her the good news.
Alice sighed, not bothering to disagree. After three and a half years together, she knew arguing with Thomas once his mind was made up was about as useful as asking a stubborn cat to stay off the curtains.
Friday evening found them stuffing the car boot with a suitcase and a bag of groceries. Thomas had bought his mum a soft tartan throw, and his dad a bottle of whisky. The drive north to the village took about two hours if the traffic was kind.
Alice stared out the window, watching ash trees and laybys flit past. She listened to Thomas mumbling along to the radio, and tried to convince herself everything would be fine. Three days was nothing. Besides, his mother was, by and large, a kind woman.
They arrived in the deep hush of night. The house loomed at the end of a silent lane, faintly lit by a single lamppost. Thomas nosed the car onto the gravel drive, turned off the ignition, and, at once, the porch lights flared. The door banged open and there she wasMrs. Dorothy Hawkins, short and jolly, floral pinny hugging her, smiling so warmly it seemed her face would crack with emotion.
Tommy, love! she practically shrieked down the lane, barreling toward her son as he peeled himself from the car. Id just about given up hope of you coming! Ive been in the kitchen all day, you wouldnt believe it! Alice, dear, come in, dont stand shivering!
Alice unfolded herself from the car, rearranged her jacket, put on a polite smile, and allowed herself to be folded into a flour-dusted embrace. Dorothy smelled of hot onions and something cloyingly sweeta mix that prickled Alices nose.
Inside, the air was fierce and close with heat and cooking scents. From the kitchen came the buttery hiss of frying, underscored with the staccato clatter of plates. The big sitting room table was already groaning under sliced ham, crusty bread, pickled onions in a china bowl, a jar of cherry cordial, and a thick heel of brown loaf. David Hawkins, Thomass dad, sat by the telly watching the news. He stood, stretched, and came forward, anxious and relieved in the same gesture.
Well, you made it, he said, shaking Thomass hand and nodding at Alice. Hello, love. Come in, off with your coatwell be eating in a tick.
Ive made you plenty of meatballs, Dorothy sang from the kitchen doorway, bustling with restless energy, shifting bowls for no discernible reason. With potatoes, with onion gravy, just how you like! Tommy, you love my meatballs, dont you?
Course I do, Mum. You know I do, Thomas was already in the kitchen, pulling off his coat, peeking into pots, drawing another proud beam from Dorothy.
Alice hung her coat in the hall, trailing Thomas. Dorothys kitchen was tiny but dense with clutterevery inch of surface crowded with jars, boxes, muslin covers, spiced pots, heaps of tea towels, bags of flour and barley, bowls upon bowls upon bowls.
Sit, Alice dear, sit, Dorothy said, hauling a chair forward and scrubbing it with her aprons hem. You must be tired from that drive, Ill just be a minute.
She spun to the oven, grabbing a plate, putting it back again, opening the ovens heavy door, releasing a waft of roasted meat, making Alices empty stomach clamp tight. In the car thered only been cold coffee; shed not eaten properly in hours.
Thats when Alice saw.
Dorothy was at the table, a bowl of raw mincemeat before hera mountain of pale pink-grey stuff, roughly shaped into fifteen or so plump, neat, breadcrumbed meatballs arrayed in ordered rows on a chopping board. Dorothy scooped another lump, patted it, pressed it into a ball, andwithout missing a beatplunged her hand, the one still slick with raw mince, up under her left armpit.
Not the idle sort of scratching people do absentmindedly, but all five fingers, dug in thoroughly, a look of relief twisting her face as she had a satisfying rummage. Then, with barely a pause, she went straight back to shaping the next meatballno rinse, not even a casual wipe.
Alices stomach lurched.
She stared at that handa womans hand, short nails, wedding band digging into plump flesh, faint lattice of wrinkles. That hand had been up an armpit, now deep in the mince. Into the very meatballs Dorothy so often sent home with Thomas, bagged and frozen and reheated in their London hob. Alice had even told her, on the phone, that the meatballs were magic, which, to give them their due, they always did taste divine…
Mum, Thomas called from the next room, you got any tea? Were frozen from the road.
Yes, pet, nearly finished here! Dorothy kept rolling, oblivious, On the last batch, dinners nearly served!
She grabbed another wad of mince; Alice spotted a faint grey smear left on the wooden board just where Dorothys hand had touchedor was that her imagination? Alice blinked, the vision snapped back to normal: board, mince, meatballs, hands, routine and ordinary.
Mrs Hawkins, Alice tried, her voice tight, can I help at all? Do you want me to finish these, and you put the tea on?
No, dont be daft! Youre the guest! Dorothy waved her handswhich made Alice inwardly quail. Sit, sit, you must be tired. Im almost done.
To prove it, Dorothy scooped up the last clump, patted it into the formation, added it to the row, thenfinallyglanced down at her hands, gave a pleased nod, splashed them for three seconds under the cold tap (no soap), flicked off the water, and dried them on her apron.
Alice watched, conflicted revulsion sticking in her throat.
She told herself: Whats the harm? So what if someone scratches an itchnobody died. Her own gran, God rest her, used to fuss with her hair while kneading dough, and everyone lived. Was she just being prim? But the image stayed: hand, armpit, hand, mince.
Dinner was served in the sitting room, at a huge table spread with a pink, floral oilcloth. Dorothy produced the skillet brimming with steaming meatballsgolden, crisp, fragrant, the sort that would have most peoples mouths watering, but for Alice, the saliva pooled for all the wrong reasons. Alongside was a bowl of buttered mash, sliced tomatoes, fresh cucumber, bread, pickles, and cordial.
Tuck in, dears! Dorothy cooed, pushing the meatballs in Alices direction. These, Alice, take the brownest ones, I saved them for you.
Alice stared at them. They looked perfect; crisp, mouthwatering, smelling of onions and roast meat. Thomas was already helping himself to two, heaping on mash, carving up a cucumber, and, with deep relish, shoveling in the first bite.
Mmm, mum, he groaned with his mouth full, bang on, as ever.
Oh, praise be, Dorothy glowed, settling opposite Alice and demolishing a hunk of bread. I was afraid Id gone light on the salt.
Its great, Thomas replied, almost done with a meatball already. No one cooks like you.
David Hawkins ate in silence, murmuring the occasional Good, that is, in his clenched, spare way; in all the years Alice had known him, his longest speech was a detailed account of changing the oil in his lawnmower.
Alice, are you all right? Dorothy glanced at Alices mostly untouched plate with a pang of worry. You not hungry, love? Too much salt, is it?
No, honestly! Its lovely, Alice stammered, knowing if she didnt at least nibble, thered be a scene. Just a bit queasy from the drive … you know how it is. Ill just have a little.
She speared a tiny crustjust the crispest edge. Lovely smell, warm and homely, but as she pictured that same hand, the unwashed one, working through the mixture, the mouthful stuck halfway down, forcing itself past a tightening throat as nausea threatened to spill.
Very nice, she managed, pushing the plate away. Mrs Hawkins, could I just have some potato, please? And maybe a cucumber slice. The meatballs delicious, I just cant manage much.
Oh, poor love, Dorothy cooed, well of course, have mash! Ill wrap some up for youtheres enough in the freezer for a week!
Thomas shot a quick look at his wife and carried on devouring meatballs with gusto, the kind of irrepressible appetite that leaves no room for doubtor hygiene qualms.
Alice poked her mash, worked through a lettuce leaf, fervently reminding herself that millions of families survive on meals shaped by unwashed hands, and live to a ripe old age. And yet always, always, that memory: the hand, the armpit, the meat.
After dinner, Dorothy cleared the table. Thomas went to the garage with David, something about the generator. Alice found herself alone in the kitchen as Dorothy readied the teausing the same worn teapot with the chipped spout, pouring boiling water with humming efficiency.
Alice, dont be upset I insisted on you coming, Dorothy said, pouring tea. It means so much to see you both. I knowcity life, careers, all thatbut I sit here worrying, wondering if youre both well.
Were fine, Mrs Hawkins, Alice replied, cradling a mug. Just work and home, same as everyone.
Thank heavens, Dorothy rested her chin on her hand, some peculiar glint in her eyes. And I know how much you like my meatballs. Tommy always asks for a batch to take. The shops never do them rightso many chemicalsbut mine are proper, home-made. I buy all the meat myself, from our butcher in the village. And I always mince it myself, mind. Never trust pre-packed.
Alice sipped her tea, burning her tongue. Nausea licked higher as she remembered whose hands had steeped those leaves, whose hands had washed (or not washed) those mugs. She set the cup down, afraid to risk another swallow.
Mrs Hawkins, may I go up to bed? My head is pounding from the drive.
Of course, love! Dorothy flurried. Theres fresh linen in the cupboard, Thomas knows where. Just shout if you need anything.
Alice left the kitchen, found the tiny guest room, closed the door, and sat trembling on the edge of the spare bed.
She made it to the little lav at the halls end just in time, and sat for a long while, just quietly trying to breathe.
When Thomas came in from the garage, he found Alice huddled on the bed, hands clenched.
Whats up? he asked, perching beside her. Still ill?
Tom, Alice said, staring at him, I want to tell you something. Promise me you wont shout or laugh, just listen.
Go on, then, Thomas frowned.
And out it spilled: the hand, the armpit, the mince, the meatballs, the suffocating nausea. She whispered, fearing Dorothy might eavesdrop.
Thomass expression was unreadablesurprise, annoyance, or maybe just disbelief.
Oh for goodness sake, he finally said, Mum didnt mean to. She just … had a scratch. Its not a crime, Alice! Dyou think our grans scrubbed up after every sneeze? Thats life, thats home cooking.
Tom, she didnt wash her hands, Alices voice quavered despite herself. Then she went right into the mince. No soap, no nothing. I keep thinking of every batch shes sent us, and now …
What do you want to do? Thomas snapped, growing hard. Tell her shes unhygienic? Can you imagine? Shed be broken-hearted. All that work, just for us.
Im not going to say a thing, Alice covered her face. I just never want to eat it again. I cant even look at her food. I dont know what to do.
Thomas stood, stalked about, and ran his hand through his haira sure mark of his frustration.
Youre overreacting, he said, halting. Everyone scratches sometimes. Or brushes their hair. This isnt a hospital kitchen, its a home. If you think about every little thing, youll go mad.
I always wash my hands, Alice replied quietly. Before I cook. If I touch anything, I wash my hands again. Thats just normal.
Good for you. Thomass tone had turned cold, and Alice knew then shed lost him. Mums done it this way for decades. I grew up on those meatballs, and Im fine. You even said they were delicious.
I didnt know, Alice looked up. Now I do. I cant forget.
Well, forget it then, Thomas gestured, exasperated. Nobody died. Its not … I mean, honestly, they say in restaurants youd be horrified. Bits of hair in the salad, fingers in the mash. You eat out, and you never know.
Please dont, Tom, Alice felt herself near crying again, or worse. That doesnt make me feel any better.
Fine, Thomas hugged her, a half-hearted comfort. Tell you whatyou dont eat it if it bothers you. Ill tell Mum youre ill, delicate stomach or something. Just dont say a word about it. She wont understand. Itd crush her.
I wont say a word, Alice promised, face buried in his shirt. I just want to go home.
Well go tomorrow, Thomas said. Ill say your temperatures up, and we need to get back. All right?
Yes, Alice murmured, though nothing felt all right.
She lay down, Thomas clicked off the light, and they listened to the muted telly in the next room, Davids coughs, Dorothys distant rattling of plates.
Alice stared at the ceiling, chewing over the last three years, thinking of every meatball shed ever eaten from Dorothy, how shed praised them, even asked once for the recipe, sincerely admiring the taste. She kept turning over the thoughtmaybe it was this very secret ingredient, the one nobody talked about, that made the meatballs unforgettable.
In the morning, Alice woke shattered. Thomas was already at the kitchen table, chatting with his parents over tea and toast. She dawdled, not wanting to go in, but aware shed look odd if she stayed away too long.
She splashed her face with freezing water, dragged herself to the kitchen.
Oh, Alice, darling! Dorothy cried, bustling. Thomas said you werent well in the night. Temperature? Come, let me brew up some raspberry teapicked from our own canes!
Thank you, Mrs Hawkins, Alice sat, trying hard not to let her eyes drift to the plate of leftover meatballs shaded with muslin against the flies. I think I just ate something on the road.
Oh, those motorway cafés! Dorothy tutted, plonking a mug and the jam jar before her. I always tell Davidbetter a home meal than those ghastly places! And youre always nipping in, mind. No wonder youre ill.
Mum, we didnt stop anywhere, Thomas called, glancing up. Just had coffee in the car.
Well then, your system must be delicate, Dorothy persisted. A little raspberry, thatll set you right.
Alice sipped at the mug, warm fluid trickling through herbut she couldnt help but wonder, had Dorothy washed her hands before making it? If she let the thought spiral, shed unravel completely. She had to either make peace, or never come back.
Mrs Hawkins, Alice set the mug down, thank you for having us. But really, its best we get home today. Thomas said hed drive.
Oh, but youve only just arrived! Dorothy looked crestfallen. I was going to make pies and a big pot of soup. Thomas loves my soup.
Next time, Mum, Thomas interrupted, then kissed her on the cheek. Alice is really not well. Ill be back in a couple of weeks to help Dad with the shed, and then you can cook to your hearts content.
Dorothy sighed, looked from one to the other, and in her gaze Alice saw something that unsettled hera spark of comprehension. As if Dorothy understood everything. The meatballs, the armpit, why Alice had so suddenly fallen ill.
If you must, Dorothy said rather coolly, Ill give you some for the freezer. Ive made plentyyoull have enough for a whole week.
Alice felt the blood drain from her face, but managed, Thank you. Thats kind of you.
They packed up quickly. Thomas loaded the car, Alice said goodbye to David, who pressed her hand and said simply, Get better, love. Come back when youre right. Dorothy appeared with a carrier bag of food and forced it into Thomass arms.
Heres meatballs, bit of jam, and Ive put in some of my smoked baconyou like that. Look after yourselves.
Thanks, Mum, Thomas said, giving her a peck on the cheek. Alice noticed Dorothy didnt smilejust nodded and slipped back indoors.
They drove in silence, the bag of meatballs a menacing presence in the boot, as if something live and slithering hid just beyond her seat. Thomas was solemn too, knuckles white on the steering wheel, shifting gears with unnecessary force, gazing hard and unwavering at the road.
You can eat them, Alice said quietly as they hit the suburbs. Im not stopping you. I just cant.
Thomas let out a long, exhausted sigh, as though hed dug ditches and not driven for two hours. You do know Mums figured it all out?
Figured what? Alice turned.
All of it. Shes not stupid. She saw you barely touched your food, heard you were sick, then we leave the next morning. She knows. Shes hurt. And I get why.
And you dont get me? Alice shot.
He said nothing.
Back in their flat, Alice went into the kitchen, looking at the spotless worktops, gleaming chopping boardssurfaces she cleaned religiously, boards she scrubbed after every use. This was her space. Here, hands were washed. Here, there were no meatballs shaped with hands that had ventured wherever they pleased.
Thomas slotted the bag into the freezer, closed the door.
You wont have any? Alice asked.
I will, Thomas replied, voice sharp. Theyre Mums. Ive eaten them my whole life.
He disappeared into the bathroom. Alice stood by the sink, turned on the hot tap, lathered her hands with thick soap, scrubbing up to her elbowsjust like before surgery. She dried them with a clean towel and wondered: did it matter, now? Could some things be washed away, once theyd taken root in your mind?
She wasnt sure.
But one thing she knew for certainnever again would she eat a meatball made by Dorothy Hawkinss hands. No amount of persuasion, no sulks or she didnt mean it, would change that.
Three days later, Thomas rustled up four of the infamous meatballs for dinner, messy with mash and pickled onions, and set himself at the table.
Want some? he asked, offering up a fork with a steaming bite.
No, thank you, Alice said.
She got up and sat in the armchair in the sitting room, turned up the telly volume, blocking out the damp, noisy sound of Thomas eating.
Alice realised something had shifted in their marriage on that trip, something impossible to fix. And all because of a hand. An ordinary womans hand that had scratched where it itched.
She closed her eyes and decided: best not to think of it. If you dont think, you can live on. Eat what you make yourself; never touch a thing cooked by another, not ever again.
