Mother-in-Laws Meatballs
Tom and Emily had been married for three and a half years. In all that time, Emily had only visited Toms mothers house four times, at most. Only for holidaysChristmas, Easterwould they drive down, spend a few hours, and hurry back to the city and their own flat.
But suddenly, Tom became insistent. His mum had called him for the third time that week, saying how much she missed them, how his dad had thrown his back fixing the shed roof, how the vegetable patch had become a wild thicket and neither of them had the strength to manage it. Tom had always been the dutiful sonhe rang his mother every Sunday, never missed a call, always agreeing with her even when she was saying something he found utterly mad. Now, he was watching Emily at dinnerpushing a forkful of spaghetti and sausages around his plateeyes pleading.
Em, he began, pushing away his plate and folding his hands on the table. Mum rang again. She said weve practically forgotten what she looks like. Come on, cant we go down for a few days this weekend? Three days max. Please?
Tom, I have an appointment at the salon on Saturday, Emily tried, even though she knew her excuse was thin.
Just reschedule, Tom waved her off as if this was nothing. You know shell be hurt otherwise. She said shell make her meatballs for us, bake pies. She misses us, Em.
And your dadis his back any better? Emily asked out of politeness more than real concernher relationship with Toms father had always been neutral at best.
Oh, hes fine, Tom shrugged. Hes always got something wrong with him, you know what hes like. Anyway, Ive decidedwere going. Friday night there, back Sunday night. It’ll make her happy.
Emily sighed, but didnt argue. After three and a half years, shed learned that arguing with Tom after hed decided on something was as pointless as telling a cat not to climb the curtains.
Friday evening, they loaded the boot with a bag of clothes and a carrier of giftsTom had bought his mother a soft new throw blanket, his dad a bottle of whisky. The drive to the village took about two hours, if the traffic was decent. Emily gazed out the window at the hedgerows and endless patches of oaks, watching silly names slip by on pub signs. Tom hummed along to the radio, and Emily tried to tell herself that it might all be fine. Three days wasnt so long. Toms mother was, after all, a kind woman.
They arrived after dusk. The house stood at the end of the road, lit only by the old lantern above the gate. Tom pulled into the drive, switched off the engine, and instantly the porch light flickered on. The front door flew open, and out bustled June Watsona plump, round woman in a colourful apron, beaming so broadly Emily fancied her face would split.
Tommy! she shrieked to the neighbourhood, dashing to embrace her son the moment he stepped from the car. Id started getting worried youd not come! Ive been cooking all day, you cant imagine! Emily, my dear, come inside! Dont stand shivering in the cold!
Emily clambered out of the car, straightening her coat, managing her politest smile as her mother-in-law wrapped her in a strong hug. June Watson smelt of caramelized onions and something cloyingly sweet, which tickled Emilys nose.
Inside, the house was stiflingly warm and reeked of food. Something sizzled in a pan through the open kitchen door. The dining table was already set: plate of pre-sliced ham, a loaf of brown bread, a bowl of pickled onions, a jug of fruit cordial. Toms father, Alan, was slouched in front of the telly watching the news, but stood when they enteredevidently hed been waiting, worried about traffic and the dark country roads.
Well, youve made it, he grunted, shaking Toms hand before nodding at Emily. Evening, love. Get your things off, well be eating soon.
Ive made you some meatballs! June announced from the kitchen, adjusting her apron and needlessly shifting plates about. With roasted potatoes, onions, and some lovely gravy. You like my meatballs, dont you, Tom?
Love them, Mum, you know I do, Tom replied, already unzipping his jacket and heading straight for the kitchen to peek in the potsprompting another wave of maternal pride.
Emily hung her coat in the narrow hallway and followed. Junes kitchen was small, but homey if homey meant every inch of counter cluttered with jars of preserves, canisters of spices, a menagerie of tea towels, bags of ricedozens of bowls and oddities.
Sit, Emily, you must be knackered after the drive, June said, pulling a chair for her and wiping it with a corner of her apron.
She spun around, grabbed a plate, put it back, and then opened the ovenletting the warm scent of roasting meat waft out. Emilys stomach rumbled. Theyd only managed a thermos of coffee on the road, no proper meal.
And then Emily saw it.
There on the table stood a large bowl of raw mincea mound of grey-pink ready to become meatballs. Fifteen or so were already stretched out in neat rows, dusted with breadcrumbs. June grabbed another blob of meat, rolled it briskly into a ball, flattened it into the right shape, and thenbefore Emily could blinkscratched herself under her left armpit. Not just a vague absent-minded scratch but a full, purposeful dig under her arm, almost relishing it. With the same hand, without a pause, she resumed shaping the next meatball.
Emily felt her stomach turn.
She stared at that handa pretty ordinary womans hand, short nails, wedding ring pressed into the fleshand couldnt tear her eyes away. That hand had been under her armpit. That hand was now kneading meat. The very meatballs June had forced upon them, frozen in bags for monthsmeatballs theyd both eaten, praised, Emily had even called them magic on the phone. It was truethey were delicious.
Mum, called Tom from the other room, have you got tea? Were freezing.
Coming, love! June answered, deftly rolling the next meatball in breadcrumbs. Just a few left to do, then supper will be ready.
Emily spotted faint muddy streaks along the chopping board, where fingers had pressed down meatthe same fingers thatd just been rooting under an armpit, or so she imagined. She blinked, and the board was again just a plain wooden board, meatballs lined up like soldiers, Junes hands busy with her work.
Mrs. Watson, Emily said quietly, would you like a hand? Shall I finish those while you put the kettle on?
Oh, dont be daft! Youre a guest! June exclaimed, waving her hands aboutmaking Emilys skin crawl. You sit, youve been travelling all day. Im nearly done.
True to her word, June rolled the last lump of mince, popped it in the line, then glanced at her hands as if fussing over the Queens silverran them under the tap for barely three seconds, no soap, just a quick splash, wiped them on her apron and turned to the oven.
Emily watched, a wave of disgust sweeping over her.
She tried to steady herself. What was the big deal anyway? So shed scratched herself under the armpitso what? Emilys own grandmother had always been a bit haphazard in the kitchen and theyd all survived. Maybe she was just too squeamish
But the image wouldnt leave her mind: hand, armpit, hand, mince.
Supper was served on a large table, covered with a garish plastic cloth. June set down the pan of steaming meatballsgolden, crispy, smelling of onions and herbsenough to make anyones stomach growl. A bowl of buttery mash, a plate of tomatoes and cucumbers, sliced bread, pickles, cordial.
Tuck in, loves! chirped June, nudging the meatball platter right towards Emily. Em, you take thesetheyre the crispiest. Special for you.
Emily looked at the meatballs. They looked wonderfully normal: golden, inviting, fragrant. Tom already had two on his plate, dousing them in gravy, slicing a cucumber, forking a mouthful with relish.
Mmm, Mum, these are amazing, he mumbled with his mouth full.
Thank goodness! June beamed, sliding into her place opposite Emily and tearing off a hunk of bread. Was worried Id forgotten the salt or used the wrong onions.
Theyre perfect as always, Mum, Tom replied, already moving on to his second meatball.
Alan forked down his own food in silence, nodding his approval only occasionallya man who never said much, his only great story the time he changed the oil in his car.
Emily, darling, why arent you eating? June asked, voice full of concern. You dont like them? Too much salt?
Oh, no, everythings lovely! Emily managed, feeling panic riseif she didnt at least try something, June would sulk for days. Its just travel, I think My stomachs a bit off, honestly. Ill try a little.
She cut the corner off one meatballcrispy, crunchyand raised it to her lips. It smelled as delicious as ever, but the vision of a hand, fresh from an armpit, plunging into that mince, made the bite lodge in her throat. Still, she forced it down.
Lovely, she said quickly, pushing her plate away. June, could I just have some potato and cucumber? The meatballs are lovely, I just cannot manage much tonight, after the drive.
Oh, you poor thing, June lamented, just have some mash then, love. Ive made loads of meatballs, Ill pack some for you both to take home.
Tom glanced at Emily but kept chewingeither oblivious or just not bothered by the memory of armpits and mince.
Emily picked at her mash, nibbled a cucumber and tried to convince herself she was only tired or being silly. Millions of people eat homemade food every daywith all its secret ingredientsand walk away perfectly healthy. Still, she couldnt shift that feeling: a hand, an armpit, a hand, meatball.
After supper, June cleared away the plates. Tom disappeared with his dad to fiddle with the generator in the garage. Emily was left alone in the kitchen as June put the kettle on, filling a big teapot, its spout chipped.
Emily, darling, dont be cross with me for insisting you came this time, June began, pouring boiling water into the pot. I just miss you two so much. I know lifes busy in Londonwork, everything. But a mother worries about her children. Sometimes I just need to see youre alright.
Were fine, June, Emily replied, accepting a cup of hot, strong tea. Work, homejust the usual, really.
Thats good then, June seated herself across from Emily, face searching hers. My meatballsyou both still like them, I hope? Tom always asks for a batch when he visits, you know. Nothing in the shops tastes the same, all chemicals. I make everything myself. The mince is proper English beef, from the market. I dont trust the supermarket stuff.
Emily sipped her tea and scalded herself. She forced the worry downwondering who, exactly, had cleaned the cups, the teapot, the spoons. She set the mug aside at once.
Could I go to bed? she managed. I think my heads not right from the drive.
Of course, love, June fussed, Clean linen is in the cupboardTom knows. Shout if you need anything, darling.
Emily escaped to the tiny spare bedroom. She heard the cheerful noise from the kitchen, the news blaring faintly from the living room, tinkling crockery as June tidied. Emily sat on the bed, suddenly overwhelmed with nauseashe barely made it to the loo in time.
Tom found her still sat on the bed, head in her hands, twenty minutes later.
You alright? he asked, sitting beside her. Are you really not well?
Tom, she said, staring at him with shining eyes. I need to tell you something, and pleasedont laugh, and dont get angry.
Go on, then, Tom replied, frowning.
She told him everythingabout Junes hand, the armpit, the mince, the meatballs, her revulsionwhispering it all so his mother wouldnt overhear.
Tom stared at her, face shifting: disbelief, annoyance, confusion.
Look, Em, he said at last, its not on purpose. She just got an itch. Everyone does it sometimes. Dyou honestly think our grannies in the country used to scrub their hands with Dettol every five minutes? Emily, thats family food.
Tom, she didnt wash her hands, Emilys voice trembled. She went right from scratching under her arm to rolling the next meatball. I watched her pretend to wash, just a bit of water, no soapshe wiped her hands on her apron. And now, thinking back to all the batches wed eaten, I just cant
So what do you want to do? Toms tone grew defensive. Tell my mum shes unhygienic? Shell be devastated. She cooks for us, Em. For us.
Im not saying a word to her. I just cant eat those meatballs, ever again. I cant even look at them.
Tom rose, ran his fingers through his hairalways a sign of bad temper.
Youre dramatising, he said, pacing. Its just a scratch. You do it all the time in your own kitchenpull your hair back, rub your noseits not a science lab, its a family home. If you obsess over every little thing youll lose your mind.
I wash my hands, Tom, she said quietly. I wash them before I cook, after I touch anything weird. Thats normal.
Well, good for you, he replied, irritated. But my mums cooked this way her whole life. Ive eaten those meatballs for thirty years, and Im as healthy as a horse. You always said they were delicious.
I didnt know, Emily whispered. Now I do, and I cant forget.
Just let it go. Tom sounded tired now. Really, its not the end of the world. Scratch an armpitits not as if she picked her backside! If you saw the kitchens in half the gastropubs in London, youd shudder. You eat there and never know.
Tom, please Emily tried to swallow, fighting off a fresh wave of nausea. Dont tell me restaurant horror stories. They dont help.
Tom sat beside her again, sighed, put an arm around her shoulders. Alright. Dont eat, if you dont want to. Ill tell Mum youre illa bug, or something. Just dont say anything to her face. Shed never understand.
I wont, Emily buried her head on his shoulder. I just want to go home.
Well go tomorrow then, Tom promised. Ill tell them youve come down with something, and we need to get back. Alright?
Alright. Not that anything felt right.
They sleptEmily head swirling, listening through the wall to the faint sound of Alan coughing, June clattering pots as she cleaned up.
Emily stared at the ceiling recalling all those times shed wolfed down June’s meatballs, raved about them, begged for the recipe, never knowing the secret might truly come down to something very simple, something shed seen too clearly now.
In the grey light of Saturday, Emily woke unrefreshed. Tom was already in the kitchen, chatting with his parents. She forced herself up, washed her face, and joined the others.
Emily, love! June exclaimed, bustling over. Tom said you werent well last night? Feverish? Ill brew you some tea with raspberry jammy own, from last years crop!
Thank you, Mrs. Watson, Emily mumbled, sitting gingerly, trying not to look at the plate of leftover meatballs on the table, covered by a tea-towel.
You must have picked up something in those motorway cafés, June tutted, pushing tea and a jar of jam over. I always tell Alanbetter to eat at home. But you young ones love your fast food. And here we are, see?
Mum, Tom interrupted, we didnt stop anywhere, we just had coffee in the car.
Well, something or other upset you, I suppose, June insisted. Thats how it goes. Sip your jam, love. Put you right.
Emily sipped the sweet, sticky tea and wondered whether June had washed her hands before making even this. She realised she was at a crossroads: accept this was the way, or avoid coming back.
Mrs. Watson, she said with effort, thanks so much for your hospitality, but I really think I need to get back home. Tom said we could leave today
Oh, but youve only just got here! Junes face fell. I was going to bake us a pie, make cabbage stewTommy loves my stews.
Next time, Mum, Tom said, standing and kissing her cheek. Ems really not well. Shes better off in her own bed. Ill come down soon, help Dad with the roof, eat your stew then. Promise.
June looked from Tom to Emily, something shifting in her expression that made Emily feel instantly, deeply uncomfortableas if shed sussed the truth, about the meatballs, the illness, and the sudden goodbye.
As you like, she said finally, voice suddenly cold. “Ive frozen a batch of meatballs for you to take. Theres some in the freezerenough for the week.
Emily felt all the colour drain from her face, but managed a polite, Thank you, Mrs. Watson. Thats very kind.
They packed in a hurry. Tom loaded the bags; Emily said goodbye to Alan, who shook her hand with a dry palm and told her to get well sooncome back when youre better. June pressed a bag into Toms hands at the door.
Meatballs, and some jam. Plus a bit of my home-cured bacon,” she said. Eat well, both of you.
Thanks, Mum, Tom muttered, pecking her cheek. Emily noticed June didnt smile, just nodded, vanishing into the house before they drove away.
The drive back to London was silent. Emily sat rigid. The carrier of meatballs in the boot felt like it was pressing right against her spinealive and menacing. Tom stared ahead at the road, shoulders tight, jaw set.
You can eat them, Emily said quietly, as they reached the edges of the city. I wont stop you. I just cant.
Em, Tom sighed; with it came exasperation so thick it filled the car. You realise Mum knows, dont you?
Knows what? Emily turned.
She saw you werent eating, got ill right after supperthen we up and leave next morning. Shes not daft. Shell be hurt, and I cant blame her.
And you dont understand me? Emily snapped.
He said nothing.
At home, Emily went into the kitchen and gazed at her own sparkling worktops, the carefully washed chopping boards, the shelves she scrubbed every week. Everything was clean herehere, hands were washed before food was handled. Here, food was safe.
Tom brought in the bag, shoved it in the freezer.
You not having any? Emily asked.
I am, said Tom, steel in his voice. Theyre my mums. Ive eaten them my whole life.
He disappeared into the shower, leaving Emily alone. She turned on the tap, took up the bar of soap, and scrubbed her handsup to the elbows, as meticulously as a surgeon, water running hot over her skin. She dried her hands, realising she didnt know if any of it really matteredif it could erase anything already rooted so deeply in her memory.
But of one thing she was sure: never again would she eat one of June Watsons meatballs. No amount of persuasion, no hurt feelings, no protest of she didnt mean it would ever change her mind.
Three days later, Tom fried up four of the meatballs for supper, piled them next to fluffy mash and sliced gherkin, settling at the table.
Want some? he asked, offering Emily a forkful of meatball.
No, thank you, said Emily.
She left the table, curled up in the lounge chair, and turned up the telly to drown out the sound of Tom munching his mothers meatballs.
Emily knew this weekend in June Watsons house had changed something between her and Tom. Something that might not ever be put right again. All because of a handa completely ordinary womans hand, doing what almost anyone might have done, in a second of inattention.
Emily closed her eyes, willing herself not to think. If she stopped thinking, perhaps she could carry on. Eat only what shed made herself. And never take another mouthful made by anyone elses hands again.
