21st November
Today, more than ever, I wonder just how much a person can put up with before the seams come apart. If I knew a year ago what one innocent just a week would lead to well, I might have changed my answer.
It started last December, a drizzly Sunday that made the whole of Croydon look so grey, even the old cat slunk away to sleep. I came home from work another endless end-of-quarter slog, deadlines, numbers swimming about in my head arms full of Sainsbury’s bags that weighed me down as much as that awful feeling of tiredness. There was Sam, my husband, folding and refolding the tea towel in a sort of nervous dance.
You know how it is, love, he started, with that guilty puppy look of his. Jacks not having the best run of things. The divorce, being let go at work… We cant have him sleeping at Euston, can we?
I could see where this was going. Jack was his younger brother, one of those perpetual neer-do-wells who seem to turn every family gathering upside down and always need a bit more patience than you actually have. In fifteen years, Id seen Jack all of three times each a minor disaster.
Sam, I sighed, struggling out of my boots, Weve only got the two bedrooms. And Jacks got his own place up in Sheffield. Whys he not back there?
Sam hesitated, looking everywhere but at me. Hes got tenants in, putting the rent towards his sons flat up north. Its all a bit complicated. He says he just needs to get himself sorted with work in London. Just a week. Maybe ten days, max. While he gets through some interviews.
I could have argued, and in my head I did, but exhaustion swept over me. Fine. A week. But tell him: were up at six, in bed by eleven. No parties, no guests. This is our home, not a hostel.
Jack rolled in the next evening, barrelling into the hallway with some massive checked holdall smelling faintly of train carriage and stale smoke. He was bigger than Sam, brash where Sam was gentle.
Alright, darling! he barked, arms open wide, barely giving me a chance to dodge his bear hug. Room for one more? Promise, you wont know Im here! Just the sofa and a plug for my phone, honest.
First few days werent too bad, if Im honest. He slept until noon on our settee, then disappeared, supposedly job hunting. He came back for dinner and ate enough for three. I realised a whole casserole vanished in one night; the next morning, the leftovers were gone too.
Cant help it, Rach! Jack joked, wiping the pan with a crust of bread. London air builds up a proper appetite.
I said nothing, just started picking up more groceries. After all, its awkward to grumble at your guest.
Come the end of the week, I gently inquired, Any luck with jobs, Jack? Found anything good?
He gave me the wounded look of a spaniel, put his fork down and sighed. You wouldnt believe it, Rach. All lies on these ads. Good money, they say, and its dodgy sales or delivery gigs for peanuts. Ive got qualifications, cant just take anything. Got my eye on something sensible though proper firm. They said theyd get back to me Monday. Just need a few days more.
I glanced at Sam, who avoided my gaze by shovelling salad into his mouth at record speed.
Fair enough, I said, A couple more days.
But Monday became Tuesday, then Wednesday, and still no phone call from the proper firm. Jack stopped heading out in the mornings. Id come home to the same scene: the unfurled sofa, blaring TV, biscuit crumbs, empty cups everywhere, and a musty, sour whiff of body spray.
Called about that job, Jack? Id prod.
Yeah, but the woman in HRs off sick. Next week, apparently. Oi, Rach, we out of mayo? Was fixing a sandwich and the fridge is completely bare.
It was the casual we that scraped at my nerves. Jack started acting as if our flat was his hed use Sams expensive shampoo, commandeer my favourite blanket, switch the telly when I wanted the news. Every single time.
A month slouched by. Outside, February rains churned the snow into a grimy slush, matching how messy life felt inside.
One evening, I snapped. Sam was in the kitchen, tinkering with the toaster.
Sam, we need to talk. Properly.
Its about Jack, isnt it? He already looked defeated.
A whole month, Sam! Hes not working, not looking just lazing on our sofa, eating us out of house and home. Can’t even wander into my own lounge in a dressing gown because there he is, sprawled out. This has to stop.
I have spoken to him, Sam muttered. He keeps saying things will get better. I just cant throw him out, Rach. Mum would never forgive me you know, she always said to look out for one another.
Your mum lives in Bristol and hasnt the faintest idea what this is costing us, Id had enough. Were spending double on food. The bills are up. Hes always in the shower or leaves all the lights on. At least ask him to chip in.
He cant, Sam said quietly. His accounts are frozen. Some trouble with debts. He told me a couple of days ago.
It was like the ground went out from under me. And when, exactly, were you going to tell me about this?
He said hell pay once he gets sorted, I promise. Just hang on a bit longer. Come spring, therell be work.
Hang on became the refrain of the next few months.
Spring came and vanished. Jack didnt go on a building site (Pulled a muscle cant be lugging anything, he said), but somehow always managed to lift another pint in front of the telly. I noticed alcohol started disappearing from the cabinet, and when a bottle of Sams favourite single malt a 50th birthday present was gone, all hell broke loose.
I didnt touch it! Jack hollered, red-faced. What, you think Im pinching your booze? Maybe you drank it yourself and forgot, or perhaps Sam polished it off!
Dont you raise your voice at my wife! Sam tried to step in, half-heartedly.
Oh, shut her up, will you? Stingy, the lot of you. Cant spare a drop for family. Ill buy you a bottle when Ive got the money coming in!
That evening, I gave Sam an ultimatum: Jack leaves by weeks end, or Im filing for a split and selling the flat. Technically, the place belonged to both of us, but my folks put in the deposit, and Id been paying the lions share of the mortgage from my job as financial controller.
That shook Sam up. He had a hushed, smoky balcony chat with Jack. After, Jack stalked about, glowering at me, but said hed found a room in Lewisham and would shift out in two weeks, once hed been paid (supposedly started as a night porter somewhere).
For a moment, things felt hopeful.
A week later, Jack limped in with his arm in a cast.
Took a tumble, he announced, tragic as Hamlet. Slipped on the stairs fractured my wrist.
I saw the plaster and realised: this was never going to end. Thered be no porters job now, no move.
Cant expect you to throw me out injured, can you, Rach? he said, looking at me with a sly glint.
If I hoped that would at least make him more considerate, I was wrong. Rachel, can you cut me some bread, cant use this hand; Rachel, could you help me with my back, can’t reach with the cast. I put a swift end to that last request.
Sam started staying at work later, grabbing overtime, hiding from it all. I found reasons not to head home, wandering the park, reading in cafés anywhere but that stuffy lounge where Jack, now crowned King of the Sofa, held greasy court.
The summer drained away. The cast came off, but Jack still complained of aches, especially whenever new chores or actual work came up. He got comfortable, rearranged our living room to his taste, even started bringing over some unsavoury friends when we were out (our nosy neighbour reported back). Any comment led to snarling:
You owe me! Im family! By rights you should help. This is a three-bedroom! (Actually, its a two-bed, but Jack always counted the kitchen as a room.) Its not like Im barging into your bedroom, yeah?
It all erupted precisely a year to the week since Jack arrived.
That cold, sodden Thursday, I left work early with a pounding head. I let myself in and froze. Music blared, female laughter echoed from the living room; a pair of soiled boots in the hallway, a cheap jacket hung beside mine. I found Jack on our sofa, arms around a heavily made-up blonde woman, both of them putting away vodka and spreading fag ash on my carpet.
Oh, the landladys home! Jack slurred. Meet Shaz. My muse!
Something inside me snapped. I felt sharper, colder than ever before.
Out, I said, my voice steely and quiet.
Jack blinked, slowly let go of his muse. Eh?
Out. Both of you. Now. Five minutes, or I call the police.
You what? Youre off it. Where am I meant to go now? This is my place too Sams family! Who are you? Just married in! Ought to be grateful!
He squared up, fists clenched, but I only pulled out my phone.
Im calling the police.
Go on then! You cant do a thing Im a guest! Sam invited me!
I dialled. Hello, yes, I need police there are non-residents in my property threatening me, theyre drunk, refusing to leave. No, not on the tenancy. Yes, Im the owner. Thank you.
Shaz sobered up straight away, grabbed her coat and boots, muttered feeble apologies and legged it. Jack stayed, lit up another cigarette, sneering.
Wait till Sam gets here youll see. Youd call the police on family, Rachel? Youre a piece of work.
I went to the kitchen and rang Sam.
The police are coming, I told him when he answered. Your brothers brought some woman back, thrown a party, smoked indoors, threatened me. If you defend him, dont bother coming back. Ill file for divorce in the morning.
Silence. Then Sam said, voice hollow, Im on my way. Do what you need to. Im tired.
The police turned up in fifteen minutes firm, exhausted, professional.
Whos in charge here? the older officer asked, scanning our sorry living room and Jack, splayed out on the sofa.
I am, I said, producing my passport and title deed Id kept ready. My husbands on the lease. This man isnt, he refuses to leave, has been aggressive. Please remove him.
The constable turned to Jack. ID, please.
Jack begrudgingly handed over his ID card. Its my brothers flat too! Im his guest!
The officer flipped through the card. Address in Sheffield. No rights of residence here. Lady here says youre not wanted. You need to go.
You cant! Samll tell you!
If your brother wants to take this to court, fine, but unless he agrees, and youre not on the tenancy, youre out. If you wont leave, well take you in for breach of the peace. Neighbours have already complained about the noise.
Jack looked at the officers, then at me. For a moment, I almost felt sorry for him but no, those days were gone. The old tricks didnt work.
Fine, he spat. Enjoy your precious flat. But I wont forget this.
He packed in silence, swearing now and then, deliberately banging cupboard doors or scraping furniture across the floor in an amateur attempt at revenge. It didnt work.
Just as Jack staggered into the corridor, Sam turned up, looking ten years older.
Sam! Jack yelled. Tell them! Your wifes out of order, throwing me into the street! Tell them!
Sam just stared at him, defeated. Then he looked at me and around the trashed room. Go home, Jack, he said quietly.
Youre picking her over me?
Youve lived off us for a year, lied to me, disrespected Rachel, trashed our home. I cant do this anymore. I wont. Go back to Sheffield. Im done.
Jacks mouth flapped like a codfish. Then, Fine! Both of you are disgusting. I want nothing more to do with either of you!
He left. The officers made sure he was out for good.
Thank you, I nodded to the sergeant.
Change the locks, miss, he said, not unkindly, These sorts sometimes try their luck again.
The door clicked shut. Sam opened all the windows, letting the cold November wind sweep out the stench of smoke and bitterness. Together, not speaking, we picked up the mess; ashes, bottles, any trace of Jack.
Im sorry, Sam said at last, still staring at the carpet. I should have handled it sooner.
Its over. Thats what matters, I replied.
We spent the weekend deep-cleaning, finally chucking the old sofa Jack had ruined. We had the locks changed. Sam arranged it himself this time.
A few weeks later, Jack tried calling us from odd numbers, begging for travel money, trying to guilt-trip or threaten. But Sam blocked every call, no hesitation.
Peace slowly crept back into our little flat. I once more looked forward to coming home, with steaming pots simmering in our clean kitchen and just the two of us calm, respectful, safe. I think Sam learned at last: real family doesnt drain you dry with excuses. Sometimes you have to fight for your boundaries, and value the quiet of your own home again.
Sometimes hell is just letting someone overstay their welcome.
Sometimes peace is finally having the courage to say: enough.
