Well, there you go, son, declared Margaret as she stood, arms akimbo, in the lounge. Youve only gone and brought home a waif and stray, havent you? She rifled dramatically through the modest belongings Mary had ferried across from her bedsittwo battered suitcases and a bag of forlorn pillowcases. I told you, Thomas, you want to find a girl of your own standing, not pick up whatevers been left on the pavement. Whatll people think? Honestly, I can hardly look our neighbours in the eye!
Margaret said all this at full volume, making sure both Mary and Thomas could hear every withering syllable. Mary hovered by the door, her grip on the cracked plastic handles so tight her knuckles paled. She wished she could sink into the faded Axminster or dissolve into thin air, anything not to catch her mother-in-laws scornful glance or her sister-in-law Julies mock giggles. Julie, for her part, was already twirling around in Marys only halfway decent scarf, as if trying out for the part of annoying sibling in a West End farce.
Thomas, then barely out of his twenties and unused to standing up to his battle-axe of a mother, blushed to the roots.
Mum, enough, he managed, trying to rescue the stack of towels from Margarets talons. Marys my wife. Were moving out, as you well know. We just needed somewhere to drop our stuff while we flat-hunt.
Oh, and how will you afford a flat, dear? Margaret squawked. On your engineers wages? Or maybe your conveniently destitute wife here has stashed away a suitcase of gold? Oh, Thomas, mark my word, youll regret this. Shes country through and throughno taste, no manners, no money!
The word dowryless stuck to Mary like a stubborn price tag. At every family gathering where she and Thomas were invited (usually for appearances sake, or to provide comic relief), Margaret or Julie would jab at her: the salad was chopped like youre feeding cows, her dress terribly farmyard chic, and any gift from her somehow too cheap.
Mary put up with it, out of deeply ingrained British politeness (and perhaps a whiff of masochism), and mostly because she was mad about Thomas. He tried to shield her but spent most weekends being stretched thin, sandwiched between his mothers ceaseless moans and his loyalty to his wife.
The first years werent exactly a barrel of laughs. They rented poky flats, scrimped on every biscuit, and scrounged secondhand furniture off suspiciously cheerful neighbours. Mary, with a degree in textile design, did shifts at a local garment factory by day and tackled sewing jobs at home by nighthemming trousers, mending zips, knocking up curtains for anyone in the block who asked. Thomas jumped at every sideline goingtaxi runs, laptop repairs, the lot.
Strangely, Thomass well-off relatives were never available to lend a hand. Margaret, ensconced in her spacious semi with her inherited antique sideboard and Julies accidentally successful marriage to a middling entrepreneur, contented themselves with liberally dispensing (mostly unsolicited) advice.
One winter, their fridge died and, after hanging milk out the window in a carrier bag for a week, Thomas dared ask his mum to spot them a bit of cash till payday.
Not a penny, Margaret cut him off, barely waiting for the second syllable. And even if I had some, Id think twice. You two have the financial sense of a pigeon. Your wifes probably spent your last tenner onwhats it now, scented candles? She ought to learn housekeeping. I could make a meal from a marrow bone when I was her age.
That night, Mary swore to herself theyd never ask that side of the family for anything, ever again.
Years passed, memories lost their jagged edges, but not their sting. Mary worked like a demon. Her talent and stubbornness began, at last, to pay out. First, she rented a shoebox under the stairs in a shopping arcade for her tailoring services. Word spread about her impeccable seams and uncanny knack for fitting things just so. Soon, people queued for Mary.
Three years in, she launched her own little dressmaking shop. Thomas quit his soul-crushing job and started handling orders, deliveries, and spreadsheets. They became a real teamtight-knit, driven, laughing in the face of adversity.
Fast forward five more years, and Mary With No Dowry was Mary Christine, proprietor of a thriving chain of interior textile boutiques. She and Thomas now had a newbuild flat, a half-decent car, and even a cottage in Surrey of their own design (the sort with underfloor heating and vegetable patchesa double dream).
Contact with Thomass family had dwindled to the odd gritted-teeth birthday call and awkward drop-in every Christmas. Margaret had grown older and acquired a scowl set to permanent. Julie, dumped by her entrepreneur husband (unable to withstand her champagne tastes and door-slamming tantrums), had slunk back to Margarets, her sparkle gone but her ego unresolved. They lived on, squandering what was left and grumbling about the state of the world.
No one mentioned Thomas and Marys success. When Thomas pulled up in their new car, Julie grimaced, Leased, is it? Everyones in hock these days. Mary smiled serenely, well past caring.
Then, one brisk autumn day, Marys phone rang. Margaret, the display read. Now that was odd. Margaret always called Thomas.
Hello, Mary, dear? came a voice so honeyed that Mary almost lost a filling. How are you both?
Afternoon, Margaret, were well, thanks. Thomas is outhell call you later.
Oh, no, love, Id like a chat with you, if thats all right. Julie and I, weve been thinking, its been too long since weve all had a proper family get together. We should pop in and admire your new place! Heard you finished that big renovation?
Mary raised an eyebrow. This was suspiciously civil. But politeness prevailed (again).
Youre always welcome, Margaret. Hows Saturday for lunch?
Perfect! See you then, darling!
On Saturday, Mary laid out food as you do in Englandby accidentally preparing enough to feed ten. Roast pork, salads, pies, and cranberry tartlets. Mary found cooking soothing, which also came in handy when dealing with family.
Margaret arrived punctually at two, leaning on a stick, and Julie followed, poured into a lurid dress, visibly straining at the seams. They halted on the threshold, eyeing the houses oak floors, tasteful wallpaper, and Italian sideboard like two pretentious estate agents sniffing for damp.
Blimey, muttered Julie, unable to maintain any decorum. You havent done badly, have you?
Do come through, wash your hands, Thomas offered, helping Margaret off with her coat.
At lunch, conversation hobbled along. Margaret and Julie ate enthusiastically, peppering their bites with backhanded praise.
I must say, Mary, the pork dissolves in your mouth. You must shop at Waitrose these days, eh? Not like us on our pitiful pensions. Not that youd know, you high-fliers.
Mum, please Thomas grumbled.
Im only saying Im thrilled for you. My boys living like a baron, and his wife did all right for herself! Margaret simpered, with just a hint of vinegar.
After pudding, when everyone was drowsy with sugar, Margaret and Julie exchanged looks, heaved the kind of sigh you reserve for funerals, and Margaret began, Well, darlings, thank you for breaking bread with us. Your house is lovely. But, er, were not here just for the food. We actually have a bit of a family matter to discuss.
Mary sat up a fraction; the drums of drama thundered in her soul.
Wed like to sort out our old holiday cottage, you see, Margaret said. The roof leaks, the floors are rotten. Its unliveable, and in summer I do like to get fresh airLondons too stuffy for my nerves. Julie, bless her, suffers terribly with stress.
Whats the plan, Mum? Thomas ventured, guessing the trajectory of this train.
We want to build a new cottage! Julie jumped in. “One of those glossy, fully insulated jobs with picture windows and a wrap-around deck. Weve found a firm, they drew up plans, its a beautya proper two-storey affair!”
That does sound nice, Mary said warily.
And it costs £30,000, Margaret said with more drama than a BBC period adaptation. How are two women like us supposed to fund that? Our savings would barely buy a garden shed.
Silence, clock ticking like a countdown.
So youd like Thomas started.
Wed like a bit of help, love, Margaret interrupted, looking directly at Mary. Youve done so well for yourselves. For you, thirty grand is probably what you find down the back of the sofa. For us, itd mean everything. We could finally relax. And you and Thomas could visithave a barbecue, bring the grandkids, one day. Itd be the family seat!
Mary took a sip of her cold tea and tried not to snort at the phrase family seatthe very house where, back in the day, shed have been lucky to make it past the doormat.
So youre asking for a loan? Mary clarified.
Margaret and Julie swapped another of their coded glances.
Oh, Mary, not a loan as such! Margaret winced. Were family! Goodness me, how could I repay it? Julie isuhcurrently between jobs. We thought, you know as kin. You wont miss it, love, not with your third shop opening soon. Whats even the point of money, if you cant help your nearest and dearest? Its for a good cause, surely.
To be clear, Mary said, youd like us to give you thirty thousand pounds, free and clear, to build a holiday home?
Margaret looked put out. Dont say givethink of it as investing! When were gone, the place is yours. Itll be our legacy.
May you have many years yet, Margaret, Mary said softly. But lets be honestyoure not offering a loan, you want a gift. For panoramic windows and all that.
And for you too! piped up Margaret.
Mary walked to the window. Outside, the autumn leaves danced in the windyellow, like those tired old pillowcases she brought all those years ago. Turning, she addressed them calmly.
I remember our wedding day, she said. I remember how you, Margaret, went through my things one by one. I remember being called a waif. And that Id ruin your sons life.
Oh, dont dredge up the past, Margaret spluttered, her eyes darting everywhere but at Mary. It was nerves! I wanted whats best for Thomas. You were so young and unprepared, and now here you area lady of means!
Im that, despite your attitude, not because of it, Mary replied, voice even. Thomas and I built everything ourselves. We worked twenty-hour days, didnt take a single proper holiday for five years, lived on toast just to invest in our dreams. Where were you then, family? When we needed five hundred quid to get by, you said you hadnt got it.
We didnt! Julie squeaked.
Youd just bought yourself a new coat. I remember. Now you come here, eat at my table, and demand the waif foot the bill for your second home?
Were not demandingwere asking! Margaret shrieked, a vein twitching at her temple. You call yourself a Christian? Going to kick your own mother-in-law out into the street?
You live in a perfectly good three-bedroom flat, Thomas cut in. You have a roof, and a cottage is a luxury, not a need.
Youve gone soft! his mother screeched, leaping up. Shes turned you against your own mother! I always knew she was a vipersitting here on her pile of gold while your mother rots! May you choke on your money!
Mum, enough, Thomas said, perfectly calm. Were not giving or lending you anything. Sell up if you want a new cottage, or take out your own loan. Live within your means.
Fine! Julie leapt to her feet, toppling a half-cup of tea which promptly stained Marys freshly-ironed damask. Well manage. Someone will help uswait till youre bankrupt! Karma will get you both!
Please leave, Mary said softly.
What?! Margaret gasped, enraged.
Out of my house. And dont come back, Mary said quietly but clearly.
Margaret stood there, opening and closing her mouth, as if waiting for someone to explain that this wasnt how it was supposed to go. Shed expected Mary to quietly comply, perhaps in exchange for a compliment or two. Shed misjudged, thoroughly.
Come on, Mum! Julie barked, bundling her mother towards the hall. Lets go. The air is stifling with their greed!
They stomped out, Margaret muttering curses, Julies heels thudding like a warning. Thomas simply held out their coats and closed the door behind them, making no move to chase them down or apologise. He watched them, at last, with the full knowledge that blood alone doesnt make family.
When the door clicked shut, the silence was blessedalmost holy.
Mary removed the soiled tablecloth, dumped it in the laundry basket, and dropped onto the sofa. No tears came, just exhaustion and a strange sense of peacelike an old wound finally drained.
Thomas sat beside her, arm around her shoulders.
Im sorry, he whispered.
What for? Mary asked.
For letting it get this far. For the way they are. Im ashamed.
Theres nothing to apologise for. You dont pick your parents, Thomas. And today you stood up for us. Thats what matters.
He gave a wry smile. For a moment, I thought maybe they really wanted to reconnect. Silly, isnt it?
Its not silly. Youre decent. You hope for the best in people. Its normal.
Thirty grand, though Thomas shook his head. Reckon theyd actually love us if we handed it over?
No. Theyd just line up for the next handout. And despise us for having it so easy. To people like that, well never be good enoughfirst we were too poor, now were too well-off and miserly.
Youre always right, he said.
He poured a glass of Burgundy from the special occasion collection.
To us, Mary. For surviving. For owing nothing to anyone, ever again.
They sat together in their lovely lounge, sipping wine and watching autumn shade the sky outside. Both their phones stayed switched off. Margaret would no doubt be fabricating a Dickensian tragedy for the phone-missile circuit of extended family by nowheartless daughter-in-law, ungrateful son, left us to starve, etc.but neither cared anymore.
A month later, word trickled back that Julie had convinced Margaret to take out a monstrous loan on her flat to get started on the new cottage. The builders did a bunk with the deposit, leaving nothing but a muddy pit on the site. Court, police, debtMargaret and Julie feuded with everyone, getting precisely nowhere.
Thomas ignored the last few plaintive calls, then quietly changed his number.
Mary, at her new atelier, ran a finger along beautiful bolt of silk, thinking how just and weirdly poetic life sometimes is. Everyone gets their due in the end. The waif, they said, had built an empire and a home steeped in love and respect. The proud, meanwhile, were leftquite literallywith not even a pot to boil cabbage in.
Perhaps, Mary mused, real dowries arent about trousseau cases and cheques from mummy. The true riches are character, hard graft, and the ability to love truly and well. And in that department, she was absolutely minted.
If you had a chuckle (or an oh, yes!), do hit like and followand let me know your thoughts in the comments!
