And wheres the cheese? You know, the good hard one I bought especially for the salad? asked Mary, eyeing her fridge as though it might suddenly spit out the missing block. There was only a half-empty jar of pickled onions and a single lonely carton of semi-skimmed milk.
Her husband, Oliver, sat at the kitchen table, trying to make his neck disappear into his shoulders as he gave a sheepish look towards the rain-splattered window.
Oh, well, Sarah made sandwiches for the kids they got peckish after their walk, he muttered, barely above a whisper, as if a louder word would collapse the flat’s ceiling. Mary, really, its just a block of cheese, we can buy more.
Mary closed the fridge slowly. The cold air had stopped chilling her toes, but inside she was boiling. She drew a deep breath and counted to ten a habit forged over the past three weeks, though its effectiveness was dwindling rapidly.
Oliver, that bit of cheese cost fifteen quid, she said in a perfectly even voice, turning to him. I was going to make a special dinner to celebrate finishing my project. Now theres nothing left, again. Like yesterday, when the ham disappeared. And the day before, with the smoked salmon. Were basically working to pay for your relatives sandwiches, do you realise?
Oliver winced as if shed stepped on his foot. He felt guilty deeply, embarrassingly guilty but the family loyalty drilled into him since childhood still overrode common sense.
Theyre guests, Mary. You know their flats being refurbished. Dust, plaster, you name it. Where else could they go? Just a bit longer, theyll be gone soon.
That soon had echoed round their home for twenty-two days now. It had begun innocently enough: Olivers sister, Sarah, rang in distress, saying the builder had ripped up their floors and cracked a pipe so living there was impossible. Just for three or four days, shed said, while the place dried out and the floors were relaid. Mary, ever kind-hearted, agreed. After all, familys family, you help when theres trouble.
But three days morphed into a week, a week into two. Now they were well into the second month of autumn and guests had become permanent residents. Mary and Olivers three-bed flat, once a sanctuary of peace, had descended into chaos. Sarah and her husband, Tony, commandeered the living room, their two boys, ages ten and eleven, slept on an air mattress (but effectively roamed the place as if it were their own little kingdom).
Evenings were a trial by fire. Mary came home dreaming of a hot shower and silence, but instead found herself in a branch of Paddington station: TV blaring because Tony liked his news immersive. The bathroom was always occupied the nephews loved 40-minute soak fests, pouring gallons of expensive bubble bath down the drain and leaving puddles for Mary to step in, socked and unsuspecting.
But food oh, food was the Achilles heel. Mary earned a decent salary and Oliver wasnt exactly skint, so theyd got used to quality grub. Proper meat, fresh veg, fine fruit and dairy. They budgeted for holidays and the mortgage, which thankfully was nearly paid off. But with relatives arrival, the budget was stretched, battered, and finally exploded.
Sarah, a robust and enthusiastic eater, operated on strict principles: never near the cooker.
Oh Mary, Im shattered with all this renovation, nerves in bits, shed say, sprawled on the sofa with a plate of grapes. Youre cooking anyway, love, its no bother to add a couple extra ladles, eh?
Only a couple of ladles invariably meant a five-litre vat of stew, emptied in one night. Tony, who worked shifts as a lorry driver, became a bottomless pit on his days off. The nephews, growing lads, demolished everything in sight, without checking who it was bought for.
Mary slipped off her blazer, hung it over a chair, and rubbed her temples, feeling the weeks fatigue settle in.
Oliver, I checked the bank app today, she said, looking him dead in the eye. In three weeks, weve spent what we usually spend in two months. Not joking. Theyve not bought a single thing. Not even bread.
Their money’s tied up in the refurb Oliver began, already less confidently than before. Tony says prices of materials are mad these days.
Weve got expenses too, Mary snapped. I did not sign up to feed four adults and two kids single-handed. Have you seen Sarah so much as bring a Tesco bag? Even a packet of biscuits for tea?
At that very moment, Sarah shuffled in wearing Marys dressing gown hers, apparently, was too warm and this silky one was perfect. Mary bit her tongue, noticing the fresh jam stain on the lapel.
Oh, Marys back! Sarah chirped, heading straight for the kettle. Weve been waiting. Were starving! Tony smelled your meatballs, says he saw minced beef defrosting.
Mary gave a steady, unblinking stare. Something inside clicked. That last fuse, the one for politeness, finally blew.
Therell be no meatballs, she said, calm as you like.
What do you mean, no meatballs? Sarah froze, mug in hand. We cant go hungry! The lads need a routine!
The mince has gone back in the freezer. Tonight, were having plain rice.
Plain? Sarah’s eyes went wide. No meat? No sauce? Tony wont eat that, hes a man, he needs meat.
Then Tony can pop down to the shop, buy some meat, cook it and eat it, Marys smile was warm but her eyes icy. The Sainsburys is next door.
Sarah snorted, slammed her mug on the table, lips pursed.
Whats gotten into you, Mary? Rough day at work? No need to take it out on family! Oliver, say something!
Oliver, stuck between a rock and a hard place, looked ready to disappear through the linoleum.
Mary, seriously maybe we could boil some pasta? There was a packet
There was, Mary nodded. Yesterday. Until your nephews decided to have a contest Most eaten wins.
The evening passed in stony silence. Mary cooked rice, plonked down butter and salt. Tony, upon seeing dinner, poked about the plate, muttered something about prison rations, and sloped off to watch a series. Sarah dumped the rice on the kids, covered it with sugar (from Mary’s dwindling supplies), and left, saying:
Hope tomorrow youll come to your senses and cook something proper.
Mary lay awake all night. She listened to Tony snoring next door and her husband faintly wheezing beside her, thinking. Thinking about kindness and how it was clearly punishable. That boundaries needed defending. And if she didnt do it now, theyd be here forever. Refurbishment was just their cover Tony hadnt checked anything at their flat in three weeks. It was just an easy gig: free accommodation, free meals, full service.
Next morning, Mary got up bright and early. She didnt make anyone breakfast. Instead, she brewed herself a coffee, enjoyed it in blissful quiet and left for work, having surgically removed all edible groceries from the fridge overnight and stashed them at Mums place down the road.
The day whizzed by at the office, but Marys resolve was stewing. That evening, she came home not with shopping bags, but with a file folder.
At home, the air felt thick. Sarah met her in the hallway, arms akimbo.
Honestly, Mary, we woke up and there wasnt a thing in the fridge. Not even eggs! Kids had to chew dry cereal without milk! Absolutely outrageous!
Tony emerged from the lounge, scratching his belly under his stretched vest.
Yeah, whats happened to housewife mode? Were starving all day. Been to Tesco?
Mary calmly took off her shoes, walked into the kitchen, set the file on the table and declared loudly:
All in here, please. Need a chat.
At last, Tony said, rubbing his hands. Time to talk menu. I wouldnt mind a steak, or roast chicken, at a push.
Once everyone (Oliver included, kids sent off with tablets) was assembled round the kitchen table, Mary opened the folder.
Heres the deal, she began, using her best difficult client voice. Youve lived here twenty-three days. In that time, you havent bought groceries, paid utilities, or helped with cleaning.
Oh, for goodness sake! Sarah rolled her eyes. Youre counting every slice now? Were family!
Exactly why Ive tolerated it for three weeks, Mary pulled out a printed spreadsheet. I did an audit of our expenses. This column here our usual spending per month. This column the last three weeks. That number has quadrupled.
Tony squinted at the spreadsheet.
Whats with all this paperwork? Youve been saving receipts? he snickered. Mary, honestly, thats petty. Oliver, how do you live like this?
Oliver blushed, silent. Mary forged on.
Not petty, Tony. Its accounting. Everythings logged: meat, fish, cheese, yoghurt for the boys, fruit, veg, household cleaners you splash everywhere. Plus electricity and water the meters dont lie.
And whats your point? Sarah’s voice was getting shrill.
My point, Mary placed a payment slip with her bank details on top is that the free bed and breakfast ends now. Heres your bill for the past three weeks’ food and lodging. Totals at the bottom.
Sarah grabbed the paper, scanned it and gasped. The sheet fluttered from her hands.
Are you insane?! Five hundred pounds?! Just for food?! Did we eat at The Ritz?
Pretty much, Mary nodded. Only premium cuts, artisan sausages, posh fish, all cooked by yours truly so thats a bargain. I havent included chefs wages or cleaners fees, so think of it as a family discount.
Im not paying! Tony roared, jumping up. This is daylight robbery! Oliver, your wifes fleecing your sister!
Oliver looked up, scanning Tonys flushed face, Sarahs furious glare, then Marys calm-but-exhausted expression. He remembered how Mary had cried in the bathroom yesterday the tap running to muffle it and their empty bank account a week before payday.
What should I say? he whispered.
Tell her shes gone mad! Sarah shrieked. Were guests! Who bills their guests?!
Guests, Sarah, come with bakery treats, have tea, and leave that evening, Oliver said, voice suddenly firm. Or stay a couple of days, because theyre invited. Youve lived here a month, at our expense, and even moaned about plain rice.
A silence with the ring of an ominous bell settled in the kitchen. Sarah stared at her brother as though hed grown a second head.
You are kicking us out? she uttered in tragic tones.
Not kicking you out, Mary intervened. But things are changing. If you want to stay, its going commercial. All costs split fifty-fifty. And cooking alternates: one day me, one day Sarah. Fairs fair. This bill, she tapped needs paying by weeks end.
Sod this! Tony kicked his chair. Pack up, Sarah. We dont need such relations. Keep your precious cheese!
Where will we go? Our flats under renovation! Sarah wailed.
Well stay with Mom! Tony barked. Crowded but at least were wanted. Im never stepping foot here again!
Packing took exactly an hour. The loudest hour in the flats history. Sarah slammed cupboards; Tony swore (trying to whisper it, failing); the boys whined, devastated at losing out on cartoons.
Mary sat in the kitchen sipping cold tea, not interfering. She knew any attempt to help, any apology, would unravel all her hard work. Oliver quietly helped shift bags to the hall.
Finally, the front door clicked shut, ending Sarah’s shrieks about never coming back and how could anyone be so heartless. The flat was plunged into blessed, syrup-thick silence.
Oliver returned, sat opposite Mary and buried his face in his hands.
Lord, Im ashamed, he muttered. Mum will ring and curse us out…
Let her, Mary reached across and squeezed his hand. We did nothing wrong. We just defended our home. You saw it yourself they made themselves too comfortable.
Saw it, he sighed. Its just family
Family should respect each other. That was, frankly, freeloading. You know, I called your mum today.
He stared at her, surprised.
What for?
To check on her. And accidentally discovered, no renovation at Sarahs.
What? Oliver blanched.
Yep. They sublet their flat to builders up from Birmingham, pocketed rent, and decided to live off kind brother for a while. Mum let slip thought we knew.
Olivers face went from pale, to beetroot. His eyes widened.
Sublet? So, they were getting paid, living here, eating our food and
and moaning about plain rice, Mary concluded. Still ashamed?
Oliver took a moment, then stood, looked in the empty fridge, and laughed nervously.
Not anymore. Mary, Im so sorry. I was an idiot.
You were, she agreed, rising. But youre not anymore. Shall we go to Waitrose? Buy cheese. And wine.
And steak, Oliver said, determined. Only for us.
A week later Sarah phoned. Not Mary, of course Oliver. Mary heard this as Oliver washed up with speakerphone on.
Oliver, darling, we were just a bit snippy, Sarah cooed. Mums flat is too cramped, kids cant do homework, Tonys uncomfortable We thought, maybe we could come back? Well even buy groceries a bag of potatoes and some pasta.
Oliver turned off the tap, dried his hands and, meeting Marys amused grin, said:
No, Sarah. Mums it is. And were getting the flat done ourselves. Spiritual refurbishment, you could say. So no space.
He pressed the red button and felt, for the first time in a month, entirely master of his own home. Sarah and Tony never paid the bill, of course, but the peace and quiet were worth far more than five hundred pounds. That was the price of a lesson both Mary and Oliver learned: to keep your family, sometimes you have to shut the door in their faces.
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