Really, Emily, have a look at this, just run your finger along the shelf. Thats not dust anymore, its practically felt! You could plant potatoes in here, honestly! A shrill and rather commanding female voice sliced through the quiet of the flat like a knife through an overripe melon.
Emily released a heavy sigh, closed her laptop, and slowly rose from the table. The clock read eight in the evening; shed only been home from work half an hour, after wrestling the quarterly accounts all day, her head humming like a transformer. Listening to a lecture on housework was the last thing she wanted, but Barbara Jones, her mother-in-law, was a woman who simply couldnt be tuned out. Barbara stood in the living room, holding a porcelain donkey shed plucked from the bookshelf, and stared at Emily with an expression of saintly indignation.
Barbara, I did a thorough clean on Saturday. We have the windows open, were right by the high street the dust just flies in, Emily tried at least for forms sake, knowing it was pointless.
Everyone opens their windows, dear, but only the slack ones end up with this kind of mess, retorted Barbara, dabbing her finger theatrically on a tissue shed pulled from her handbag. Oliver comes home from work tired and hungry, and it looks like a bombs gone off in here. Men need comfort, Emily. Comfort and order. And look at your kitchen two mugs in the sink. Two! From this morning, I bet?
We were running late, Emily mumbled, heading to the kitchen to pop the kettle on. Oliver made his own coffee, he could have rinsed up.
Barbara scuttled behind her, slippers (her own, never the communal ones) slipping noisily across the laminate.
A man is not meant to be washing dishes! Barbara huffed, throwing up her hands. Thats a womans job. Keeper of the home and hearth, ever heard that? But youre chasing after a career. Spreadsheets, numbers And your husbands out and about in creased shirts. Only yesterday when he popped round for some jars, I saw him. Collar wasnt crisp! Looked like a rag. The shame, Emily. People will say, Olivers got no wife, a bachelor with a missus at home.
Emily rummaged out a packet of biscuits from the cupboard, careful not to slam the door. She felt herself simmering inside. Five years married, and for five years shed heard this same refrain. Early days she’d done it all starching, scrubbing, two-course dinners with pudding. But the chief accountant role gobbled up her hours and her energy. Oliver, her husband, never complained. He was perfectly happy with takeaway Fridays and a layer of dust hed never see unless he went hunting for it. But his mother refused to be similarly easygoing.
It was just then that the front door banged.
Im home! called Oliver cheerfully.
My darling boy! Barbaras face lit up and she hurried to the hallway, adjusting her hair. Just popped by, brought you some pasties with cheese and onion, I know you like them. I thought poor Emilyd be too busy, always at work, bless her
Oliver strolled into the kitchen, kissed his mother, pecked Emilys cheek, and collapsed into a chair.
Love, Mums pasties perfect timing. Im starving. Em, have we got dinner?
Emily froze with the kettle in her hand.
Ive just got in, Ollie. Thought Id do quick pasta bake. Mince is defrosted.
Barbara gasped, clutching her chest.
Pasta? Again? Oliver, did you hear that? Dry food, carbs upon carbs. You need something proper for your stomach, rich soup, a good stew. I used to make your father soup every day, God rest him, and he never had a dodgy tummy. Not once.
She looked mournfully at the empty hob.
All right, Mum, not now, Oliver grimaced, munching a pasty. Ill be fine. Emll sort dinner.
How can I not now? Barbara warmed up again. I just want the best for you! Youre looking pale, run-down its all this poor diet and washing-up left undone. A womans job is to make a home men want to come back to. But here? Dust and dirty crockery and pasta. Emily isnt much of a homemaker, is she, Oliver? Oh, I warned you before the wedding
Barbara! said Emily, quite loudly, setting the kettle down with a notable bang.
Everything went quiet. Barbara looked at her, surprised Emily almost never raised her voice; normally she just swallowed the slights in silence.
What is it? Cant I speak the truth now? Barbara bristled. Ive lived, you know. I know how to keep a family together.
Emily glanced round the kitchen. She looked at her weary husband, chewing his pasty and pretending to be invisible, at the triumphant mother-in-law, at the oozing mince in the bowl. Suddenly, clarity dawned.
Youre absolutely right, Barbara, Emily said, her voice eerily calm. Im a dreadful housekeeper. Hopeless. I dont have time to starch collars or make soup every day, and I dont dust every Wednesday. I work and earn good money which were saving, by the way, for that new car Olivers going to use to run you to the seaside. But, of course, thats no excuse.
See, you admit it! Barbara cried, not sensing the trap. Knowing your shortcomings is the first step to improvement.
I wont be improving, Emily shook her head. I just havent any energy left. But I do have a solution. Since you care so much about Olivers creature comforts, and you know so much about looking after a man given that you’re retired and have all the time I suggest you take over.
Take over what? Barbara blinked.
House and home. Completely. Ill step back. From today, Im just a lodger who pays her share of the mortgage and bills. You the paragon homemaker can show us how its done. Cook your beautiful meals, do the laundry, vacuum, dust. You live two bus stops away. Youve got a key.
Oliver choked mid-bite and stared at Emily.
Em, what are you on about?
Why not? Emily smiled sweetly. Mum’s right. You deserve better. Since I can’t keep up let her take the reins for a month. After a month, if you say you like it more, Ill well, Ill take a housekeeping course. Or quit my job.
Barbara was lost for words. Shed always criticised, always advised, but actually maintaining a whole adult man and three-bed flat wasnt something shed volunteered for. Still, her pride was on the line.
Well, I will! She lifted her chin defiantly. Ill prove it can be done! At least Oliver will get a decent meal. Just dont get in my way. Ill run the kitchen.
All yours, said Emily, mock-bowed. Ill steer clear of the cooker. Ill eat out or stay at the office.
Right then! barked Barbara. Ill be round first thing in the morning. This place needs a good sorting out. Im actually ashamed.
That evening passed in an odd tension. Oliver tried to talk when they went to bed, but Emily simply turned to face the wall.
Just sleep, she said. Tomorrow begins your new life with starched collars!
In the morning, with Emily off to work, Barbara descended on the flat as though it were the charge of the light brigade. She cleaned the windows, laundered the curtains (which she thought were grey with filth but were, in fact, beige), took apart every kitchen cupboard, and rearranged the pantry alphabetically.
When Emily arrived home, she barely recognised the place. It smelled of bleach and fried onions. Barbara was clattering pans in the kitchen, apron askew, cheeks flushed. Oliver sat at the table with a heaped bowl of stew and dumplings, mashed potatoes, salad, and a wedge of pork pie.
Oh, the career woman arrives, Barbara called out, not looking round. Wash your hands, sit down, you may as well have a bowl. A real stew, slow-cooked three hours.
Thanks, I ate at work, Emily replied politely, heading to the bedroom.
There, she found a surprise. Her things had been rearranged in the wardrobe. Lingerie that had been folded into organisers now sat stacked by colour on the shelves. Her bedside table cleared her book had vanished.
Emily re-entered the living room.
Barbara, wheres my book? It was on my bedside table.
Oh, that rubbish? Barbara called, emerging with towel in hand. I put it away. No need for clutter flat surfaces make for easy dusting. And your drawer was chaos socks and knickers all mixed up! I spent ages arranging it. A womans wardrobe should run like Boots the Chemist.
Emily clenched her teeth. The boundary crossing was epic, but she reminded herself: Its just an experiment. Wait it out.
Thanks for caring, she said, mechanically, and went to get changed.
The first week went by in a blur of overcooked abundance. Oliver was in heaven. Hed come home to feasts starters, mains, pudding. Barbara swept in by midday, cooked, cleaned, chatted over tea with her son, and didnt leave till nearly 9pm.
Emily simply greeted them, then shut herself away with her laptop or a book. Suddenly she had three whole free hours every evening. No more sprints to Tesco, no queueing for the oven, no dishwasher to load (Barbara did it by hand machines dont scrub properly). Emily joined a swimming pool, started reading more industry journals, simply walked in the park after work.
By the second week, Olivers excitement started to wear thin.
Em, he whispered one night in bed, how much longer’s Mum doing her… routine?
One month, love. That was the agreement. Isnt it perfect though? Collars starched, stews aplenty. Your dream, wasnt it?
Its tasty, yeah But, Em, shes shes just everywhere. I get in and I just want half an hour in front of the telly. But she sits with me, telling me all about her arthritis, her neighbour Beryl, how the price of vegs gone up. She wont leave me alone. Eat up, darling, Why havent you finished?, Let me rub your shoulders. I feel like a five-year-old!
Thats the price of home comforts, Emily chuckled in the dark. At least youre not eating pasta.
And she keeps moving my stuff! I spent an hour yesterday looking for my lucky socks turns out, she threw them out because of a stain. But Em, theyre my socks.
Tell her. She just wants to help.
I have. She gets offended. Im breaking my back and youre ungrateful.
By the third week, Barbara herself began to flag. The house was big, the shopping heavy (because the market veg is much better, never mind those supermarkets), and cooking from scratch day after day at sixty-five turned out to be less straightforward in practice.
One evening Emily came home to find Barbara lying on the sofa with a damp flannel on her forehead. The whole flat reeked of minty liniment. Oliver sat at the coffee table, apologetic.
Whats happened? Emily asked.
Mums blood pressure, Oliver sighed. She tried to make jellied beef spent hours on it, scrubbed the floors with her hands (mops just spread the dirt), and now
Oh Emily Barbara croaked, eyes closed. My back can hardly move. And my hearts all over the place.
Emily quickly checked her blood pressure. High but not dangerous mostly exhaustion.
Perhaps you should rest a couple of days, Barbara Why push yourself like this?
And wholl feed Oliver? cried Barbara, trying to sit up. Hell waste away! You arent going to
Im not, Emily confirmed. Our agreement still stands.
Mum, its fine! Oliver practically begged. Well order pizza. Or Ill do pasta. Dont run yourself ragged!
Pizza Barbara sneered, but she lacked the energy to argue. Fine. Order. Ill be back tomorrow, the pasty doughs still in the fridge.
But she didnt come. Next morning Barbara phoned, said she couldnt get out of bed her back had seized.
The relief on Olivers face was unmistakable. That evening, he and Emily ate takeaway sushi, opened a bottle of wine, and enjoyed the blissful silence, free at last of their lady general.
Em, lets call this experiment off, said Oliver, dipping a roll in soy sauce. I mean it. I love Mum, truly, but at a distance. Sundays are enough. Im happy with pasta every day if it means no lectures, no sock rearrangements.
And the fabled home comforts? Emily teased. Starched collars?
Forget starched collars. Ill buy easy-iron shirts and be done with it. You were right. Its backbreaking work and with a job on top? I dont know how you pulled it all off before.
Emily smiled. It was all shed wanted to hear.
A few days later, Barbara, a little recovered, popped round to inspect her post. She saw empty pizza boxes in the bin, a dirty mug in the sink, and said nothing.
She sat in the kitchen, hands on the table, looking thoughtful.
Emily, she said when her daughter-in-law joined her, Ive been thinking. Its hard, you know.
What is? Emily asked, pouring her tea.
Everything. The place is huge, floors are murder on the back And Oliver always leaving socks about, mess everywhere. I never noticed, but I was chasing after him all day, tidying up. Said something he snapped at me!
Well, he is a man, Emily reminded her gently.
A man can still use his brain! flared Barbara, unexpectedly. I spent three hours rolling cabbage leaves for him, and he turns his nose up says its tough. I told him, Do it yourself, then! He goes, Mum, dont nag. Cheek!
Emily nearly laughed. The perfect image of her son had faltered once his mother became the help.
Barbara, Emily sat opposite and took her mother-in-laws hand. Youre an amazing housekeeper. I could never match you, nor do I want to try. But Oliver and I have our own way of doing things. We both work, we both get tired. Sometimes its dusty, sometimes we have frozen lasagne. But were happy. And if ever we want proper stew or a sparkling house, well pop over to yours for a Sunday roast alright?
Barbara studied her hands, roughened by cleaning all those weeks.
Alright, she sighed. Just give me notice next time. Ive got my shows, my tomato seedlings In fact, Im thinking of a spa break. Im a bit worn out. Tell Oliver his shirts are ironed in the cupboard, but from now on he can do them himself. You too. Or wear them creased. I dont care. My health comes first.
She finished her tea, straightened her cardigan.
And I left you your book back on the bedside. Odd bit of sci-fi, but I wont judge.
When Oliver got home, it was peaceful. The air didnt smell of bleach or onions, just Emilys perfume. There were sausages boiling away, a tin of peas on the table.
Has Mum gone? he asked, hopefully.
Shes gone, Emily nodded. Shes resigned. The experiments over due to operator fatigue.
Oliver swept her into a hug, burying his face in her hair.
Thank you, he murmured.
For what? Sausages?
For being so wise, and for giving me my old peaceful life back. I love you even if the house is a mess.
Im not a bad housekeeper, Emily grinned, hugging him. Just a modern one. Besides, these are best-quality pork sausages.
From then on, Barbara never stopped offering the odd tip leopards rarely change their spots. But when she ran her finger across a dusty shelf, she only sighed and, if she started in on a womans role, Emily would simply ask, Barbara, fancy helping for a week? Im about to go on a work trip At which point, Barbara would suddenly remember her tea was brewing, or she needed to feed the cat, or Coronation Street was on, and disappear.
Peace was restored. As for the dust Well, dust never hurt anybody. What really matters is letting people live their own lives in their own way and being happy together.
