Why on earth did you use this cheap mayonnaise for the potato salad? I told you, get the full-cream kind, its so much richer and flavourful. This one is nothing but water and cornstarch, youve only managed to ruin good ingredients.
Charlotte froze mid-stir, the tip of her spoon poised above a mound of diced vegetables, feeling a silent boil of irritation gathering somewhere behind her ribs. She exhaled slowly, counting to keep herself from snapping, and peered over at her mother-in-law. Mrs. Violet Beckwith stood in the heart of the kitchen, hands on hips, surveying the salad bowl like some stern health inspector in a train station café. She wore a shimmering navy dress, dusted with subtle gold threada relic reserved for grand occasionsand bore the dignified expression of a retired duchess.
It was not merely any day. Today, Charlotte turned thirty. A round number. She had dreamt of celebrating in a real restaurant, among laughter and hired musicians, decked out in a gown of deep wine velvet, not swaddled in an apron while juggling casserole dishes. But last month the family Mini had conked out spectacularlythe mechanics bill was an astonishmentand her husband, Edward, had decreed: Lets keep it simple and do it at ours. Darling, youre wonderful in the kitchen. Youll lay on a spread to rival any bistro in London. He had pressed a kiss to her head as he uttered this. With resignation, Charlotte had agreed.
Violet, the mayonnaise is fine. Its the usual sort, just new packaging, Charlotte managed, keeping her tone bright as she resumed folding vegetables. Would you be an angel and finish the canapés? Guests will be here in an hour.
Did you buy the smoked salmon on offer too? Violet pushed on, scrutinising a jar. Look, the slices are thin and torn. Back in my day, a birthday feast was full of treats, not substitutes. You youngsters save money in all the wrong places.
Edwards head appeared round the doorway. He was dapper in his shirt and pressed trousers, cologne wafting in after him.
Ladies, can we have peace here? The villa smells divine! he teased, nabbing a morsel of sausage. Mum, its Charlottes special evening! Lets have smiles, eh?
Im not criticising, Im sharing wisdom, Violet sniffed, shaping the bread with a matrons authority. Who else will tell her the honest truth? Her mums all the way in York, so I must do both jobs. Pass that butter over, love.
Charlotte turned to the stove, blinking away a tremor of stung tears. Sharing wisdom. In five years of marriage, that wisdom was a guest whod overstayed its welcome. Violet was tight as a drumnever waste a pennyand convinced her opinions about domestic affairs were wisdom itself, immutable and pure as prime meridian standard. She washed old takeaway tubs and prized plastic bags, judging every penny Charlotte spent, from manicure to decent shoes.
The house blossomed with the smells of roasted chicken, nutmeg, and fresh pastry. Charlotte dashed between kitchen and lounge, laying out her best crockery, starched napkins, polished goblets. Despite the fatigue and Violets persistent commentary, hope fluttered in her heart. Thirtysurely an occasion.
By five, friends in pastel dresses and woollen jumpers began to arrive, their husbands following with bottles of sparkling wine and small, awkward packages. Edwards cousin Greg and his wife sipped sherry by the window. Voices drifted and mingled with rising laughter, presents emergedflowers, cards thick with twenty-pound notes, Beauty and Boots vouchers. The flat glowed, warm and lively.
Violet took her throne at the end of the table, like a retired matriarch, policing refills and portions. Every so often, she lobbed a grenade: Pickles are too salty, Youve forgotten apple in the herring salad, This wine is tart; my elderflower cordial knocks spots off it. The guests nodded and smiled, keeping the spirit afloat.
When it came time for toasts, Edward stood and held his glass aloft with a tender tribute to his wifeher warmth, her cleverness, her endless patience. Charlottes tiredness vanished. For a moment, it all felt worth it.
And now, Violets voice pierced the room, tapping her fork on the rim of a wineglass. Its my turn. Edward, fetch my giftits in the corridor, the big Sainsburys bag.
Edward vanished and reappeared, breathless, lugging in a voluminous plastic bag tied up with a garish red ribbon. Its sides bulged and crackled. Guests grew silent, eyeing it with mild intrigue. Charlottes stomach sank. Last year, Violet had brought dishclothsa rather humble, practical gesture. But perhaps this year she had found something helpful, even special? A new duvet, maybe? That slow cooker shed once mentioned?
Violet plonked the bag grandly onto the chair at Charlottes side. Charlotte, dear, thirty is when a woman blossoms into her future. Time for you to think practically. Stop with your short dresses and fraying jeansyoure a wife, and, I daresay, a future mother. Money disappears, gadgets break. But garments crafted with carethese last generations. So Im passing on my trousseau: my best frocks, my precious outerwear. Family treasures. Wear them in good health, and remember your mother-in-law fondly.
With a flourish, she snatched off the ribbon. The contents avalanched into Charlottes lap and slithered partly onto the parquet.
The room held its breath. Even the soft pop song on the speaker seemed to hush. Charlotte stared at the mound that now blanketed her legsa rough, tweedy coat in a brooding shade of brownish-grey, sporting a monstrous faux-fur collar, half-ravaged by moths. A heap of polyester frocks in shrubbery-green and rusty-orange, spattered with polka dots the size of jam tarts, ballooned on her knees. Lacy blouses, their cuffs browned with old tea stains, a tartan skirt thick and scratchy enough to sand a table. The tell-tale whiff of mothballs, age, and cellars filled the air, asphyxiating the aroma of chicken and perfume.
Gingerly, Charlotte picked up one fraying blouse. Yellow discolouration crowned the armpit, the buttons wobbling on loose threads.
Violet Charlottes voice wavered, but she caught herself, determined to be heard. What is all this?
My best! Violet beamed, basking in her own largess. That coatbought in 82, from Debenhams, I queued for hours. Wears like iron! Needs a bit of brushing, maybe restitch a button or twoitll shine like new. The dresses? Yugoslavian importsproper fabric, not that plastic rubbish on the High Street. I danced in these, charmed Edwards father. Now its your turn to dazzle.
Friends exchanged helpless glances. Charlottes closest mate, Kate, raised a napkin to hide a snort or sob of shock. Greg, the cousin, inspected his wine, cheeks crimson. Only Edward stood nearby, looking lost.
Mum, thats retro-chic, right? he tried. Vintage is very in now, apparently.
Charlotte felt her cheeks blaze. This wasnt mere disappointmentthis was public humiliation, a grand gesture of condescension disguised as a bequest, an unspoken message that even rags would suffice for the daughter-in-law, and thanks were expected for the privilege.
She stood, shrugging off the heavy thing. It fell to the floor with a muffled thud, liberating a cloud of dust.
Edward, vintage means clothes with some cultural merit, Charlotte said, her voice frosty. This is just old. Frayed, grimy, and reeking of mothballs.
How dare you? Violet gasped, clutching her chest. This is from my heart! My memories! How could you?
Charlotte met her gaze. Look at the stain, Violet. Look at the collar. Do you truly think, on my thirtieth birthday, I ought to wear things last seen forty years ago? Should I really be grateful for other peoples castoffs, dressed like a scarecrow for all to see?
Youre spoilt, you are! Violet shrieked, voice fraying. She thinks shes queen! Too fine to wash a blouse! This is gratitude for wanting her to look decent and respectable! Edward, did you hear how she talks to your own mother?
Edward hurried between them, palms raised.
Come on, enough! Mum meant well, really. Shes from a different generation, for her, things last a lifetime But Mum, maybe next time just ask
Ask? Should I ask before giving my own daughter-in-law a precious coat, worth three months wages new? Ungrateful, you lot! Ill take the whole lot and never set foot in this place again! Violet seized her bag and began jamming the wardrobes worth of crumpled history inside, nails scratched raw.
Best gift you could give, I suppose, Charlotte said softly, but clear.
The silence was so deep, the kitchen clocks ticking sounded like thunder. Violets lips trembled.
What did you say? she whispered, pale.
I said I wont let my birthday become a rubbish tip. Take your things, Violet. I dont want them. Not now, not ever. I have self-respect.
Violet drew a sharp breath, then gathered her belongings in a flurry. Come, Edward! Walk me out or youre no son of mine!
Edward stood, shell-shocked, torn between the women.
Mum, where would I go? Its Charlottes birthday, weve guests. Ill book you a cab.
Traitor! Henpecked traitor! Violet swept from the room, clutching her bag of relics, slam echoing through the hall.
The guests sat, immobilised, as the scent of mothballs lingered, blending with the awkward quiet.
Shall we toast the birthday girl? a friend offered, lamely.
They tried, but conversation limped and died. One after another made their excuses and left, murmuring their regrets.
When the last pair of shoes faded down the stairwell, Charlotte cleared plates in clipped silence. Edward slumped, head buried in hands on the sofa.
Did you have to be so blunt? he murmured at last. You couldve taken it quietly or stuck it in the attic. Why the scene? Shell have a blood pressure fit now.
Charlotte plonked down the pile of plates so they clattered.
Cant you see? she shot back. If shed given it to me privately, maybe. But that was to show me up. To let everyone know she thinks the best I deserve is a pile of irrelevant, rank old things. Thats not kindness, Edward. Its an act of dominance.
She just doesnt get it! She was raised with rationing
Werent we all? My mother had nothing either, but she saved half a year for a gold pendant for me. Not a bag of laundry. And you stood there without a word. Is that what you want for your wife?
I just wanted a peaceful evening
And I just want not to be shamed. The worst thing is, you saw nothing wrong with it. You called it retro. It was a slap in the face.
She left him to his thoughts, retreating behind the bedroom door. He sat for a long time with the debris of the party, staring at the empty chair where that monstrous bag had sat, feeling shame settle into his bones for the first time.
Morning dawned pale, and Charlotte rose first. She said nothing to Edward. Coffee, shoes, coat. The forgotten scarfa jagged, itchy reliccaught her eye on the hall table.
Im going to your mums, she said, as Edward shuffled out, hopeful.
To apologise? he ventured.
No. To return her scarf. And to make things clear. There cant be unfinished business.
Ill come with, he volunteered.
No. This is my conversation.
She arrived an hour later. Violet answered, deep in melodrama, a towel on her head and the tang of valerian root in the air.
Here to finish me off? she croaked. Come in, if you must.
Charlotte placed the scarf on the counter.
Lets spare the theatrics, Violet. I respect you as Edwards mother and for your years. But I ask the same from you. Respect.
Respect? You humiliated me before everyone!
No. You did that yourself. You knew those clothes werent wearable. It was an insultplain and simple.
How
Listen, Charlotte cut across. We earn our own way. If you want to give, ask first. If not, flowers and a kind word are enough. But dont ever dump your rejects on me and call it love. I am not a dustbin. I am your sons wife. And if you want to stay in our lives, and ever meet your grandchildren, youll have to accept that.
Violet sat, speechless, numbed by resistance shed never met before.
And what if I dont? she retorted.
Then well speak only on birthdays, by phone. The choice is yours.
Charlotte rose and paused at the door.
And by the way, everyone loved the salad. Even with the cheap mayonnaise. Its goodwill that matters in the end.
She walked out, breathing in the crisp day. For the first time in five years, she was light inside.
That evening, Edward appeared with a huge armful of roses.
Mum called, he muttered.
And?
She said well, youre headstrong. And maybe she went too far. Anyway, shes taking the coat to the charity shop, since youre so proud.
Charlotte laughed freely. It was a small but real victory.
Good for her. Maybe someone else needs it. And this weekend, were going out. Im finally having my birthday meal properly. In a dress Ill buy myself.
We are, agreed Edward, hugging her. No fretting over pennies. Youve earned this.
Since then, a new equilibrium settled. Violet remained her prickly self, but was softer in her criticisms. Birthday offerings came neatly in envelopes with notes on modern youth and their peculiar taste. Charlotte was contenther wardrobe untouched by mothballed history, her sense of self intact amidst the drifting borderlands of kin.
