Why did you have to use this cheap mayonnaise in the potato salad? I told you to get proper mayonnaise the rich one, the flavours much better. This is mostly water and starch complete waste of good ingredients.
Helen froze, spoon in hand, feeling a slow-burning irritation rising in her chest. She took a deliberate breath, determined not to snap, and glanced at her mother-in-law. Pauline Stevens was standing in the middle of the kitchen, arms firmly akimbo, surveying Helens salad with the air of a railway station inspector checking for health code violations. She was wrapped in her finest sparkly dress one reserved just for grand occasions and her expression could rival that of a tragic Shakespearean heroine.
Today was no ordinary day. Helen was celebrating her thirtieth birthday a milestone. She would have loved to spend it in a cosy restaurant, music and dancing, wearing a beautiful evening dress not, as it happened, in an apron slaving over pots and pans. Unfortunately, their car had broken down a month back and the repairs ate into their budget, so the family by which she meant her husband James decreed the party would be at home instead. Helen, youre the best hostess there is, youll make it better than any restaurant, James had said, kissing the top of her head affectionately. Shed reluctantly agreed.
Pauline, the mayonnaise is fine same brand as always. Theyve just changed the packaging, Helen replied, tight-lipped, stirring the chopped vegetables. If you want to help, the canapés need finishing. The guests will be here in an hour.
Bet you bought budget caviar too, didnt you? Pauline pressed on, picking up the jar for scrutiny. Told you the grains are tiny, already squashed. Oh, Helen, scrimping on guests, thats just wrong. In my day, birthdays like this meant tables groaning with treats, not these poor substitutes.
James popped his head into the kitchen, all dressed up in his crisp white shirt and freshly pressed trousers, still redolent of aftershave.
Hey, you two, are you arguing already? he grinned, pinching a slice of salami. Smells amazing in here! Mum, go easy its Helens big day, no nitpicking, please.
Im not nitpicking, Im passing on wisdom, Pauline replied, lips pursed. Who else will tell her the truth but me? Her own mum lives miles away its left to me to steer the ship. Now, wheres your bread, Helen? Ill start the buttering.
Helen turned to face the oven, hiding the tears pricking at her eyes. Passing on wisdom after five years of marriage to James, shed had more than enough of Paulines idea of wisdom. Her mother-in-law was old-fashioned, tight to the point of stinginess, and convinced she alone was the fount of all knowledge. Pauline washed disposable cutlery, saved milk cartons, and rolled her eyes every time Helen spent money on things like manicure or decent shoes.
The kitchen buzzed with preparations. The flat filled with the aromas of roast chicken, garlic and buttery pastry. Helen darted between rooms, laying out her best china and starched napkins, determined everything should look perfect. Despite exhaustion and Paulines barbed comments, she clung to the hope of a pleasant evening. Thirty was, after all, a milestone.
By five, guests began to arrive friends with their partners, colleagues from work, Jamess cousin Daniel and his wife. The flat burst into a jolly storm of laughter, chatter, clinking glasses and the rustle of wrapping paper. Helen received bouquets, gift cards for beauty shops, and envelopes with cash inside all very warm and friendly.
Pauline held court at the head of the table like the matriarch she believed herself to be, keeping track of who had what and how much. Every now and then shed interject The pickles are far too salty, You should have grated apple into the herring salad, but I see thats missing, This wines sharp my homebrews ten times better. The guests smiled politely, trying not to notice the old ladys grumbling.
When it came time for speeches, James stood up and lifted his glass, making a touching toast to Helen as a wonderful partner, homemaker and friend. Helens eyes welled; the fatigue of the day seemed to fall away. She gazed at her husband and felt her efforts might just have been worth it.
And now, Pauline declared, bringing her fork down sternly against her glass for hush, its my turn to congratulate our birthday girl. James, fetch my present its in the hallway, the big bag.
James nipped out and returned with a massive, bulging carrier bag tied with a bright ribbon. Interested murmurs ran around the room. Helen held her breath her relationship with Pauline was often strained, but her mother-in-law prided herself on her sense of propriety. Last year shed given Helen a simple but useful set of towels. What would it be this year? A blanket, perhaps? Or even the food processor Helen once sighed over?
Pauline took the bag from James, planted it on the chair by Helens side, and in a grandiose voice announced:
Helen, thirty is an age when a woman comes into her own, but its time to think about growing up a bit. No more mini-skirts and ripped jeans. Youre a wife, soon a mother, maybe. I thought hard about what to get you. Moneys nice, but it flows away. Gadgets break. But nice things made to last well, theyre here forever. So, Im gifting you my most precious possessions my trousseau, the garments Ive treasured all my life. Consider them family heirlooms. Wear them with pride, and remember your mother-in-law fondly.
With a theatrical gesture, she untied the ribbon and tipped the bags contents right onto Helens lap, some spilling onto the floor with a papery rustle.
A stunned hush blanketed the room. Music faded. Helen stared, dumbstruck, at the mountain of old clothes enveloping her. The acrid smell of mothballs, attic damp and dust smothered other scents in the flat.
In her lap lay a heavy woollen overcoat of indeterminate brownish-grey, with a huge, worn fake-fur collar threadbare and dotted with moth holes. Next to it was a heap of synthetic crimplene dresses in gaudy, blinding 70s prints sickly green, muddy orange, oversized polka dots. On top, a few frilled blouses, yellowed with age, and a tartan wool skirt that looked scratchy enough to rival sackcloth.
Helen gingerly picked up a blouse. A glaring yellow stain ran under the arm, evidently unmoved by decades in storage. The buttons clung to life by threads.
Pauline? Helens voice quavered, but she forced herself to speak up for everyone to hear. What is all this?
Why, my best frocks! Pauline beamed. See that coat? Bought in 82 from Debenhams in Oxford Street queued five hours for it! Its indestructible. Bit of a clean and some new buttons, and youll look a treat. And the dresses? Genuine Yugoslavian imports! None of this modern throwaway stuff. These breathe. I danced the night away in them, turned Jamess fathers head. Your turn to catch some eyes!
The guests shuffled awkwardly. Helens friend, Beth, clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh or gasp. Jamess cousin Daniel flushed beetroot red, staring at his plate. Only James stood awkwardly beside his mother, uncertain how to react.
Mum, thats erm, retro style, yeah? he stammered, trying to put a gloss on things. Vintage is in fashion, you know
Helen felt her cheeks flame. It wasnt disappointment. It was humiliation. Public, deliberate humiliation. Pauline had unloaded a sack of old, smelly junk at her milestone birthday not out of sentiment, but to clear her wardrobe and expected thanks for it.
She stood up, letting the heavy coat slide from her lap to the floor with a dull thud, kicking up a puff of dust.
Vintage, James, means garments with artistic worth, Helen said, voice icy. This is just rags old, filthy rags reeking of mothballs and someone elses sweat.
Helen! Pauline gasped, clutching at her chest. How dare you! I kept those for you, treasured them! This is an insult!
Pauline, Helen locked eyes with her mother-in-law, do you see the stains? See the moth holes in the coat? You really think, on my thirtieth, I should wear forty-year-old cast-offs? You think Im going to put this on?
Youve gone soft, havent you! Pauline screeched, entirely losing her composure. Look at her! Too good for a bit of cleaning? Im trying to help her look like a proper woman for once, not some little hussy, and she turns her nose up! James, are you hearing how she speaks to me?
James tried to step between them. Helen, Mum, stop it, please! Mum meant well, shes just old school, values hand-me-downs Mum, maybe you shouldve asked first, eh?
Asked? Should I have asked whether to give her a coat worth three months wages if you bought it new? Thankless! Ill take everything and leave, see if you get any better! Never coming here again!
Thats the best gift you could give me, Helen said quietly but clearly.
The silence was so heavy, you could hear the clock ticking.
What did you say? Pauline whispered, pale as chalk.
I said I wont have my birthday turned into a jumble sale. Take your things, Pauline. I dont want them. Not now, not ever. I have self-respect.
Pauline drew a shuddering breath, grabbed the bag and began cramming the clothes back inside, breaking a nail in her frantic hurry.
Come on, James! she barked. Take me home! I cant stay another second. If you care for me, youll leave with me right now!
James looked helplessly from mother to wife.
Mum, how? Its Helens birthday, the guests Ill call you a cab.
Traitor! Whipped! Pauline hissed as she stormed out bag in hand, head held high, and slammed the door on her way out.
The remaining guests sat frozen, afraid even to breathe. The party was ruined. The odour of mothballs hung in the air, mixed now with the stink of the row.
Er lets top up Helens glass, ventured one of her friends in a slightly shaky voice.
They did their best to salvage the evening, but it was no use. Conversation stuttered, everyone casting furtive glances at Helen, whose face and neck were still blotched with angry red. Within an hour, people began quietly excusing themselves and leaving.
When the last couple had gone, Helen began clearing the table in silence, swiftly scraping plates together. James slumped on the sofa, head in his hands.
Helen, did you have to be so blunt? he asked eventually. We couldve thrown it all away later, or left it at the allotment. Why a public row? Mumll be in bed for days over this.
Helen clanged a stack of plates down.
Cant you see the difference? she asked, glaring at him. If Pauline had given me this on the quiet, perhaps Id have kept quiet too. But she did it in front of everyone to show I was nobody, that I should be grateful for any old hand-me-down. Thats not care, James. Thats showing off and disrespect.
She just doesnt see it that way! She grew up with rationing!
So did my mum. And for my birthday, she saved for six months to buy me a gold pendant. Your mother, who has accounts gathering interest all over, gives me dirty, stinking rags. And you just stood there and said nothing. Did it not bother you watching your wife offered the same as a scarecrow?
I just didnt want a row
And I dont want to live with humiliation. You know whats saddest? You never even noticed the stain on the blouse. Vintage, you said. For me, it was a slap in the face.
Helen walked out of the kitchen and shut herself in the bedroom. James stayed at the table, surrounded by dirty dishes and scattered leftovers. He sat for a long time, staring at the empty chair where that cursed bag had perched. For the first time in years, he tried to see things not as a dutiful son, but as a neutral outsider. He remembered the shock on Beths face, Helens revulsion as she held that blouse, and a deep, burning shame washed over him.
Helen rose early the next morning, barely speaking. She drank her coffee in silence. In the hallway she came across Paulines forgotten scarf, old and itchy wool.
Im going to your mothers, she told James as he padded from the bedroom.
Why? To apologise? He sounded hopeful.
No. To give back her scarf. And to make things crystal clear. I wont stand for this unresolved tension.
Ill come with you, James said, squaring his shoulders.
No, I need to do this myself.
Helen got to Paulines flat within the hour. Pauline took a while to answer, face set in tragic mode, hair up in a towel, the scent of lavender lozenges hanging in the air.
Come to finish me off? she moaned. Come in, look at the state youve left me.
Helen strode into the kitchen and laid the scarf on the table.
Pauline, lets spare ourselves the theatrics, she said firmly. Im here to say one thing. I respect you, your age, and that youre Jamess mum. But I expect respect in return.
Respect? You shamed me in front of everyone!
No. You did that yourself. You knew those clothes were unwearable. It was rubbish. And giving rubbish as a birthday present is an insult.
How dare you
Listen to me, Helens voice rose, cutting her mother-in-law off crisply. I dont need your old trousseau. James and I provide for ourselves. If you want to give a present, ask what Id like. If you dont wish to spend, just bring flowers and a kind word. But dont ever ever try to palm off your old junk to me as care. I am not a dustbin. I am your sons wife. If you want us around, and want to see future grandchildren, you will have to accept that.
Pauline sat, mouth open. Shed not expected defiance.
And if I refuse? she snapped.
Then youll only see us at Christmas, and only on the phone on other occasions. Your choice.
Helen turned to leave. At the door, she paused.
One more thing, Pauline. Everyone loved the potato salad even with that mayonnaise. Because I made it with care, not spite.
Helen stepped out into the crisp morning air, feeling unburdened for the first time in five years.
That evening, James returned from work with an enormous bouquet of red roses.
Mum called, he started awkwardly.
And?
She said well, that youre very strong-willed. And she might have gone a bit far. She told me shes handing the coat in at the charity shop. Said youre too proud.
Helen laughed out loud. It was a victory small, but sweet.
Let her. Maybe someone else will want it, after all. As for us, this weekend, were going out for a proper birthday dinner. In the dress Ill buy myself.
Yes we are, James grinned, wrapping her in a hug. And no talk of saving pennies. You deserve it.
From then on, Pauline was never angelic, still moaned and dished out advice, but far more cautiously. Presents were now strictly banknotes in cards, with much muttering about young people and their funny tastes. Helen didnt mind. The main thing was her wardrobe would never again be stuffed with someone elses mothball-soaked past.
