Tom, are you sure we didn’t forget the charcoal? Remember last time we had to drive down to the village shop and they only had damp firewood, Emily asked, glancing over at her husband as he manoeuvred the car around the usual potholes on the country lane.
Got the charcoal, Em, and the firelighters. The meat you marinated is in the cool bag, Tom grinned, glancing at her before turning his eyes back to the road. Definitely relax. Were off on holiday. Two full weeks: peace, birdsong, and your precious lawn. Youve dreamed about it all winter.
Emily leaned back in her seat, eyes closed, already picturing the scene. The lawn. That word was like music to her ears. Three years earlier, when they first bought the run-down cottage with its leaning walls, the place was all giant nettles and mounds of rubble. Emily had cleared the broken bricks herself, battled the weeds, and then she and Tom had hired a team to level the ground and roll out a top-quality, luxury turf.
It was her sanctuary. A perfect emerald carpet even, soft as silk, delicious for morning coffees, afternoons with a book, or a spot of yoga. She’d never let anyone wear heavy shoes or even play badminton on it, scared they’d ruin the turf. For Emily, that lawn symbolised that the cottage was for holidays not the endless slog her parents associated with the country.
Hope Mum remembered to water it while we were gone, Emily murmured aloud. It’s been blazing hot all week, nearly thirty degrees.
Stop worrying, Tom waved it off. Mums responsible. We left her the keys, she promised to check in every other day and keep an eye on things. She knows how much you fuss over the grass.
Margaret Lewis, Toms mother, was an old-school sort of woman. Lively, loud, convinced that earth shouldnt go to waste: every scrap of land ought to yield potatoes or at least some parsnips. The first two years, Emily had fought running skirmishes with her, defending her little retreat. Margaret had grumbled, sniffed that lawns were frippery for layabouts, but eventually seemed resigned. She’d stuck to her greenhouse in the corner, and left the rest.
Tyres crunched softly over the gravel as the car pulled up to the gate. Emily hopped out to unlock it. The air was alive with pine resin and wild rose. She inhaled deeply, looking forward to kicking off her city shoes and feeling the cool grass under her feet.
She swung the gate wide, stepped forward and froze, stone still. Her laptop bag slipped from her shoulder and landed softly in the dust.
Em, what are you waiting for? Shall I drive in? Tom called from the car, but when she didnt reply, he turned off the engine and got out. Emily?
He joined her, following her dazed stare and stopped dead.
The emerald carpet was gone.
In its place, before the cottage, was a churned-up field. Rough, crooked furrows cut between clumps of ruined turf and bare, black earth from steps to summerhouse. Already, little green shoots poked up mockingly here and there, as if adding insult to injury.
In the middle of all this destruction, clad in her old housecoat and a battered sunhat, stood Margaret. She leaned on her spade, mopping her brow, positively beaming with pride.
Oh, hello, sweeties! she boomed joyfully as she spotted them. Ive got a little surprise for you! Barely finished in time.
Emily felt the blood drain from her face. Her ears rang. She moved forward slowly, as if in a dream, stopping just at the ragged edge of the former lawn. Tangled scraps of turf, their plastic mesh matrix chopped savagely by a spade, littered the ground underfoot.
Whats all this? Emilys voice was quiet, but cold enough to make Tom shiver.
What do you think? Vegetable beds! Margaret planted her spade in the soil and spread her hands wide, proudly. All that space going to waste! I did some sums: this spot gets the best sun from dawn till dusk. And all you had was a useless patch of grass. Now, Ive planted onions here, carrots there, and by the summerhouse courgettes! Imagine homegrown courgettes! We can fry them, make chutneys!
Mum… Tom groaned, coming closer. Mum, what have you done? That was rolled turf, premium stuff. Set us back nearly £1,500 three years ago. Plus all the feeds, mowing…
Dont be ridiculous! Margaret waved a muddy hand. Fifteen hundred quid on grass? Ridiculous waste, youve been fleeced! It grows for free in the wild! Lands meant to be productive! Seen shop prices? Carrots are a fortune nowadays! This way, you get your own, no chemicals. Ive worked my fingers to the bone for you, digging for three days while you lazed about on holiday.
Emily said nothing. She stood staring at the ruined land, the scarred earth running alongside what used to be her haven, and a cold, clear fury rose inside. This wasnt just meddling. It was a full-blown invasion, a complete disregard for her wishes and her toil.
Margaret, Emily looked up, voice steady. We asked you simply to water the flowers. Not to dig, not to plant. This is our home and our land.
So what now? Margaret bristled, voice shifting from hearty to defensive. Im your mother! I know best what you need. You kids havent seen hard times. If theres a bad winter and youre grateful for my preserves, youll thank me. That lawn… Useless nonsense. Its an embarrassment makes us a laughing stock. Everyone else has vegetables, not a golf course. Even Sandra from next door wondered why my daughter-in-law cant even grow her own dill!
I dont care what Sandra thinks, Emily said, each word clipped, and I dont want your courgettes. Tom, unload the bags.
Em, hang on, Tom tried to grab her hand, but she pulled free. Mum, youve gone too far. We agreed: you do the greenhouse, the rest is relaxation space. Why did you do this?
Ruined it? screeched Margaret, her face turning a mottled red. I risked my health! My blood pressures sky-high, yet here I am, providing vitamins! And instead of thanks ruined? Youre selfish ingrates!
With great drama, she clutched her heart and plopped herself onto the garden bench by the porch.
Emily walked past her into the house without a glance. Inside was cool, smelling of old wood. She headed to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, drained it in one, her hands trembling. She wanted to scream, to smash something, but she knew that would be exactly what Margaret craved: a scene. Margaret adored a melodrama that let her play the martyr.
Five minutes later, Tom came inside, looking awkward and sheepish.
Em, she thought she was being helpful. Shes old school, brought up to think empty earth is a sin.
Tom, Emily turned to him. Its not about her generation. Its about respect. She believes we and our property are hers to command, regardless of what we want. She just wanted things her way, to remind everyone whos in charge.
Ill talk to her again, explain it…
Weve done talking, Emily cut across him. We tried for three years. She nodded, pretended to listen then waited till our backs were turned and tore up everything. Reseeding isnt simple. The structures ruined, the topsoils a mess, the turfs destroyed. Well have to pay again for labour, clearance, new rolls weeks of mess.
Tom slumped into a chair, sighing.
So what do you want to do? Ban her?
No. I want her to put it right.
Emily, really? Shes sixty-five. She cant lay turf by herself.
Not the turf. But she can strip out all her vegetables, rake it level again. She can pay for new rolls.
She doesnt have that much money…
Shes got savings, Tom she brags about her rainy day fund for the grandkids. Well, were her kids and we need her help to fix her help.
Thats harsh, Em.
Whats harsh is coming home to find your sanctuary turned into a wasteland. Whats harsh is your wishes being treated like rubbish. Im telling her now: if she refuses, she wont set foot here again. Ill change the locks today.
Emily stepped out onto the porch. Margaret was now gesticulating over the fence to Sandra next door, presumably relaying her version of events. As soon as she spotted Emily, she took on a wounded expression.
Margaret, Emily called, coming down the steps, we need to talk.
What is it now? Margaret grumbled. Bring me some water, Im parched from all this ungratefulness.
You can have water afterwards. Listen carefully. You have until Sunday evening.
For what?
To clear out everything you planted. Pull every onion, every carrot. Rake the earth flat.
Margaret stared, as if Emily had started speaking Martian.
Are you right in the head, girl? I slogged to plant those, you want me to rip them up? Its wicked! I wont! This is my sons cottage, Im not some charity case living under your rules!
The house and garden are jointly owned by me and Tom. And I never agreed to your allotment. If by Sunday evening its not flat, Im hiring contractors to bulldoze it and sending you the bill. And after that, youre not coming back. Give Tom the keys now.
Tom! called out Margaret, looking to her son, standing at the door. Do you hear how she talks to your mother? She wants me dead! Tell her!
Tom stepped outside, pale but determined. Meeting Emilys gaze, he knew this was the crunch. If he didnt back her now, their marriage wouldnt survive.
Mum, Emilys right, he said quietly. You shouldn’t have done this. It’s our home. We wanted a lawn. You shouldnt have ruined it.
You too?! Margaret threw her hands up. Hen-pecked! Shes bewitched you! I only…
Enough, Mum, Tom said sharply. You did this because you wanted to. Now youll have to fix it. Either you clear it up, or this is a proper bust-up.
Margaret gasped, speechless. She hadnt expected resistance from her usually obliging son.
Fine! Keep your lawn! Ill never set foot here again! You can do your own digging! Im leaving now!
She snatched her bag and stomped to the gate.
The keys, Margaret, Emily called after her.
Margaret rummaged in her dressing gown pocket, pulled out the keys and let them drop in the dust.
Here, choke on them! May your precious grass turn to nettles!
She stomped out, slamming the gate. A moment later they heard the engine of a taxi shed evidently called ahead, or perhaps she meant to catch the next bus at the end of the lane.
Emily picked up the keys, brushed them off, and exchanged a glance with Tom.
Shell be back, Emily said with quiet certainty. Shes forgotten her seedlings and her coat. Besides, shes never one to give up that easily.
Tom wandered over to the churned ground and nudged a clod with his shoe.
So what now? Are we clearing it ourselves?
No, Emily shook her head. Shell be up at Sandras now, grumbling. Shell have to catch her bus in two hours; thatll give her time for a good moan.
Sure enough, across the fence rang out Margarets voice, loudly playing the injured party to Sandra: how the ungrateful daughter-in-law had turfed her out and forced her to destroy her own crops.
Emily picked up her phone.
Who are you calling? asked Tom.
A landscaping company. I want a quote for a full restoration, including clearing and new topsoil.
The evening was tense and silent. Emily and Tom sat on the veranda, drinking tea that tasted of nothing, staring at the ruined patch of earth. The mood was thoroughly spoiled.
On Saturday morning, the gate creaked open. Emily, preparing breakfast, peeked out the window. Margaret was back. She no longer looked triumphant: more sulky and uncertain. She marched past the house, eyes averted, heading for her greenhouse.
Emily stepped onto the porch.
Good morning, Margaret. Forgot your things?
Margaret stopped and turned slowly.
Ive been thinking… she began, eyes fixed somewhere in the distance. Its a shame about those onions. Theyre Dutch, cost good money.
Its a shame, Emily replied. The lawn was costly too. Ive had a quote for repairs: with labour, topsoil and turf, its about £800.
Margaret stared.
How much? Thats mad! Robbery!
Thats the market rate. Ive the quote here. Since you damaged it, you pay. Or restore it yourself rake it flat, and well only need to reseed, which is cheaper.
Ive not got that kind of money! Margaret wailed.
Then take up your rake and spade. Undo your own work.
Im an old woman!
You managed to dig it up. You can manage to put it right. Tom will help you carry rubbish, but the beds are yours to level. Its a matter of principle, Margaret. You cant walk into someone elses home and lay down your own rules.
Just then Tom joined them on the porch.
Mum, Emilys right. Were not footing the bill for your help. Ill get you some sacks; pack up your onions, take them home grow them on your balcony if you want. But here, the land goes back to flat.
Margaret glanced from son to daughter-in-law, seeking a flicker of weakness or pity. But she found nothing but a brick wall: Emily calm and immoveable, Tom clearly firm behind her.
Margaret sniffed in defeat.
Fine, she grumbled. Get me the sacks. Cruel, the pair of you.
The next two days felt surreal. Margaret, heaving and theatrically clutching her back, painstakingly uprooted her handiwork. She packed the onions and young plants into boxes, cursing under her breath. Emily didnt interfere, reading her book on the solitary patch of grass, all the while keeping a sharp eye to make sure the work got done.
Tom lent his mother a hand carting the earth, breaking up the larger lumps, bringing her water, encouraging her to rest but never did the job for her, as Emily had insisted.
If you do it for her, she wont learn, Emily told him later. She needs to see consequences, to feel them.
By Sunday evening, the patch was sad to behold: black, trampled, but mostly levelled.
Margaret sat on the porch, dirty, exhausted, her hands blackened with soil, all bravado gone.
There. Happy now? she muttered.
Emily looked over the work. Far from perfect, but decent. A topping of sand, a roller, and fresh seed would finish the job cheaper than removing all the soil and returfing.
Thank you, Margaret, Emily said, with genuine appreciation.
Margaret glared up, tired.
Youre a tough one, Emily. I thought Tom would be happy with you, but you keep him under your thumb.
Im not hard, Margaret. I just want my wishes respected. Ask for a spare patch behind the house, and Id have agreed. But you destroyed something precious to me. Thats the difference.
Margaret said nothing, just pushed herself up, brushing off her housecoat.
Tom can drive the onions home for me?
Of course, Emily nodded.
And… Margaret faltered. Will I get my keys back?
Tom and Emily met each others eyes.
Not at the moment, Mum, Tom said, gently but firmly. The keys stay with us. Well look after the place, bring you up if you want for a visit.
Margaret pressed her lips tight, but didnt argue. She knew shed gone too far; she grasped there was no easy return to old trust.
A month later the new grass was sprouting. Emily and Tom seeded a hardy sports mix, and green shoots masked the scars. The earth started to heal.
Margaret didnt visit again until Toms birthday in August. She was all quiet, humble, arriving with homemade pies (stuffed with her famous onions) and grudgingly complimented the new lawn.
Very green, she said, eyeing the neat sward. Tidy. Perhaps it really is better less mud in the house.
Emily smiled, pouring her tea.
Of course it is, Margaret. Theres a place for everything: vegetables at the market, or in the greenhouse and here, for relaxing.
The battle for territory was over. The scars in the earth lingered, but relations, oddly, were clearer. The lines drawn in soil and maintained by principle proved sturdier than any amount of forced politeness.
