I come from what one might call a healthy sized family: Dad, Mum, my older brother, two sisters, and myselfsqueezed, not unhappily, into a generous three-bedroom flat in Manchester. Dad, ever the handyman, built a rather splendid cottage in the countrysidethough, in true British fashion, it became a sort of running joke to never actually visit the thing. As families go, we were hardly the Waltons; there was more passive aggression than warm hugs, especially between the girls, who seemed to bicker over literally everything from socks to hairdryers.
Time, as it turned out, didnt exactly transform us into the close-knit crew you see in the telly adverts. Relations only grew more strained as we moved into adulthood. My brother, always the ringleader, was first out the door, escaping to join the Royal Army and then promptly marrying a woman with a remarkable knack for scowling at family gatherings. Respectable fellow, but his wifelets call her Patriciatook an active dislike to us all for reasons we never quite understood. They had a daughter, our parents dutifully tried to visit their granddaughter, but you could cut the tension at those teas with a butter knife. Awkwardness escalated, until about seven years ago, when they simply stopped coming round altogether.
My eldest sister, Victoria, was swept away by an actor in her freshers week at university and, as drama would have it, dropped out altogether. She spent three years trailing his theatre troupe to every provincial town imaginable, subsisting mostly on dreams and dodgy service station pasties. Inevitably, there was a spectacular falling-out, and he upped sticks, leaving her stranded in a completely foreign city. Our parents offered her helppossibly for the first time without stringsbut she was too stubborn to accept, pride flaring like the Queens Guards. For a while she bounced around rented rooms, but eventually sent word that shed married. Details about her husband remain sketchyI havent seen her (or him) since her last visit a full decade ago.
My second sister, Emily, was always the familys shining star, though not for her academic brilliance. She was simply dazzling, earning the lions share of attention, gifts, and slightly embarrassing family stories. Her philosophy could have come straight from the pages of Tatler: Ones true worth is directly proportional to the size of ones wallet. Leaving sixth form, she promptly paired up with the son of a well-heeled entrepreneur. Once her beaus fathers business tanked, she deftly moved on to his much richer mate. Theyve now been playing happy families for five years, with a little boy and a designer pram to show for it.
As for me, a life of ease thoroughly eluded me. After graduating from university, I got married and had a daughter. Unfortunately, my husband turned to the bottle, and after a stretch of arguing and regretful takeaway meals, we divorced. Around that very same time, my parents health began to unravel, leaving me juggling their endless needs along with single mum duties. My siblings, ever helpful, never lifted a finger but are all suddenly keenly interested in their fair share of the inheritance. Dad gave me the countryside cottage years ago, but I still maintain I should inherit the flat in Manchester too, given all the heavy lifting Ive done. But if theres one thing my familys taught me, its the English art of politely disagreeingover tea, of course.
