Emily, why are you being such a stranger? Its only tomatoes, they dont bite, I said, standing in the open door of her brandnew, sunglittering crossover, trying to hide my embarrassment with a weak smile.
Emily let out a long sigh, running her hand over the immaculate, stillsmellingoffactory steering wheel. That car had been her dream for three years. Shed saved every bonus, skipped a fancy holiday, even kept an old coat just to afford it herself no loan, no help from me. The interior was a light cream colour, almost milky. She knew it wasnt the most practical, but she craved that sleek purity. And now, four days after the purchase, I was faced with a request: take my mothers seedling boxes to the cottage.
James, she tried to keep her voice even, though I could see the heat rising inside her. Look at the cabin. Its cream. Mums seedlings are soil, water and those old yoghurtpot cartons that always leak. I wont load them.
Well be careful! I begged. Mum packed everything herself. Well line the boot with newspapers, stack the boxes. No need to call a lorry for ten cartons, right? Shell be hurt. You know Margaret, those tomatoes are practically her grandchildren. Shes been fussing over them since February.
Emily slammed the car door shut, trying not to make too much noise. The sun reflected off the spotless bonnet.
Ten cartons? she repeated. Last weekend you only mentioned a couple of boxes. Where did ten come from?
Well there are peppers, aubergines, some flowerspetunias, I think. Emily, please. My cars starter died, you know its in the garage. The seasons on, Mums panicking, saying the seedlings are outgrowing their pots. If we dont haul them today, therell be a monthlong row.
Therell be a row if I soil my new car, Emily snapped. Call a taxi. HiredHelp or just a estate car. Ill pay.
You dont get it, I lowered my voice, glancing toward the upstairs flat where my mother lived. She wont trust a cabbie with the seedlings. Shell say hell jostle them, break them. She wants us to do it. With love, you know?
Emily stared at me. Though I was thirtyeight, I felt like a schoolboy caught fearing a mothers wrath more than a nuclear war.
Fine, she relented, feeling the mistake already sinking in. But on one condition: everything goes in the boot only. Not a single pot in the cabin. Ill check each box to make sure the bottom is dry. Understood?
Got it! Of course! Youre the best! I planted a quick kiss on her cheek and darted toward the entrance. Ill be right back, well unload quickly!
Emily waited by the car, her heart racing. Shed known my mother, Margaret, for seven years. Margaret was a force of nature with a good heartshe could bake you into a coma with rich scones, knit a prickly sweater and get offended if you didnt wear it, and her cottage was practically a shrine.
Ten minutes later the flats entrance burst open. I came first, backing away with a huge, waterswollen cardboard box from the bananas. Long, wilting tomato stems poked out, tied with bits of cloth. Behind me trudged Margaret, carrying two plastic buckets brimming with greenery.
Careful, love, dont tilt it! she commanded. Those are Bullheart tomatoes, top quality! Emily, dear, open the boot, my husbands hands are busy!
Emily pressed the key fob; the boot lid rose smoothly.
Margaret, hello. Whats this? Emily pointed at the box. The bottoms wet.
Wet? Nonsense! Margaret waved a hand, setting the buckets on the pavement. I gave them a light spray this morning so they wouldnt dry out in the heat.
I hoisted the box into the boot, and a dark stain of moisture spread across the brandnew plush mat Id bought just to protect the interior.
Stop! Emily shouted. James, pull it out!
Whats wrong? Margaret froze, a pot in each hand.
Its leaking! I asked for a dry bottom! James, theres soil and water everywhere!
Oh, its just a drop, Margaret dismissed. Its dirt, not oil. Itll dry, you can shake it off. The cars for hauling, not for dustblowing. My dad had a Lada, we used it for manure, potatoes, everything.
This isnt a Lada, Emily said, keeping her composure. And I wont be hauling manure. James, get the box out. We need a waterproof sheet. We have one, right?
What sheet? I asked, puzzled. I thought newspapers would do
Newspapers will soak in a minute! We need a thick plastic sheet or tarpaulin!
I have no sheet, Margaret pouted. All the curtains are in the greenhouse. Emily, dont be a drama queen. Well place it carefully, no more leaks. Its just a little spill from the edge.
At that moment our neighbour, Mrs. Parker, appeared with her little terrier.
Oh, Margaret! Off to the farm? she chirped. And thats your daughterinlaw? Bought a car? Fancy
Yes, Parker, were heading out, Margaret boomed so everyone could hear. The cars new, but its useless. Were haggling like at a market. The daughterinlaw wont even put a tomato in the boot.
Emily felt a flush rise. Classic motherinlaw move: bring the neighbourhood in and shame.
James, go to the DIY shop around the corner and buy a roll of heavyduty tarpaulin, Emily hissed through clenched teeth.
Why spend money? Margaret retorted. Ive got an old bathroom curtain, Ill fetch it.
While Margaret rummaged for the curtain, I shifted nervously from foot to foot.
Emily, bear with me. Well line it and go. Its only a fortyminute drive.
James, do you see how many boxes there are? Emily gestured toward the hallway, where a whole battery of boxes, jars and bundles waited. That wont all fit in the boot. Not even if we crush them with our feet.
We could put some in the cabin, on the rear seat, stack them on our legs.
No. I said no. The cabins carpet is cream.
Margaret returned with a grimy, yellowstained shower curtain.
Here! Sturdy stuff! James, spread it.
We spread the curtain over the boot and began loading. The boxes were all different shapes, soggy cardboard. Emily stood like a hawk, watching every move. Only five boxes finally slipped into the boot; the rest stayed outside, along with the buckets, a few spades wrapped in rags, and a massive duffel of Margarets belongings.
Thats it, Margaret wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a smudge across her cheek. The rest goes in the cabin. James, open the rear door.
Margaret, you cant put them in the cabin, Emily said firmly, shutting the rear door.
How am I supposed to carry them? On my head? Ive tended those peppers for three months! Do you know how much the seeds cost?
I suggested a van, remember? It would fit everything.
A van! They overcharge for those! And a driver will treat the seedlings like trash. Hell just drop them. This is delicate work. Emily, let me in, Ill hold them.
Mum, I interjected. Emily asked for a light cabin
And you think its okay to sacrifice our car for that? Margaret snapped at me. Youve never respected my car, have you? I raised you, stayed up nights, and now youre worried about a few pots? Damn your fancy car!
She grabbed one of the cardboard boxes, a juice carton cut lengthwise and packed with black, greasy earth. She ripped it open, trying to show strength, but the wet cardboard gave way and the bottom fell out.
Splash!
Black, soggy soil mixed with seedling roots cascaded onto Jamess white trainers and splattered onto the edge of the open drivers door. Bits of mud flew onto Emilys lightgrey trousers.
Silence hung, broken only by the faint drip of water.
Emily looked at her trousers, then at the muddy stain on the boot, and finally at Margaret.
Oh Margaret managed. Weve done it to Mum! All because of nerves! If wed opened the boot from the start, nothing would have broken!
Thats it, Emily whispered.
She walked around the car, slipped into the drivers seat and turned the key.
Emily? I stood ankledeep in the muck, bewildered. Where are you going?
To the car wash, she called out through the open window. Call a van, a lorry, even a helicopter if you like. Im not taking those seedlings.
Youll leave us here with all this stuff? Margaret shrieked. How can you be so heartless! James, say something!
Emily, wait! I grabbed the door handle. We can clean it
Hands off, James, Emilys voice was ice. I warned you. I offered to pay for a delivery. You refused. Now sort it out yourselves.
She shifted into gear and rolled away, leaving me and Margaret amidst a sea of boxes, buckets and scattered earth. In the rearview mirror I saw Margaret flailing, shouting, while I hung my head in defeat.
Driving away, my hands trembled on the wheel. Shame and anger knotted inside me. My mother had always taught me to be a good daughterinlaw, to respect elders, to help the family. A thin peace is better than a loud quarrel, Mum used to say. Yet as I glanced at the soil stain on the threshold of my dream car, a scorching, righteous anger rose. Why did my no mean nothing? Why was my effort to protect my car dismissed for a simple delivery that a hired van could have solved? It wasnt life or death, just seedlings.
At the wash, the young attendant gave a sympathetic click of his tongue.
Gardeners? he asked.
Almost, I sighed.
While the car was being cleaned, my phone buzzed nonstopcalls from me, from Margaret. I put it on silent.
Back home, I poured tea and sat by the window. James hadnt been back for four hours. I imagined them still out there, shovelling soil, arguing, Margaret lecturing James about my choice.
When James finally trudged in late, filthy and smelling of earth, he slipped into the kitchen, poured a glass of water and guzzled it.
So, happy? he asked without looking up. Mum was crying. Her blood pressure spiked. She had to take some tablets.
Did you call a van? I asked calmly.
Called it. HiredHelp showed up in twenty minutes. Loaded everything, delivered it fine.
See? No one died. The cars clean.
Emily, its not about the car! James slammed his glass on the table. Its about respect! You showed Mum the car matters more than her. She said she wont set foot in this house again.
Thats her decision, James. I offered a taxi from the start, even paid for it. But she wanted to force me to lug dirt in a creamcoloured boot. Why? To prove shes in charge?
Shes old, has her quirks! She could have given in!
I wont give in when it harms me, I stood. I respect your mother, but I also demand respect for myself and my things. If she needed a ride to the doctor, Id be first in the car. But hauling manure when a delivery service exists is absurd. I wont do it.
James stared out the window, then sighed heavily.
Half the seedlings died, he said suddenly. The one that fell. And another box tipped over in the boot while we were emptying it. I dabbed it, but itll need drycleaning.
I closed my eyes.
I told you, James muttered. Should I call her tomorrow? Apologise? Just for forms sake? Her birthdays coming up, when should we go?
I wont apologise, James. I have nothing to apologise for. I was protecting my boundaries. If she wants to talk, Im open. But I wont transport seedlings, old sofas or sacks of potatoes in this car. Period.
The next two weeks passed in a cold silence. Margaret deliberately stopped calling. She complained to James on the phone, calling me the snake he warmed. I held fast. It was uncomfortable being his number one enemy, but each time I slipped into the spotless cabin of my car, I reminded myself Id done the right thing.
On Saturday James planned a trip to the cottage.
You coming? he asked, low on hope. The strawberries are ready. Mum seemed a bit calmer, asked why I wasnt going.
I thought it over. Hiding forever was foolish.
Ill go. But on my own car. And if anyone asks me to haul rubbish or manure, Ill turn the wheel and drive away.
Deal, he said with a crooked grin. No manure.
The cottage greeted us with quiet. Margaret was busy in the beds. When she saw me, she straightened, brushed her hands off. I braced for a showdown.
Hello, she muttered.
Good afternoon, Margaret.
She squinted at my shining car parked by the gate.
My neighbour Val told me your car looks like a joke for the chickens. She says its not fit for us.
I like it, I replied with a smile.
Well Margaret lingered, then waved a hand. What are you standing here for? Come in for tea. Ive baked a strawberry tart.
The tea was polite, the conversation thin, but there was no open war. James tried jokes about his work; Margaret slipped the best slices of tart to him.
When we were about to leave, Margaret walked around my car, circled it, and peered inside at the light seats.
Clean, she noted.
I try, I answered.
The driver of that lorry she faltered. He was a bit rude, but he delivered fast. Charged an extra three hundred rubles, about five pounds.
See? Convenient.
Convenient, Margaret agreed reluctantly. James cant carry heavy loads, his backs giving him trouble. That big van would do.
She stared at me, evaluating.
Youre stubborn, Emily. I never let anyone sit on my lap. My husbands gone, Im left to the heavens, always whistling about being hardheaded. I just protect whats mine.
I raised an eyebrow, surprised by the turn.
Fine, go on your way. Traffic will be a nightmare, she said, handing James a bag of washed dill, radish and a triplewrapped packet of greens. Nothing will spill.
Thanks, I took the bag; it was dry and clean.
And she glanced away. Give James the number for that freight company. In autumn well need to move the courgettes, the apples are ripe now. Not in your boot, mind you.
I smiled. A small victory, quiet but real.
We drove home on the evening road. The sun set, bathing the cabin in warm gold. The car glided smoothly, silently.
Looks like we made it, James exhaled. I thought itd scorch you. And now the phones buzzing.
People understand boundaries, James. When you say no clearly, they start to respect you. When you try to please everyone, they trample over you.
James thought about it.
Maybe. But youre still risky. I couldnt have left Mum with the boxes.
You couldnt. Thats why your shoes are muddy, and mine are spotless. To each his own.
I turned the music up. I felt great. I hadnt become the bad daughterinlaw. Id become the daughterinlaw you have to reckon with. And that, as it turned out, was far better than being a good one who just wipes other peoples mess off her dream.
