Relatives Came—And Stayed
Evelyn Whitaker was just pulling an apple pie from the oven when the doorbell rang. She glanced at the clock—half-nine in the morning. Early for visitors.
“I’m coming!” she called, wiping flour from her hands onto her apron as she hurried to the door.
On the doorstep stood her cousin Margaret, her husband Martin, both laden with bulging suitcases and shopping bags. Margaret looked rumpled and weary, while Martin scowled, arms crossed.
“Evie, darling!” Margaret gushed, throwing her arms around Evelyn before she could react. “We’re here! You wouldn’t turn away family, would you?”
“Maggie?” Evelyn blinked at them, bewildered. “What’s happened? Where have you come from?”
“Manchester,” Martin grunted, shoving a massive suitcase into the hall. “Bloody nightmare getting here. Traffic all the way.”
“Come in, come in,” Evelyn fussed, stepping aside. “Take your coats off. Only—you didn’t tell me you were coming.”
Margaret shrugged out of her jacket and hung it on the peg.
“Evie, love, it’s all gone pear-shaped. Martin got laid off, we’re skint. Had to sell the flat.”
“Sold it?” Evelyn gasped.
“Debts, loans,” Martin waved a hand dismissively. “Anyway, thought we’d come to you. You’ve got this big three-bed to yourself. Plenty of space.”
Evelyn stood frozen, blinking. Meanwhile, Margaret had already wandered into the kitchen, sniffing the air.
“Ooh, that smells divine! Pie, is it? Perfect timing—we’re starving. Saved every penny for the trip, barely ate a thing.”
“Sit down, then,” Evelyn said faintly. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
Martin flopped onto a chair, surveying the room.
“Not bad, Evie. Fresh paint, decent furniture. Living the high life, eh?”
There was an edge to his voice that pricked at her. She’d lived alone since her husband passed eight years ago—quiet, orderly. Worked at the library, made do with her modest salary.
“Where are your things?” she asked, pouring tea.
“Right there in the hall,” Margaret nodded toward the pile. “Martin, take the bags to the room.”
“Which room?” Evelyn asked carefully.
“Whichever’s free. You’ve got three, haven’t you?”
“Maggie, wait. Let’s talk first. How long are you staying?”
Margaret and Martin exchanged glances.
“Till we’re back on our feet,” Margaret said vaguely. “Find jobs, sort things out.”
“And that’ll be… when?”
“How should I know?” Martin cut a huge slice of pie. “Month, maybe six. Depends.”
Evelyn felt her insides tighten. Turning away family in need wasn’t done, but the thought of her peaceful life invaded made her queasy.
“Evie, you wouldn’t toss us out?” Margaret grabbed her hand. “We’re family. Family sticks together.”
“Of course not,” Evelyn sighed. “It’s just… sudden.”
By evening, they’d fully settled in. Martin sprawled on the sofa, remote in hand, flipping channels and heckling the telly. Margaret clattered about the kitchen, rearranging spice jars and rewashing dishes.
“Evie, your system’s all wrong,” she announced, drying a plate. “Tea next to salt, sugar in the back? I’ve fixed it properly.”
Evelyn stared in dismay. Everything in her home had its place—methodical, efficient. Now she couldn’t even find the coffee.
“Maggie, why’d you move everything? It worked for me.”
“Don’t be daft, it was chaos! I’ve got an eye for these things.”
“Oi, women!” Martin bellowed from the living room. “When’s dinner? I’m famished.”
“Coming, love!” Margaret chirped. “Evie, what’ve you got for supper?”
Evelyn opened the fridge. A bit of ham, some cheese, two eggs—her usual modest dinner for the week.
“Not much,” she admitted.
“Oh, that’s nothing!” Margaret gasped. “Won’t feed three. Marty, pop to the shop.”
“With what money?” he grumbled. “Barely had bus fare back.”
All eyes turned to Evelyn. Sighing, she fetched her purse.
“Take what you need,” she said, handing over a few notes.
“Oh, you angel!” Margaret beamed. “We’ll pay you back, promise!”
At the shop, Margaret loaded the trolley with premium bacon, smoked salmon, a Victoria sponge, chocolates. Evelyn silently paid, watching half her wages vanish.
“Now we’re living!” Martin grinned, unpacking bags. “Can’t survive on scraps.”
That night, as they snored in her former study, Evelyn sat at the kitchen table, numb. She usually retired at ten. Now it was past eleven. Martin’s telly had blared till late; Margaret’s chatter and dish-rattling never ceased.
“Evie, still up?” Margaret shuffled in, yawning. “Fancy a cuppa? Girl talk?”
“It’s late. I work tomorrow.”
“Oh, posh! Your library’s not going anywhere. Tell me—no men since Arthur? Still a widow?”
Evelyn stiffened. She hated personal questions.
“No one.”
“Shame. A woman needs a man’s protection. Martin’s a rock, really. Wouldn’t let anyone hurt me.”
“Maggie, let’s sleep.”
“Right, right. Oh—can I borrow your washing machine tomorrow? Piles of laundry. And your face cream? My skin’s gone all dry.”
Morning brought chaos. Margaret frying eggs, Martin hawking into the sink. Her quiet routine—shattered.
“Morning!” Margaret trilled. “Full English today!”
“I don’t eat breakfast at home,” Evelyn said. “I’m late.”
“Don’t be silly! You’re skin and bone.”
Grabbing her coat, Evelyn tripped over a suitcase still blocking the hall.
“Martin!” Margaret scolded. “Move these, will you?”
“Nowhere to put ’em,” he muttered.
At work, Evelyn fumbled books, distracted.
“Everything alright?” her manager asked.
“Fine. Just… unexpected guests.”
“Lovely! Company’s nice.”
If only, thought Evelyn.
Returning home, she barely recognized her flat. Martin’s socks littered the sofa, dishes piled in the sink, unfamiliar underwear strung up in the bathroom.
“Oh, you’re back!” Margaret beamed. “We’ve been busy—laundry, tidying. Martin fixed your telly reception.”
Evelyn winced as a car chase blared from the living room, volume cranked.
“Martin, could you—?”
“What? Sounds fine. Your hearing’s going.”
Dinner was torture. Martin chewed loudly, Margaret prattled about cousins and neighbors. Evelyn missed her silent meals with a book.
“Evie, can we borrow your car tomorrow?” Margaret asked suddenly.
“Why?”
“Martin’s got benefits paperwork, I’m off to the job centre.”
Evelyn’s old Peugeot was her pride—rarely used, meticulously maintained.
“I don’t lend it.”
“Won’t come to harm! Martin’s a careful driver.”
“Thirty years, no crashes,” Martin added.
“But your license—”
“’Course I’ve got one! Left it at home.”
They returned the car at dusk, grinning. The tank was nearly empty.
“We topped it up,” Margaret lied. The gauge disagreed.
Later, Martin cracked open a lager.
“You drink in your own home,” Evelyn said tightly.
“Don’t be a prune,” he scoffed. By midnight, he was slurring rugby songs.
“This isn’t your house,” Evelyn whispered.
Martin’s face darkened. “Not family, then? Maggie’s not your blood?”
Margaret intervened, but the damage was done.
Three days later, Evelyn enlisted help.
Her friend Beatrice—a no-nonsense nurse—arrived unannounced.
“These your relatives?” she boomed, eyeing Martin’s beer. “How long they staying?”
“As long as they need,” Margaret said defensively.
“Odd. Squatting’s illegal without tenancy agreements. Neighbors complained about noise too.”
Martin paled.
By week’s end, they packed up.
“Found a bedsit,” Martin mumbled.
Evelyn waved them off, then closed the door. Silence—glorious silence—descended.
Beatrice called that night. “Gone, then?”
“Thank you.”
“Family’s one thing, freeloaders another.”
Evelyn sipped her tea, relief washing over her. They’d come. They’d left. And she’d learned: even kin must respect boundaries.
