My relatives demanded I surrender my bedroom for the holidays, but in the end, they left with nothing.
Where am I supposed to put this giant bowl of jellied meat? grumbled Aunt Mabel as she tried to wedge her enormous enamel dish onto the bottom shelf of the fridge, pushing aside my careful containers. Theres no roomits all filled with your bits ofwhat is it againcarpaccio and avocado, goodness, these modern foods are impossible to pronounce.
Standing by the hob, stirring the sauce for the roast, IMargaretclosed my eyes and counted to ten, steadying myself. This was just the beginning. The guests had crossed the threshold barely twenty minutes ago, yet our flat already felt like it had been overtaken by a bustling Romani camp, intent on reshaping everything to their liking.
Aunt Mabel, please just put it out on the balcony, I replied as gently as possible, careful not to raise my voice. Its frosty out there, all glassed in. Nothing will happen to it. Ive got salad ingredients in the fridge that cant be frozen.
The balcony! Dust blowing about everywhere!” she snorted, a formidable woman with a perm and swathed in a flowery housecoat shed donned the moment she arrived. “And honestly, food on the floor! Oh well, Ill move your tubs of leaves. No ones going to eat that. Men want meat, not silage.
I shot a pleading look to my husband, Peter. Tall and unflappable, he sat slicing bread, trying to fade into the furniture. He knew Aunt Mabel and her daughtermy cousin Harrietwell, just as Harriet now inspected the bathroom, loudly commenting on the quality of the tile.
Pete, could you help Aunt Mabel put her meat jelly out on the balcony? I said firmly. Ive cleared a cabinet especially and wiped it downno dust at all.
Peter obediently took the heavy bowl from the resistant aunt and disappeared into the corridor. Aunt Mabel, now unburdened, swivelled to focus on me.
You look pale, Margaret. Back on those diets, are you? Skin and bones! Now Harrietmy girlshes rosy-cheeked, a picture. But you just fade away. And this décor of yourslooks like a clinic. All white and grey! How dull. Why didnt you get some of those golden wallpaperstheyre all the rage nowadays, give a room a bit of class.
We like minimalism, Aunt Mabel, I replied curtly, tasting the sauce. Each to their own.
At that moment Harriet breezed into the kitchenthree years older than me, but always acting like the gap was fifteen and she had a duty to dispense advice. She was trailed by her two sons, five and six, who’d already managed to get chocolate on their hands.
Margaret, is there only a shower in your bathroom? Harriet asked, sounding a bit let down. Setting herself on a chair, she crossed her legs elegantly. I thought thered be a proper bath. How am I supposed to wash the boys tonight? They love to splash about.
Harriet, the place is done to our taste. We prefer a shower. Theyre not babies anymorejust hose them off.
This whole visit had been proposed months ago, but Id secretly hoped my relatives from the next town would change their minds. Aunt Mabel and Harriet, with children in tow, had insisted on spending the holidays in London, arguing family ought to be together, and the big citys so lovely this time of year. Bred in hospitality, I’d not found it in me to refuse, though the memory of their last tripthree years priorstill haunted me. Then Id spent a week restoring my nerves and scrubbing the old flat.
But things were different now. Peter and I had moved to a spacious three-bedroom, finished a costly renovation only a month ago. It was our nest, our prideevery inch considered and argued with builders until perfection was reached.
I was especially protective of the bedroom. It was my sanctuary, off-limitsa place of calm. Deep blue walls, thick blackout curtains, a huge bed with an orthopedic mattress that cost a kings ransom, and a plush carpet swallowing bare feet. Peter and I had agreed: no guests in the bedroom, doors kept shut. The sitting rooms generous sofa and, worst case, Peters studywith its comfortable daybedwere ready for visitors.
Mum, Im thirsty! whined Harriets youngest, tugging at her sleeve.
Oh, go ask Auntie Margaret for some juice, she waved him away. Margaret, pleasegive them something. The journeys worn them out.
From the fridge, I poured apple juice into two tumblers.
Careful now, dont spillreal parquet on the floor, I warned.
Oh, do stop fussing about your floors, Aunt Mabel scoffed. Things are for people, not the other way round! Children will be children. If they spill, you mop. Margaret, you’ve become so uptight in London.”
Peter, catching the tension, suggested, Perhaps we should think about sitting down. Its already fivewe should see the year out together.
Dinner was chaotic. The children darted around, grabbing salami and cheese; Harriet chatted to a friend on the phone, recounting their journey, while Aunt Mabel critiqued every dish.
Prawn salad? Honestly,” she said, prodding one with her fork. “Dont see the point. Now, herring saladthats proper food. This is just playleaves and rubber. Margaret, couldnt you at least have done proper potatoes? This mashed stuff with truffle oilits got a funny smell, like its gone off.
Its a delicacy, Mother, Harriet drawled, setting her mobile aside. Though I prefer plain food too. Margaret, the mushroomsdid you pickle them yourself?
Shop-bought, from the farmers market, I replied.
I see. Too lazy to do it yourself, Aunt Mabel pronounced. I’ve brought a jar of my ownI’ll fetch them now, you’ll see what real mushrooms taste like.
I chewed in silence, staring at my plate. Under the table, Peter slipped his hand over mine, squeezed encouragingly. Three days, just three days, his look seemed to say.
As evening drew in, the children finally quieted, glued to their tablets. The conversation turned to where everyone would sleep.
Im absolutely knackered, complained Aunt Mabel, rubbing her back. That train was a nightmare, jostled me about. I need to lie down properly, legs stretched.
Yes, Mum, you should rest properly, Harriet agreed. Margaret, where have you set things up for us?
I perked up, having planned the sleeping arrangements.
The sitting rooms sofa is huge, pulls out into a full bedplenty of space for two adults. Harriet, you and your boys have the daybed in Peters studyit becomes a proper bed, and there’s room for a blow-up mattress too.
Silence fell. Aunt Mabel stopped chewing. Harriet raised an eyebrow.
What do you mean, sofa? Aunt Mabel demanded, staring at me as if I’d lost my mind. Margaret, surely youre joking? Ive a bad back, my sciatica will never forgive me! Sofas are no goodI need a real bed. Firm and soft.
Aunt Mabel, its an orthopedic sofano dips, bought specially for guests, I started.
A sofa is a sofa! she cut me off. Thats for the young. Im oldaches and pains! I assumed youd give us your bedroom. I hear youve a marvellous mattress in there
I froze. Their demands and fusses Id expected, but not such a brazen bid to claim our sanctuary.
The bedroom? Peter frowned. Aunt Mabel, thats our roomwhere we sleep.
And? Young people like you manage. A couple of nights on the sofa or even the floor wont kill you. Mum needs comfort. And me, with the children, itll be easier with Mum in the bedroomthe boys wake in the night, and a proper door keeps the noise in.
Wait, I felt my cheeks flush. So you want Peter and me to vacate our own room, give you our bed, and sleep in the living room?
Oh dont be melodramatic! Aunt Mabel fluttered her hands. Not foreverjust the holidays. Guests should have the best. My mother taught me! Yours too, mustve forgotten her roots in London.
Aunt Mabel, hospitality means good food and drink, I replied solidly. A bed is a matter of hygienelike a toothbrush. We sleep there. We cant give you our bedroom. Sorryits out of the question.
Harriet slammed her glass on the table. The thud was sharp.
Margaret, are you serious? You wont let your own aunt and cousins have the bed? We drove two hundred miles, brought presentsand you stick us on the sofa, like stray dogs?
Its not like that, Peter replied, baffled. That sofa cost over £2,000 and is incredibly comfy. I sometimes nap there watching the football.
Dont talk price to me! Aunt Mabel squawked. Its about respect! Your mother, God rest her soul, would die of shame if she saw how you treat family. Selfish! Just like your father was.
Mentioning Mum was below the belt. My motherthe gentlest soul, always yielding to her sister Mabel, gave the last penny, watched her children, put up with criticism. I remembered the constant visits, the finest cut taken, the complaints, the headaches and emptiness left behind.
Leave Mum out of it, I said quietly but firmly. She was a saint, and you took advantage of her. But Im not her. I know my boundaries. The bedroom is closed. Thats final. If the sofa doesn’t suit, I can book you a hotel nearby.
Hotel?! Harriet almost choked. You want us out, paying money? Mum, did you hear?
I hear you, dear, Aunt Mabel exclaimed theatrically, clutching at her heart. Oh, my blood pressure! Water, quickly!
Harriet dashed to the jug, gave her pills. The boys hushed, sensing something serious.
Right, Harriet announced. Heres the deal: either we have the bedroomlike civilised peopleor we leave right now. We wont set foot here again, and the whole family will know what youve becomestuck-up Londoner. Choose.
I looked at Peter. His stony face betrayed full support. He was just as tired of rudeness and unyielding demands.
Thats no choice, Harriet, I said calmly, rising. Ive offered generous hospitality, a feast, comfortable beds. You demand my personal space and issue ultimatums. If a bed means more than family, perhaps youre better off elsewhere.
Oh really?! Mabel sprang up, forgetting her sciatica. Pack up, Harriet! Dress the children! We won’t spend another minute hereId sooner sleep on a train platform!
Mum, what now? Its nightthe trains are done! Harriet was clearly flustered, not expecting her bluff to be called. Shed banked on my meltdown and surrender.
Well get a cab! Well go to Ediths across the citycramped in a council flat maybe, but shes kind, would give you the shirt off her back! Let them choke on their truffles here!
Chaos erupted. Harriet, glaring, shoved clothes into bags. Aunt Mabel wandered aloud, lamenting injustice to invisible audiences.
Give back our presents! Aunt Mabel barked in the hallway. I brought you a set of linen towelsyou havent earned them. Edith will have them.
I fetched the unused, scratchy towels and handed them over.
Here. Dont forget your mushrooms.
And well take those chocolates brought for the children!
Peter leaned silently against the door frame, embarrassed by grown-ups acting worse than spoiled kids.
Packing took fifteen minutes, with Mabel spewing old grievances and prophecy of our lonely demise.
Did you call a cab? asked Peter softly, while they fussed with shoes.
We dont want your charity! Well ring our own! Harriet spat, poking at her phone. Come on, Mumcars here in five minutes, airs toxic in here.
The noisy crowd stormed out. The new oak door slammed so hard the ceiling plaster flaked.
The flat fell silent. Only the fridge humming and the clock ticking in the lounge remained. The prawn salad was half-eaten on the table, napkins strewn, juice stains on the tablecloth.
I sat down, face in my hands, shoulders shaking.
Peter came over, wrapped an arm around me, kissed my hair.
There, there, Margaret. Its all over. Theyre gone.
I looked up, no tears on my facejust laughter. Tense, but light.
Did you see that? Rather sleep at the station than here! Honestly, what bliss!
Peter chuckled. What bliss indeed. By the wayMabels meat jelly is still out on the balcony!
I laughed aloud.
That meat jelly! Their sacred treasure! And Edith, in that tiny room with her drunk husband, will be thrilled for such company on New Year’s Eve.
Thats no longer our problem, Peter said philosophically, pouring himself some bubbly. You know, I felt awkward at first, but when she dragged your mother into itI barely managed not to show them out myself. You were brave.
I just love our bedroom, I admitted, sipping Peters drink. And you. And our peace. This might be the very best New Year: just us, a feast fit for an army, and nobody grumbling about my salad.
We began clearing the excess plates. I gathered dirty dishes, Peter loaded the dishwasher. The air felt lighter; the heavy fog of envy and complaint had lifted.
I went to the window. Outside, fat snowflakes fell, covering the tracks of their departing cab. The city glittered. Somewhere in that whirlwind, my relatives sped away, carrying their bitterness. I almost pitied themliving with such burdens must be harder than sleeping on a sofa.
Peter, I called, lets put on music! Light some candles. It is a celebration, after all.
Absolutely, he answered from the kitchen. And the roast is about ready. That ducknever got tasted.
An hour later, we sat at the newly set table. Candles glowed, soft jazz played. The duck with apples was a triumphcrisp, juicy, aromatic.
To us, Peter raised a toast, to our home. May it always have room only for those who respect it.
And for boundaries, I touched my glass to his, which weve finally learned to defend.
Late that night, in our cherished bedroomon the bed contested so fiercelyI felt immense peace. Silence enveloped us, the sheets smelled of lavender and fresh airnot someone elses perfume. I smirked to think of my kin huddled with Edith, or perhaps at the train station, cursing pampered Margaret. But no guilt tugged at me.
I saw it clearly: you cant please everyone, especially at your own expense. If the price of tranquility is the annoyance of rude relatives, its worth it.
By morning, my mobile buzzed with messages. Other relatives, already fed a distorted story of how I threw out sick Aunt Mabel into the freezing London night. I ignored it all, switched to airplane mode, stretched under the covers, and smiled at the new day.
As for the meat jelly, Peter and I fed it to the local strays. The dogs were sincerely gratefulnever complained about the garlic or the texture. Animals know how to appreciate kindness, unlike some people.
