Looking back now, it seems peculiar how a pleasant enough conversation could leave one yearning for its end. “Well, this time, I do hope you’re not just coming for three days? You will stay longer, won’t you? Eleanor! Why so quiet?”
“Patricia, happy birthday again! Do take care, won’t you? William and I will call as soon as our plans are quite settled.” Eleanor was quick to ring off.
*Brrr*, she shuddered mentally, setting the telephone aside. *Such a strange thing – the chat seemed friendly enough, my mother-in-law was unusually pleasant for once, and the occasion was joyful, her birthday. Yet from the very first word to the last, all I wished was to finish.*
Eleanor had absolutely no desire to spend their precious, long-awaited holiday, finally timed with her husband’s leave, with his mother. She firmly believed a million other places existed where she, William, and the children could have a perfectly splendid time. She had, naturally, hinted to William that perhaps this summer they might choose somewhere other than Patricia’s cottage. But William was immovable. His upbringing held firm: elders were to be loved and respected. One couldn’t fail to please one’s parents with a visit. It simply wasn’t done.
* * *
“Ellie, I see my parents barely once a year as it is,” William argued. “Surely you don’t expect us to cease visiting them on holiday? The children will forget they have grandparents living elsewhere entirely.”
“Darling, how to put this gently…” Eleanor began carefully. “Has it never crossed your mind that perhaps these visits are more for you than for them?”
“What do you mean?” William frowned, a puzzled look crossing his face.
“Only that your parents seem quite accustomed to living apart from you, from your family. They seem perfectly content as they are. They don’t appear to suffer from not seeing their grandchildren or spending time with them. Life is perfectly splendid for them regardless.”
“Ellie, what utter nonsense! What brings this on?”
“This: your mother, in her letters, asks only one thing of me – to send photos of the older boys or a video of the baby. That’s all. She never asks how they *are*, how they fare at school, if they’ve been ill. The grandchildren seem required only for a pretty picture to show her neighbours or friends. A perfect tableau, nothing more. What lies behind it doesn’t concern her. Our troubles and difficulties hold no interest.”
“I cannot agree,” William countered. “We live too far away. They haven’t the means to mind little Nicholas, take him to nursery, or meet the older lads from school. Were we nearby, it would be quite different.”
“You know, William,” Eleanor persisted, “my own mother lives quite as far away. Yet it doesn’t hinder her from rushing to us in a crisis. Like Chip and Dale, always prepared to help. How many times last year did she take leave or sick days, buy a train ticket, and dash here at the first sign of trouble? I cannot say I’ve observed such readiness from your mother and father.”
“Yes, Ellie, your mother is a golden woman,” William conceded. “I don’t deny it. I’m immensely thankful to Margaret. I’ve told her so often. She’s our port in every storm.”
“And so it is. When we visit *her*, she strives to spend every possible moment with the boys. Walks, cycling, paddling in the river, games of chase and football. She adores them, and they return her affection. That’s how it ought to be in a family. Warmth, care, love.”
“Ellie, what is it you want of me?” William asked, exasperated. “People differ. Your mother is a live wire. Ever young, the life and soul. Mine are older folk, of a different stamp altogether. What then? Are we simply not to visit?”
Eleanor paused briefly, pressing her lips together as if holding back. But not this time. “I feel dreadfully uneasy there, William. And the children too. Uncomfortable, awkward. It’s difficult to say precisely why.”
“How so you say? Why? My parents have a splendid cottage. We each have our rooms. It’s spotless, convenient, comfortable. What more is needed?”
“You know the saying, William: ‘Feather beds make hard pillows’. That captures exactly how I feel under your mother’s roof.”
“That’s unexpected,” William murmured, taken aback. “acknowledgeWhy keep silent? It always seemed you and the children were quite happy there. A holiday at my parents’ always struck me as ideal. Visit the old folk, give you all a nice break. What troubles you?”
“Everything,” Eleanor confessed. “From the moment our rather large tribe descends upon their house, their perfect, peaceful, orderly world – the one they’re used to – collapses instantly.”
“Never noticed,” William said dismissively. “Honestly, Ellie, you imagine things. You grow overly sensitive with the years.”
“William, my dear,” Eleanor pressed, “you’re often occupied there – helping with chores, pleasing your parents. At Mum and Dad’s cottage, you scarce spend time with me and the children; you run errands for them. While I see and hear everything. Every cutting remark from your mother, every disapproving glance from your father. Do you suppose it pleases me? We’ve been wed ten years, yet I feel Patricia has never truly accepted me as your wife. Perhaps she isn’t truly pleased you have us at all.”
“Eleanor!” William snapped, nettled and eager to end this unpleasantness. “Alright. We shall visit them, as planned. But you must try to observe more keenly what transpires in the house. Then, I think, matters will become clearer. And you’ll perhaps understand I don’t carp without cause.”
On that note, the matter rested.
* * *
In the following days, Eleanor packed for their large family, while William moved about under a dark cloud. Her words had clearly stung.
The journey to William’s parents took near four hours. Eleanor did her utmost to foster a merry holiday mood, singing songs and playing with the younger boys in the back. She knew her revelations pained William, but silence was no longer possible.
Too long had Eleanor played the agreeable wife. Forever smiling sweetly at her in-laws, never countering their snide remarks about herself or sharp comments about the children. She’d sought to avoid family strife. But it seemed it had been to no purpose. Her mother-in-law, sensing boundless sway, never missed a chance to needle her. Nothing was ever right.
The children too noisy? Eleanor’s poor discipline. William too thin? Eleanor’s poor cooking. Her skirts unbecomingly short. Indeed, Patricia could find fault with Eleanor on the flattest ground. Eleanor, weary of this perpetual oppression, resolved things would be different
As their car wound its way towards the Cornish coast, Eleanor rested her head against the window, the quiet hum of the engine a soothing balm after years spent navigating the brittle hospitality shown beneath Margaret’s roof, finally understanding the old truth about soft sheets and hard sleep.
Soft Words, Hard Truths
