The Awkward Daughter-in-Law
Claire, did you read my list at all? I gave you the list, its all written there, Mrs. Eileen Bakers voice suggested she was speaking to someone not exactly top of the class. Its written right there: jellied eel from three types of fish. Three, Claire. Not two, not one. Three.
I did read it, Eileen, Claire replied. I actually wanted to talk to you about that. The partys in a week and I thought
You thought, Eileen cut her off, letting the word thought dangle in the air like a cold accusation. You thought, but Im telling you. Jellied eelthree types of fish, cabbage and mushroom pies, poached salmon, that prawn cocktail salad, Coronation chicken, egg mayonnaise, those devilled eggs, pancakes with clotted cream, duck with Bramley apples, potato roulade, bread and butter pudding, Battenberg cake, and a Black Forest gateau. Thats the bare minimum, Claire. Forty people are coming.
Claire stood in her kitchen, staring out the window, phone pressed to her ear. Outside, November drizzle sloshed down, grey, soggy, and just about as welcome as this conversation.
Okay. Right, Eileen, she said. Let me ring you back a bit later, if thats alright?
Dont leave it too late. Weve barely got any time before Saturday.
Claire put her phone on the table, gazed at it with the same enthusiasm she reserved for root canal appointments. The list, written in Eileens bossy, all-caps handwriting, lay under the salt shaker. Claire picked it up. Fourteen items, each followed by a note: home-madenot from Marks & Spencer, like last time but better.
Like last time. Last time was for her sister-in-law Lindas fifth wedding anniversary. Claire started cooking three days in advance. Three days! By the evening of day two her feet had gone on strike and her hands were a tapestry of cuts and cracks from endless dishwashing. John would come home, graze straight from the saucepan, then plant himself in front of the tellyhed asked once if she needed help. Claire, foolishly optimistic then, had said, No, Ill manage. Hed nodded in relief and left. No malice, just calm… vanishing.
At the event itself, Eileen sampled the jellied eel, beckoned Claire over, and murmured, almost devoid of tone, Bit too much salt. That was it. The guests raved, came back for seconds, someone declared they hadnt tasted such good pies in years. Eileen nodded and said, Its tradition in our family. Not a word about Claire.
Now, in the flat on Ashcroft Road where she and John had survived nineteen years, Claire was seized by the dawning realisation: for Eileen, tradition meant something very specific. Tradition: the daughter-in-law cooks. Tradition: the daughter-in-law cleans. Tradition: if shes invited to the table, she says thank you.
Her phone buzzed. Linda.
Claire, did you talk to Mum? She said you were, well, a bit odd.
I was normal. Just tired.
See? The partys a week away, you should start shopping now. I can come with you Wednesday to help carry bags. Actually… no, Ive got my nails on Wednesday. Thursday?
Dont worry, Linda, Ill manage the shopping, Claire said, gently.
Alright. Just, Mum said she only wants Bramley apples for the duck, not any other apple. Bramleys are a bit tart, you know.
I know.
And the jellys got to be clear this time. Last time it was a tad murky.
Claire closed her eyes. Crystal-clear jellied eel with three types of fish. Bramley apples for the duck. Two cakes. Forty people.
Alright, Linda. I heard you.
She put her phone away and stood up. She needed to start dinner. John would be home at seven, hungry as a bear with man flu. If there wasnt dinner, hed cast her that long-suffering glance and mutter, No dinner tonight? Not accusing, nojust bewildered. Like someone whos turned up at the bus stop and the 38s disappeared.
Claire opened the fridge. Out came a chicken, onion, carrot. Saucepan on the hob. Her moves were second nature by now. Nineteen years of the same moves.
Shed met John at twenty-six. He was lively, noisya natural storyteller. Eileen, at their first meeting, declared, Youre a clever woman, Claire, I can see it right away. Claire took it as a compliment. Eventually she realised, clever really meant, knows when not to argue.
She married John at twenty-eight. First yearfine. Then along came Ben. Then Ben grew up and went to university in Leeds. Then what was left? The flat, the kitchen, the checklist on a battered notepad.
Broth bubbling, Claire turned the heat down and wandered into the lounge. She was about to call her mum, just to hear a friendly voice, but her phone rang first.
It was Mum.
Claire, sweetheartcan you come over tonight?
Whats happened?
Dads unwell, we called the ambulance. Were at the hospital now.
Claire was halfway into her mac when she remembered the broth. She dashed back and switched off the hob. Quickly texted John: Dads unwell, going to Mum and Dads, dinners on the stove. Grabbed her bag and left.
Outside, it was black and soggy. She flagged down a cab and gloomily watched the streetlights bleed past. Dad. Tom. Seventy-two. Heart like an ox, never complained. Hed always said, Ill probably outlive you all, you know. She wanted that to be true. Needed it to be true.
The hospital stank of disinfectant and stretched white corridors. Mum waited by a window, clutching her handbag.
Mum.
Mum turned. Her eyes were dry, but one look made Claires own throat tighten.
They said his blood pressures very high. And somethings wrong with his head. He collapsed in the hallway. I went to get the post, and there he was.
How is he now?
Still being checked. Doctor said to wait.
They sat on those typical hospital chairs and waited. Mum held Claires handtiny and cool. Claire thought she hadnt visited for nearly three weeks. No time. Always somethingshopping, cleaning, cooking, Eileens never-ending menu wrangling.
After an age, the doctor came outyoung, scruffy, glasses.
Weve stabilised him, he said. But we suspect a minor strokehell need further tests, and monitoring, at least a week in hospital.
Is he going to be okay? Mum asked.
Well see. Its too early to say.
Claire drove Mum home, made tea, sat with her till she nodded off in her chair. Then, quietly, she sat at her parents kitchen table, alone. The silence here was soft, like an old cardigan. Mums geraniums in the window still bloomed, year after year, without fuss. On the wall, a photo: seven-year-old Claire clutching Dads hand, both looking away, Dad grinning at her.
She got home after midnight.
John was awake, phone in hand, but put it down as she appeared.
How is he?
Not great. They think he had a small stroke.
Serious, he said, quietly. Did you eat at least?
No.
Theres chicken in the pan, Ive warmed it. Have some.
She ate, standing by the sink, too knackered to bother with plates. Then climbed straight into bed and stared at the ceiling for ages, thinking of Dads face, Mums hands, the smell of their kitchen.
In the morning, Eileen rang.
Claire, I heard you went out last night? John said it was something about your father. You do know theres only six days left until my party?
Eileen, my dads in hospital.
Yes, I heard. But the hospitals nearby, isnt it? Youre not lying there yourself. When are you planning to start the cooking?
Something inside Claire went peculiarly still and clear. Like water thats stopped moving.
Im not sure.
What do you mean, not sure? Eileen sounded genuinely shocked. Claire, this is my seventieth. That only happens once in a lifetime. Understand?
I do. My dad only happens once too.
Silence.
Well, Eileen sniffed after a moment, Im sure youll manage. No need to be in hospital all day. Visit and youre done.
Claire said nothing. Said goodbye, hung up.
John sat in the kitchen with his coffee, looking at her.
Your mum? he asked.
Yes.
And?
Asking about the cooking.
He nodded, sipped. Eventually said, Look, Claire, its her big birthday. You understand. Forty people. Cant just cancel.
Im not saying cancel.
Exactly. So theres time. Visit your dad obviously, but you can cook at the same time, cant you?
Claire looked at him. He was glued to his phone, furrow-browednot because of her, but because of something online.
John, she said. If this were your mum in hospital, what would you do?
He blinked. Whats that got to do with anything?
Nothing. Just wondering.
Thats different.
Why?
Because shes my mum, he said, as if that explained everything.
Claire shrugged on her coat and headed out.
Dad was in a four-bed ward, sleeping when she arrived; relief washed over as the nurse said he was just napping. She sat awhile, watched him breathegreyish stubble, hefty hands across the blanket. Those hands once made her wooden birds. Those hands once caught her mid-fall off her first bike.
Dad woke, saw her, smiled weakly, as if not sure he was dreaming.
You came, he rasped. His voice barely there. Normally it boomed.
Course I did. How are you?
Oh, alright. Bit dizzy. Nothing much.
Its not nothing, Dad.
He shrugged as best he could. Well see.
She stayed two hours. Rang Mum to say Dad was awake and chatty. Mum said, Oh thank goodness, with such relief Claires eyes stung.
Claire bussed home, staring out the steamed-up window. This. This was important. Dad in hospital. Mum home alone. The list with the Bramley apples and the crystal-clear jelly? Not important. Not at all. And the shock, realising it, was how obvious it felt. Why hadnt she made space for that thought before now?
John came home cheerful, waving a loaf from Sainsburys, nattering on about work. She listened, nodded, finally announced, John, Im not cooking for the party.
He froze, glass still in hand.
What do you mean, youre not cooking?
I mean Im not cooking. Dads in hospital. Mum needs support. I cant stand in the kitchen for three days.
He bristled, using her full namehis trademark when things were serious. Claire, thats forty people. Mum needs this. Its her birthday!
John, my fathers had a stroke.
I get that. Its serious. But hes got doctors, right? Doesnt mean you have to be there day and night.
No. But it does mean Im not cooking twelve bloody dishes for forty people while Dads in hospital.
He paced. You get this isnt something we can cancel, right? Everyones invited, Lindas told everyone!
Then order food.
Order food? The horror in his voice, as though shed proposed serving Pot Noodle at Buckingham Palace. Mum wants home-made. You know how she is.
Oh, I do, said Claire. Only too well.
John looked at her, something odd flitting across his facenot anger, not quite. More the confusion of a man whose remote has suddenly stopped working.
Come on, Claire, think it through. Its just this once. Dads in hospital. Youll visit, but cant you cook as well?
No.
No?
No, John.
He vanished into the other room. Five minutes later, Linda called.
Claire, whats going on? John says youre refusing to cook? Forty people, Claire. Do you get that?
I get that.
Mums turning seventy. Doesnt that mean anything?
It does. So does my dad, whos ill right now.
But we cant move the party!
Linda, you can order catering. Or cook yourselves. Ill give you the recipes.
Silence. Then:
But we cant cook like you do.
You can learn.
She put the phone down. Surprisingly, her hands didnt even tremble.
Next day, Claire was back at the hospital. Dad was a little better, sitting up, pulling faces at the mush they fed him. Its like nursery food, he grumbled. She laughed. Shed brought home-made chicken brothMums idea. Dad drank it all, sighed contentedly. Thats more like it.
Later, Mum and Claire sat in the tiny family kitchen, drinking tea. Bright curtains, the fridge handle barely hanging on, bread and the whiff of last summers home-dried mint. The scent was as familiar as her own namea world away from Eileens kitchen and the endless dictatorship of the to-do list.
How are you, love? Mum asked quietly.
Alright. Ill manage.
Any drama with John?
Eileens party is Saturday.
You going?
Maybe. But Im not cooking.
Mum paused, then asked, gently, as if tip-toeing towards something long considered: Claire, are you happy, there?
Claire looked at her.
What do you mean?
I just see how you are, always rushing, always tired. Never sitting down. Like nowyouve checked your phone twice.
Claire glanced at her phone. True.
Habit.
I know, Mum said. Nothing more. Just poured more tea.
On Wednesday Eileen called. This time her voice was brittle, quivering.
Claire, we need to talk like adults.
Im listening, Eileen.
Im sorry about your father, really I am. But Ive waited twenty years for this birthday. Im seventy. Im an old woman, Claire. This is my only seventy.
Claire was silent.
Im not asking you to abandon your father, Eileen continued. Just to do what you do best. Youre the best cook I know. This is your contribution to the family. Isnt it?
Eileen, Claire said slowly, I realised something this week. My contribution to the family isnt a jellied eel or a pie. My dads in hospital, and I want to be with him.
Well, be with him then. Whos stopping you? Hospital in the morning, cook in the evening. Its not impossible.
Its impossible for me. I cant pretend everythings grand when it isnt.
Long silence.
Youve always been a little complicated, Eileen remarked. Not unkindjust as if reading the weather.
Probably, Claire admitted.
Johns very upset.
I know.
He says youve changed.
Maybe I have.
She hung up. Still, her hands were steady.
Thursday morning, Claire packed a small bag. Change of clothes, phone charger, straighteners, passport. She didnt agonise, she just did it. Texted Ben: Grandads better. Ill stay at Nannys for a few days. Im okay. Ben replied almost instantly: Mum, Ill call tonightyou sure youre alright? Absolutely. Love you.
Once John had gone to work, Claire left a brief note on the kitchen table: Staying with Mum and Dad. Will call.
She paused a moment at her kitchen door. Nineteen years in this room; this cooker, this smell, this alien morning. She shut the door, went downstairs, stepped out.
The rain had finally stopped. It was cold and clear, the sky that odd late-autumn blue-grey reserved for November in England. Claire headed for the bus stop, thinking: nineteen years is a long time; nearly half a life, and shed spent half hers accepting whatever crumbs were offered. Nothing more.
At her parents place, there was the comforting fug of mint and home. Mum opened the door, saw the bag, said nothingjust stood aside. Then hugged her, brief and tight. Claire felt, in that hug, something tightly wound inside her begin to ease.
Staying for a while? Mum asked.
A few days. If thats alright.
What do you mean if? Its your home.
Claire stayed four days. Each morning, she and Mum trekked to the hospital. Dad improvedconversation making sense again, complaining about the NHS porridge, asking for real food. Doctor said things looked hopeful, but slow. Theyd need rehab.
Those four days, Claire slept more than she had in ten yearsno alarm, no lists, just sleep. She ate Mums food, solid and simple: porridge, bangers and mash, apples plucked from the garden in September. Apple crumble, nothing fancy. But the aroma nearly made her cry at the table.
You alright? Mum noticed.
Just tasty, Claire said, dabbing her eyes.
Mum nodded, didnt question.
John called. First time was Friday night. His voice was braced.
When are you coming back?
Dont know.
Claire, the partys tomorrow. The whole familys here.
I know.
Mums panicking. Lindas tried to join in but shes burnt half the kitchen.
Best order food. I did say.
You know Mums upset, right?
I do. Sorry its like this. But I need to be here.
Long pause.
Youve changed, he said. Like Eileen, but differenthalf hurt, half lost.
Maybe I have.
Saturday, Claire didnt go to the party.
She and Mum delivered Dads breakfasthomemade soup, a soft roll fresh from the oven. Dad wolfed it down, praised the bread, quipped that as soon as he got home hed cook for himself since Mum seemed out of practice. Mum laughed; this was just their way, gentle bickering really a sign of how well they fit, two people whod grown old together without ever growing apart.
Saturday evening, Claire curled up with a book as Mum knitted across the room; snow fell gently outside, now the proper December sort. Her phone buzzed: Linda in high dudgeonIt was a total disaster; nearly no food, appalling, never again. Eileen said nothing. John texted a single word: Well?
Claire put down the phone and picked up her book.
The Proper Talk with John happened days later, when she finally went home to Ashcroft Road for her paperwork, her things, her notional life. By then, Dad had moved to the regular wardstable, Mum handling things.
John sat in the kitchen as she came in, something about him shifted, skewed.
Can we talk? he asked.
Lets.
They talked. No shouting, no dramajust honesty. Perhaps for the first time in years. Not the usual work/dinner weather reports. Claire told him she was tired. Tired of being a function, not a person. For nineteen years shed bent and twisted herself into the shape of convenientand lost something unnamed in the process. John listened, occasionally tried to explain, I didnt mean it, it just happened, my mums always been that way. Claire didnt argue, just voiced it as she saw it.
Do you want a divorce? he asked, bluntly.
She paused. I want life to be different. I dont know exactly whats next.
He nodded, filled a glass with water.
Ill ring Ben.
Alright.
Ben appeared a fortnight later, suitcase in hand, doing his Serious Talk facethe same one from childhood.
How are you, Mum?
Im okay, Ben. Really.
Dad said… things are complicated.
Theyre fair, she corrected him gently. Thats the wordfair.
He stayed three days. They talked and talked; he got cross with her, then with his dad, then simply accepted things and sat with her. When he left, he hugged her and murmured, You look less exhausted than you have in years.
Is it that obvious?
Hugely.
The divorce was amicable, no dramamore like two housemates gently parting ways. John kept the flat. Claire packed her things in a few boxes and moved in with her parents for the time being. Mum said nothingjust made up the spare room, put out clean sheets, and, on the nightstand, placed the one surviving wooden bird Dad had carved for Claire as a child. Claire found it, light and warm, tiny knife-marks all over.
Dad came home early December. He walked, slowly, using a stick, but walked. He paused on the doorstep, looked at Claire.
Well now, he said. Everyones home.
Christmas was a quiet affair: just Claire, Mum, Dad and Ben, who came down especially. They put up the tree, watched cheesy old films, ate Mums Coronation chicken and apple tart. Nothing fancy. Claire helped make the pie, standing next to Mum at the floured worktop, thinking, This is cooking for people. Not for checklists. Not for tradition. For people.
In February, Claire rented a tiny flat. One-bedroom, fifth floor, window overlooking a little back garden and some birches. Bare, barely furnished, with a faint smell of fresh paint and that peculiar hint of borrowed life. Claire unpacked, and stood in the middle of the empty room a long time, before finally moving to the window and gazing out at the birches.
One day in March, Linda calledvoice both wounded and oddly hopeful, an all-in-one British blend.
Claire, how are you? Mums worried, though shed never say soyou know what shes like.
I do.
So hows things?
Alright, Linda. Living.
Could you possibly, just sometimes, pop by, for birthdays at least? Were a bit all over the place here.
Claire smiled, unseen.
Ill think about it. Lets see how it goes.
You do still make better jellied eel than anyone else. Ours just comes out cloudy.
Ill text you the recipe. Just remember: siphon the jelly through double muslin. Give it a go.
Are you serious?
Yes, Linda. Its not rocket science. You just need to do it yourself.
She texted the recipe; Linda sent back a stunned face emoji and went silent.
Dad recovered slowly but steadily. By spring hed lost the stick, grumbled about being overprotected, insisted on visiting the allotment against all advice. Claire drove him there one May morning, helped open up the hut, brewed tea on the veranda in battered blue-rimmed mugs. Wild cherry just in blossom down by the fence.
Dad, she said, Do you remember making me those little wooden birds?
I do. You always lost half of them.
I kept one. Its still with me.
I know. Mum told me. He was quiet a moment. Youre a good one, Claire.
For what?
For being you. He sipped his tea. Lifes long. Dont waste it.
She nodded. Beyond the garden, the scent of blossom and earth, and the softest silencebroken only by a distant woodpigeon.
That spring, Claire went back to work. Shed been a bookkeeper once, let it slip in favour of family comes firstEileens mantra. This time, she joined a small firm, nice crowd, lots of tea. Took some getting used to, but eventually, Claire found something shed lost: ownership of her day.
Weekends, shed visit her parents. Sometimes shed stay over. She and Mum baked pies for no reason, just one, never more, with whatever fillings theyd got. Dad gave unsolicited advice; Mum told him shed cope just fine without it. The wooden bird sat on the nightstand, calm as ever.
One summer evening, Ben rang, just to natter.
How are you, Mum?
Good, Ben. Honestly.
Glad to hear it. Youre different now.
Different?
In a good way.
She laughed.
So, son, hows life?
Grand. Works busy. Might pop down in August.
Dolet me know. Ill make a proper stew.
Your stew, with Mums recipe?
Thats the only way. Theres none better.
Deal, he agreed, and Claire smiled as she gazed out her little window, the birches thick with green leavesher own new life, fresh and entirely hers.
