The Enigmatic Sack: A Drama of Reckoning
In the seaside town of Pineham, where morning mist settles on rooftops and the scent of pine mingles with salt air, Albert dragged an enormous white sack to the doorstep, exhausted.
“Blimey, this weighs a ton!” he muttered, glaring at his burden.
Wiping sweat from his brow, he punched the flat code into the intercom.
“Albie, is that you?” came his mother-in-law’s voice before he hauled the sack toward the lift.
Heaving it straight into the kitchen, he plopped it by the table.
“Albert, what on earth is that?” gasped Dorothy Whitmore, eyeing her son-in-law with suspicion.
Albert flashed a sly grin.
“Just you wait!” he said, unearthing the sack’s contents onto the table.
“Good heavens, Albie, why so much?” Dorothy clutched her chest as her eyes bulged.
Before Albert came along, Dorothy prided herself on thrift. Her daughter, Emily, had suffered for it.
“Emily, put that detergent back!” Dorothy commanded in the shop. “Grab the one beside it—half the price! Stock up while you’re at it!”
“Mum, it’s rubbish quality…” Emily protested.
“Rubbish? Just unadvertised! Detergent’s detergent! Must you be so naive?”
Emily grumbled about penny-pinchers paying twice but obeyed.
If detergent was bearable, clothes were worse.
“Mum, how does this skirt look?” Emily modeled a new purchase.
“Another one? What’s it cost?” Dorothy scowled.
“What does it matter? I haven’t bought anything in ages! It suits me!”
“The price always matters!” Dorothy crossed her arms, drilling into her daughter.
Emily named the sum, bracing for impact.
“Good grief! That’s daylight robbery!” Dorothy huffed.
“Mum, enough! You can’t get anything decent for less these days! I deserve something nice—I’ve worn rags forever!”
“Nice doesn’t mean pricey!” Dorothy snapped.
Arguments about fabric quality or fit fell on deaf ears.
“Mum, why must you be so stingy? We’re not paupers!” Emily burst out.
“Exactly why—because I save! You take after your father, a proper wastrel!”
Emily flinched, recalling her parents’ divorce. The fights, the asset battles, the alimony—it had turned Dorothy into a miser.
At university, Emily never invited friends over. Dorothy saw guests as frivolous expenses.
“Pointless gatherings!” she’d grumble. “Eating, drinking, nattering—then the hostess cleans up and restocks the fridge!”
Emily gave up explaining. After graduation, she found work and met Albert.
“Mum won’t like him,” she knew instantly.
Albert had none of Dorothy’s priorities: no flat, no wealthy family, no inheritance—just an office worker with ambitions. Ambitions, Dorothy believed, couldn’t be spent. Emily delayed introductions, but when Albert proposed, she caved.
“Alb, my mum’s… particular. Frugal beyond reason.”
“Sensible,” he shrugged.
“No, you don’t get it. She’s a full-blown penny-pincher. She’ll tally every bite you take. Brace yourself. We’ll rent after the wedding—let her hoard alone.”
“Rubbish!” Albert grinned. “We’ll manage. Better live with her—we’ll never afford our own place otherwise.”
Emily hesitated. “He’s in for a shock. But fine—we’ll leave if it’s unbearable.”
“Alright, let’s risk it. But if it’s too much, say so.”
“You underestimate me,” Albert winked.
The modest wedding pleased Dorothy.
“Wise—no need to waste money!”
Learning the newlyweds would move in, Dorothy sighed but saw logic:
“Fine, save for a flat. But my rules stand!”
“Absolutely!” Albert cut in. “You’re brilliant, Dorothy! Youth today can’t budget, then moan. I’m on your side!”
Dorothy flushed with pride.
“What a gem! Poor but sharp. He’ll go far,” she mused.
Albert swiftly won her trust, proposing:
“Let me handle groceries and household supplies. I know the cheapest spots—smart savings!”
“Oh, Albie, you’re a treasure!” Dorothy beamed.
Emily listened, stunned, as Albert winked.
Soon, cupboards groaned with stockpiles. Albert kept his word, and Dorothy rejoiced—briefly.
“No, no, that’s too much!” Albert confiscated Dorothy’s detergent scoop, halving the portion. “This’ll do!”
Dorothy blinked at the meager pile.
“Albie, that won’t clean anything—”
“It’ll foam—that’s clean enough!”
Dorothy wondered if he was right.
Later, he asked Emily:
“What’s Dorothy’s weakness? What does she splurge on?”
“Ah! Crockery. Won’t touch secondhand. Saves on everything—except new, pretty dishes.”
“Got it,” Albert smirked. “That’s waste. We’ll fix it.”
“Dorothy, look what I found online—a bargain set!” He displayed chipped cups.
Dorothy recoiled.
“Online? Used!”
“So? A wash—good as new!”
“Never! Who knows who ate from them?”
“I won’t eat from these. We’ll buy new if needed!” Dorothy stood firm.
“What about saving?” Albert feigned shock.
“Crockery’s the exception.”
“Fine. Just remember—exceptions might apply to us too,” he sighed.
Dorothy sensed a trap but missed it.
“Round one to us!” Albert whispered to Emily that night.
“Did you just… soften her?” Emily gaped.
“A smidge. Just warming up,” he promised.
A tip came from his mate Paul, whose mum had passed. He invited Albert to clear her flat.
“Mate, the hoarding—soap, detergent, linens, clothes—all brand new! Lived like a nun. Gobsmacked!” Paul said.
Albert helped, whistling at the hoard.
“Blimey! Should’ve visited more.”
“Aye… Worked abroad, called often—seemed fine. Now this. Take what you need, else it’s bin-bound.”
“Cheers, this’ll do!” Albert stuffed a sack with soap.
“Wait—might be expired,” Paul warned.
“Perfect!” Albert grinned.
Late that night, he hauled the sack home.
“Bloody backbreaker,” he groaned, tapping the intercom.
“Albie, that you?” Dorothy called.
He dumped the sack in the kitchen.
“Albert, what in heaven’s name—?”
“Wait for it!” He piled soap onto the table.
“Heavens! Why so much? Where’d you get it?”
“Paul’s mum passed. He was binning it all. Waste not! She saved stacks but lived modestly—bless her.” The soap mountain grew.
Dorothy stared, an odd sorrow swelling in her chest. Why—she couldn’t say.
That night, she dreamed she lay in a sack with armholes, buried under towers of untouched things: shoe boxes, detergent, quilts—all new. A wad of cash sat on the nightstand.
“Did I hoard all this?” she marveled in the dream.
The door, blocked by boxes, creaked open. A figure in a black shroud entered.
“Quit gawking—time to go! You leave it all!” The voice rasped as a bony finger pointed at the hoard, then at her.
Dorothy screamed awake. Her room was empty.
“Just a dream, thank God!” She wiped her brow.
And pondered…
Next morning, she breezed into the kitchen where Emily and Albert breakfasted.
“Dearests, I’ve decided! I’ll help with your flat deposit! I’ve saved a bit!”
Emily dropped her spoon. Albert choked.
“Mum, thank you! We’ll repay—but why the change?”
“Enough hoarding! Can’t take it with you! Time to live!” Dorothy hummed, reaching for the teapot. “Fancy shopping today?”
Emily and Albert exchanged glances—a miracle! And who were they to refuse?
