The overbearing kin
How do you picture it, Mother? I asked, exasperated. Do you expect me to spend two weeks under the roof of a complete stranger?
It isnt a stranger, she snapped. Hes George Whitaker, the son of my cousin Lydia, a proper member of the family!
Remember how we used to stay with them when we were children? Mother reminded me. You played with George then.
Mother, Im nearly thirty, I protested. Where is my youth now? Are you trying to push me into marriage again?
Dont be foolish, she said firmly. Hes family, so welcome himnothing will happen to you. And with that she hung up.
Mother always held kinship in the highest regard; blood is thicker than water, she used to say. So she promptly thrust the idea of taking in her grownup cousin, who had decided to move to the capital the city of chances.
Take him in as family, she urged. He cant be turned away, especially not in London!
The wellread schoolmistress, who taught English literature to older pupils, recalled that the adverb as family was a favourite of the notorious playwright Horace Glover, celebrated for his dubious deeds, much like the legendary Mrs. Grumble.
She offered to host the distant nephew herself, being the goodnatured soul she was. After all, why should a stranger be turned away at the very door?
Mother lived with Father in a cramped postwar council flat with a tinny, laughably tiny kitchen where even a folding chair would not fit. How could she possibly lodge George in such a space? What are you thinking, Emily? she chided.
My spirits soured; I had long been accustomed to living alone. A fleeting marriage never counted. That studentfling had ended after six months, and the child never arrived. I did not wish another reckless union.
Approaching my thirtieth birthday, I still had no husband. That worried my parents more than me; I was perfectly content.
I owned a sturdy twobedroom council house, a legacy from my grandmother. Inside were many dated items, yet all worked. The washing machine spun, the fridge chilled, the telly flickered what more could one ask?
At work I held a respectable post with a decent salary, and my colleagues valued me. I never lacked friends, and the solitude at home was eased by my cat, Biscuit, who shared his name with the hunting dog in the wellknown tale of the Little Lost Boy.
I prepared a spare room for George and anxiously awaited his arrival. Youll like him, dear, Mother had promised.
When George finally turned the key, he inspected the flat with the thoroughness of a man accustomed to being under scrutiny.
What are you looking for? I asked, halfjoking. Gold and diamonds? Did I install a golden toilet for your stay?
I just want to know where Ill be sleeping, he replied.
If you dont like something, will you leave? I pressed, curiosity getting the better of me.
Ill stay, but
But what?
Nothing at all, he said with a shrug.
We sat down for tea. George had brought a slice of cake, a recipe handed down by Lydia, and a small, tasty torte of his own. He turned out not to be a presumptuous freeloader.
In practical matters he was exemplary: without a reminder he washed the dishes alongside me, cooked decently, and never left puddles in the bathroom. He was, in short, toilettrained.
Thanks to Aunt Lydia and Georges first wife, whose identity now mattered little, he seemed welladjusted. He, too, was divorced.
My word, Emily! exclaimed my friend Clara when I told her about our new houseguest. He sounds like a readymade husband you should take him!
Clara, who had split from her own Lev after similar reasons, knew what she meant.
But were relatives! And I dont like him! I retorted.
Youre kin? Thats as rare as a seventhwater jelly! How could you not like him? Is he a?
Not really! I said. George was pleasant enough, though not my type.
Still, he didnt appeal to me; we had no common ground. Our rhythms clashed Im a night owl, he a lark.
I favoured an unhurried, measured life, recalling the Eastern proverb, Make haste slowly. George, by contrast, was everactive, always pushing forward, his heart a roaring engine. It suited him perfectly.
On his first day he whisked me off to a theatre, tickets bought in advance online. I felt obliged to accompany him, though I rarely enjoyed the stage.
There are people like that, and they are not few, though many deny it. I preferred old productions I could watch on the internet; modern reinterpretations of the classics left me cold. The lack of a curtain, the contemporary costumes, the muddled delivery none of it spoke to me. The plays dialogue seemed set in another era, not ours. The director, however, was thrilled.
George, meanwhile, was delighted and, on the way home, tried to convince me I was wrong, arguing fervently.
His arguments only placed me in a state of irritation; for the first time in ages someone tried to force their opinion on me while I had my own.
Dont you see? Its new, progressive! he blurted.
What need I have for new? I replied calmly. The old suits me fine.
And why? Its progress, moving forward! he exclaimed, turning the conversation to the city of opportunities London and his grand plans for the future.
At home, Biscuit the cat slunk under the bed, his usual refuge whenever something displeased him. The handsome stranger seemed to have ruffled the cat as well.
George quickly became involved in family affairs beyond mere chores. On the second day he bought a new doormat, discarding the old one that lay by the stairwell. I accepted the change without comment; it was done silently, with no need for justification.
Soon a new saucepan appeared; the old one had been stubborn when cooking porridge, sticking to the bottom. I sipped my morning coffee with toast, noting that the new pot seemed intended for his own hearty breakfasts, not my modest fare. I said nothing.
He then offered to foot the utility bills, claiming he would be using water and electricity. Thats ideal, not a man! I thought, refusing his offer as I sensed an intrusion upon my domain.
Why would a guest pay for my flat? I asked. Unless he intends to overstep his bounds
Thus we would manage without his money, I told him.
It would be wrong to think he spent his days idle; indeed, he was actively hunting for work. He sent out countless résumés and attended numerous interviews, hoping something would materialise.
As his twoweek stay drew to a close, George suffered a sudden bout of sneezing, a runny nose, and a rash across his face.
No one left; instead, his confidence grew. He began to shout at me for stepping into the kitchen in shoes, Hard to get your feet out, eh? and for buying a packet of washing powder he claimed would be hard to rinse out of the linens.
I started to feel foolish, as if I were the odd one out, while George acted as the true master of the house, with Biscuit merely a temporary lodger.
The cat, ever aloof, ignored George and only emerged from beneath the bed when he was absent.
Finally, on the eighteenth day of his visit, a call came: George had secured a job. At last theyve taken me, Irma! he declared.
He was tidy, attractive, but still a stranger with his own habits.
The position was respectable by London standards, and he shared the good news with me, yet remained silent about moving out.
I, shedding a veneer of propriety, asked him, Have I not worn you out, good sir?
He said he had a medical examination the next day, a prerequisite for the job.
The following morning, after returning from work, I found the table set for a feast.
Could this be a farewell dinner? I thought, feeling my spirits lift. At least I wont have to start a difficult conversation.
Georges mood was ever bright, and the room buzzed with festivity. He poured wine into glasses and began to speak.
Then, as if from nowhere, he announced his intention to proposenot a business offer, but a marriage proposal, despite our familial tie.
In my view, we could make a fine pair, he said, his voice rising. Im not a nuisance to you; youre appealing to me as well. At our age, marriage should be a conscious decision. We already have a home and respectable jobs. Love only complicates things; respect should be the foundation, and we respect each other.
I listened, mouth agape, when suddenly Biscuit sprang from under the bed. Perhaps he had grown tired of hiding, or perhaps he finally accepted George as his own.
Do you have a cat? George asked, surprised.
Yes, I replied, bewildered. Is this your first time seeing him?
First time! Damn, Im allergic to cat hair! The doctor just diagnosed it today. How could that be?
Youve got a litter box, havent you? You notice everything around you! he retorted.
Youre not seeing the point, I said. The doctor prescribed something, but we need to treat the cause, not just the symptoms.
Exactly! he exclaimed. I cant live with a cat in the same flat!
Whos forcing you? I asked. Dont live then!
So, what, we dont marry? Has my allergy slipped into my brain?
This is our problem, he said firmly. The cat will get in the way!
Youd have me put him down! I snarled.
Thats an option, he said. I could even pay for it.
Ill be the one to end you! I replied after a pause, You, not the cat. Get out of my sight!
George finished his wine and rose, tossing a parting jab, Never thought youd be so primitive.
And you, goodbyes! I answered, relief flooding me.
When he left, the saucepan vanished from the kitchen, the new doormat remained, apparently too heavy to carry away.
Mother called, exclaiming, How could you send him away? He already complained!
He wanted me to marry him! If youre so kind, marry yourself! I cant stand him! I said, ending the call.
No one called back; the matter seemed settled.
It felt fair, for perhaps next time a relative would develop an allergy to me. There are tales of husbands allergic to their wives dandruff, and those never end well.
So, mother, should you ever wish to help again, host your kin at home: those who devise, must also drive. And I, with Biscuit, managed just fine.
