Completely Unravelled
Daisy, have you completely given up on hoovering? My eyes are streaming with all this dust. Look, its layered like a shag carpet
Daisy clenched her fists beneath the table, watching as Mrs. Judith Cartwright, yet again, inspected the house with the severity of a health inspector. Her mother-in-law paused at every nook, peering at the shelves with critical squints, wrinkling her nose at invisible dust on the windowsill, and sighing with an air of deep disappointment at the jumble of childrens toys underfoot. Three years of Judiths visits had turned each one into a trial, a peculiar torture for Daisy.
I cleaned yesterday, hoovered and dusted as well, Daisy tried to keep her voice as cool as an autumn morning. The children just played here this morning.
Its not about doing it when its convenient, its about doing it when its necessary, Daisy. When I was your age…
Judith sank gracefully into the armchair with the posture of a queen deigning to converse with her chambermaid. Her fingers automatically traced the armrest, searching for any trace of dust.
In my day, the floor shone so bright you could touch up your lipstick in its reflection. The children always looked immaculate, not a crease in their dresses. The order was impeccable! My Fred, God rest his soul, could spring an inspection at any moment he never once found a speck. Never!
Daisy listened in silence, jaw tight. That tale of the sparkling floors might have been told fifty times. Or perhaps sixty? Shed lost count in a maze of repetition.
What did you give the children for lunch, then?
Vegetable soup.
Is it in the fridge? Judith was already halfway to the kitchen as she asked. Let me have a look.
She lifted the pot, sniffed, scooped up a spoonful, and tasted with an expression usually reserved for poison testers at the Tower of London.
Far too much salt. And carrots! Children arent rabbits, Daisy. I used to make Fred junior such different soups, and he always polished off every drop even went back for seconds.
Daisy didnt answer. It was pointless.
What about breakfast? More of those instant cereals? I told you, only proper porridge, made from real oats! Look at Emily, Sarahs wife. She soaks her oats overnight, cooks them fresh at dawn. Her children never so much as sniffle.
Eternal Emily. Flawless Emily with flawless children and oats somehow reborn through nightly baptism.
Mrs. Cartwright, rolled oats are natural as well.
Dont make me laugh! Your lot and your fast food In my day we never even heard the term, fast food. Everything homemade, with love, hours at the hob.
Judith began a critical tour of the nursery.
And these clubs you go to she murmured, eyeing the childrens art. Pottery, drawing all nonsense. I took Fred to swimming and chess. Thats education! Drawing can be done at home. Why throw money away?
Annie loves art, Daisy protested quietly. Shes got a real gift.
Gift! Judith scoffed. Thats just what art teachers say to get your money. What sort of gift can a four-year-old have?
She regally reclaimed her armchair, folding her hands in her lap.
Let me tell you something, Daisy. Your generations lost its backbone. Just glued to your mobiles and the internet. The house is a tip, the children run wild, husbands starve. Look at Emily Sarahs wife. Holds down a job, the house gleams, and reared three children. Youve two and you still cant cope.
Emily, again. Saint Emily with her halo of perfectly ironed linen.
I work as well, Mrs. Cartwright.
Oh, I know all about your work. All day on that computer of yours, shuffling papers. Is that real work? When I was your age Judith sighed wistfully, as if the memory itself had a scent three children, the allotment, the house, and I managed it all. I even respected my own mother-in-law, never once said a cross word.
Daisy tried to explain that her job required careful attention, that she managed important projects, but her words dissolved against Judiths patronising smile. Her mother-in-law shook her head, the kindly tyrant indulging a foolish child.
Every visit became an examination Daisy was doomed to fail towels folded wrong, tea too hot, the flowers limp, curtains longing for the wash. Three years of this boiled Daisy to the very edge, though she kept silent. For Fred. For peace.
On that day, Judith was especially grim. She made straight for the kitchen, tutting at the greasy frying pan.
Four-year-old Jamie, Daisys son, was sulking at the table, prodding his soup with his spoon.
Not hungry! Tastes horrible!
There, you see! Judith declared, exultant. Just as I said! The child wont eat because you havent the knack. Ill show you how to make proper childrens soup. You start with a chicken, a real free-range one, not this supermarket rubber…
Something inside Daisy snapped. Quietly, soundlessly, but she could feel the spring break within, as clear as a dream fragment.
Years of hurt, humiliation, endless comparison with Saint Emily, hints of uselessness, dismissive sighs and shakes of Judiths head all of it rose up in a fever pitch, decidedly and unreturnably.
Daisy stood slowly. She gazed at Judith with a new, cool steadiness.
Mrs. Cartwright. Did your husband move in with you, or did you go to his home when you married?
Judith froze, spoon mid-air, as if shed forgotten how to breathe.
Pardon?
When you married, did you bring Fred to your own place? Or did you move into his?
I I moved in with him, of course. But what
I brought Fred here. To this flat. The three-bed I bought myself. With my own money earned, by the way, from all that paper-shuffling on the computer.
Judith grew slowly pale.
So, Ill decide what soup to cook, what time the children go to bed, and which clubs they join, Daisy continued calmly. Also, just out of curiosity, how much did you ever earn at my age? Or was it always running the house while your husband provided?
Judith flushed deep red.
How dare you how can you Youre insulting me!
Not insulting. Just asking. If you must know: my salary is a hundred and eighty thousand pounds. Twice what Fred earns. So, next time you feel the need to lecture, please remember that.
The silence on the kitchen tiles became solid, a hush you could almost trip over. Even Jamie paused, staring at his mother and grandmother wide-eyed.
The front door banged softly. Fred returned from work, stopping dead on the hallway rug, sensing the peculiar atmosphere that seemed to hang like a cloud.
Freddie! Judith swept towards her son. Do you know what your wifes just said to me? Shes humiliated me!
Wait. Fred held up a hand. Hang on. Daisy, whats happened?
Daisy spoke quietly, wearily. She told him about the three years. The ceaseless comparisons, the criticism of every little action, the hints she was a rubbish mother and hopeless homemaker, the constant meddling in raising the children.
Fred listened in silence. Daisy saw his face change confusion, realisation, then something shamefaced. His jaw twitched; he rubbed his forehead like a man seeing his reflection for the first time in a muddy pool.
You cant mean to believe her, Freddie Im your mother! I raised you, looked after you, stayed up every night for you!
Mum, Freds eyes had lost their usual softness. Is it true youve been at Daisy for three years straight?
Me? I was just giving advice! And she…
Advice, Fred nodded. About soup. About clubs. Bedtime, dusting every visit, right?
Judith opened her mouth, but Fred cut her off.
I noticed Daisy changed after every visit. Thought she was just tired. But turns out shes endured all of this, in silence, just to keep the peace between us.
Fred!
Mum, he drew a breath. If you keep picking at Daisy, youre not welcome here.
Judiths hands gripped the edge of the table so tightly the knuckles glowed white.
You you cant be serious? For her? For this?
For my wife, Fred said. The mother of my children. The woman who, by the way, bought this home. And kept quiet while you put her down, just to keep me happy. So yes, Mum. Absolutely serious.
For several dreamlike seconds Judith stared at her son as if he were a stranger suddenly sprouting antlers. Then she seized her bag, almost levitating from the hallway, and at the door, turned her trembling lips to speak but something in Freds face stopped her. She just flapped her hand, half a goodbye, half a curse, and vanished down the corridor.
In the sudden hush, even the ticking of the kitchen clock sounded impossibly loud and Jamie fidgeted, having completely forgotten the untouched soup.
Fred wrapped his arms around Daisy and drew her close. Daisy pressed her forehead to his chest and only now realised how her shoulders ached, as if for three years she had carried something unbearably heavy.
Why didnt you tell me sooner? Fred whispered into her hair as his palm soothed her back. Three years, Daisy. Three years you carried all that.
I didnt want to cause a row. Shes your mother, after all.
Silly girl, he held her tighter, his dry lips brushing her temple. You, and the children youre my family. Mum will have to learn that. Or she wont see her grandchildren.
Daisy looked up at her husband and felt the urge to laugh. For the first time in three years her chest didnt feel caged, and each breath was easy, new.
Mum! Mum! Jamie piped up Has Grandma gone? Does this mean I dont have to eat the soup?
Fred and Daisy caught each others eyes, and then for the first time in what felt like centuries they laughed. Proper, roaring laughter, like a pier full of gulls at sunset.
The soup does need eating, Daisy conceded, but tomorrow Ill make you a new one. The kind you really love…
