The visitors arrived unexpectedly, and Margaret frowned. She was overjoyed to see her son, but that dragonfly fluttering around Michael—ugh. The lad had gone soft, grinning like a fool.
*”Mum, hello! We’ve come to visit—me and Emily.”*
*”So I see,”* Margaret said, embracing her son with a tight smile.
*”Mum… we’ve got some happy news.”*
*”Oh? What’s that?”*
*”We’ve put in the banns—ta-da!”*
*”Goodness, so soon?”*
*”Soon? Mum, what’s gotten into you? We’ve been together a year now, we’ve decided to marry.”*
*”Well, what’s done is done. Make yourselves at home. I’d best pop to the shops, fetch something for supper.”*
Margaret needed air, a moment alone. How had her little bear grown up so fast? Gone off to London, living his own life, working, and now—married?
*”Mum, don’t fuss—we’ve brought everything, stacks of food.”*
She sank into a chair, weary, hands limp in her lap. She wanted to curl up on the bed like a child and weep. That dragonfly—as she’d taken to calling Michael’s bride—she just couldn’t warm to her, no matter what. Flighty thing. Her Michael ought to have chosen a steady girl, someone local.
Annette Wilson, now there was a proper girl. Quiet, homely, trained as an accountant, worked in the village, even volunteered at the library. Grew up sharing a desk with Michael at school—why not marry her? Even if they lived in the city, they’d come home, bring grandchildren. The Wilsons were good folk, solid. Marrying into their family would’ve been an honour. But no, he’d gone and found himself a city sparrow.
The youngsters unpacked the food—fine hams, sausages, cheeses, fruits—all sorts. Margaret sighed. Had to clear space in the larder now. Cook something special for tomorrow, invite the neighbours and family. Had to be done, though she wished it weren’t. Where was Henry? Still out in the fields?
*”Mum, we’re off to the river.”*
*”Off you go then.”*
River, indeed. That minx. If Michael had come alone, he’d have helped his father with the garden. But no, his highness and this princess fancied a paddle.
Margaret toiled all day like a squirrel in a wheel, arranging for guests the next evening. Exhausted, she lay down—only for a moment—but when she opened her eyes…
*”What in heaven’s name is this?”*
*”Mum, we’re setting supper—thought we’d help while you rested.”*
*”Supper? With the good china? The crystal? Henry, have you lost your wits?”*
*”What’s the fuss? No harm done. That china’s been gathering dust.”*
*”Have you all gone mad? The silverware, the glasses—oh, my nerves!”*
*”Mum, what’s really the matter? We’re having a proper family supper, and you’re weeping over plates?”*
Margaret waved them off and retreated, catching that dragonfly hacking at the delicacies they’d brought. Saved for a special occasion—now ruined.
*”Mum, change and come to table!”* Michael called.
She emerged—good Lord, the lace tablecloth, the crystal goblets—her best things, untouched for years, now laid out. And Henry—oh, Henry! In his Sunday shirt, pressed trousers. Had the world gone mad?
*”Margaret, love—it’s a celebration. Our boy’s home with his lass.”*
*”His—his what?”* she hissed.
*”Mum, enough,”* Michael took her hands, but she wrenched free, railing about her house, her rules, her untouched china, the food meant for better days.
Henry slammed the table. *”That’s enough! What’s this ‘special occasion’ you’re waiting for?”* He jabbed his throat. *”What if it never comes?”*
*”We live like vagrants—eating from cracked bowls, drinking from chipped mugs—while three full sets of china sit unused! This house is ours, Margaret, not just yours. Michael’s as much right to use what’s here as we do. Go on, son—unroll that rug in the corner. Moth-eaten by now, I’d wager. And you—go put on your good dress. The wardrobe’s bursting, yet you dress like a scullery maid.”*
Margaret stood blinking, then—suddenly—marched off. She returned in her finest frock, gold earrings, stockings, and heels.
Auntie Louise dropped by, gaping. *”Margaret—done up like a bride! Henry in his wedding shirt! Michael with this girl—what’s happened? Someone die?”*
*”Don’t be daft,”* Margaret snapped, barely stopping herself from *”dragonfly.”* *”Sit down. Michael’s marrying her.”*
Louise narrowed her eyes. *”You’re touched. The good china out? Drinking from crystal?”* She gulped her sherry and fled to spread the news.
By next evening, the house was packed—neighbours come to gawk at the scandal: Henry and Margaret, breaking tradition. Using the good china! Drinking from crystal!
*”Eh, Petey—gin tastes better from cut glass, don’t it?”* Henry winked.
Louisa, spreading her own best linen later, muttered, *”All these years waiting for ‘someday’—what if it never came?”*
Margaret sighed that night. *”Maybe we ought to keep some things new… just in case?”*
Henry chuckled. *”Aye. But not everything.”*
—
Elsewhere, Louisa upended trunks. *”Blast it all—we’re sleeping on proper sheets tonight!”*
*”Louisa, have you lost your mind? Those were Mother’s linens!”*
*”And what’d she weave them for, you old fool? She’s been gone thirty years—how long do we wait?”* She shook out embroidered towels. *”Look—see the cocks I stitched? Fifty years ago, pricked my fingers raw… Aren’t they bonny?”*
Her husband sighed. *”Aye, love. Suppose it’s time.”*
