What on earth has she done with my boy?!
Margaret Whitfield was bustling in the kitchen, waiting for her son, who was due any minute with his fiancée. The oven was breathing out the rich scent of her signature roast duck, while steaming meat pasties sat in the centre of the table and a chilled jellied salad waited in the fridge.
She took the guests arrival very seriously; the spread was piled high with dishes shed been preparing since the night before. And this was a special day. Andrew had been seeing Emily for a year, and at last hed gathered the courage to bring her to meet the family.
A brief ring of the doorbell cut through the clatter. Adjusting her coat in the hallway mirror, Margaret hurried to the front door.
Hello, my dear! she cooed, Come in, hang your coat. She handed the coat to her son, who gave a shy smile and stepped aside to let the young guest pass.
Emily, this is my mother, Margaret, Andrew said.
Margarets eyes fell on Emilys slight frame, which she instantly read as a sign of frailty. And then she noticed the ink on the girls wrista tattoo, plain as day. Her brow lifted a fraction, but she kept her thoughts to herself; after all, Andrew had spoken so warmly about his beloved.
Good evening, Mrs. Whitfield. Its a pleasure to finally meet you, Emily said, her smile bright.
Margaret watched Andrews eyes linger on his future wife, admiration shining through.
Polite conversation floated around the table, but soon Margaret noticed something amiss. Andrews plate was halfempty, his appetite waning, and Emily offered him nothing. She gave the girl a sharp look, rose heavily, and slipped over to Andrews seat, ladling tiny portions onto his plate.
Mum, Ive got it, I can help myself, he protested, though years of futile resistance had taught him that arguing with his mother was pointless.
Having rescued her son from a fate of hunger, Margaret turned her attention to the wouldbe daughterinlaw, watching her every move. When Margaret reached for Emilys salad, the young woman replied calmly:
Mrs. Whitfield, your food looks marvelous, but I dont eat that. Ive already taken a third helping of your lovely saladcould you share the recipe?
Emily, what nonsense? This nogo? Margaret snapped, slicing off a duck leg and placing it on the plate, then adding a sprig of buttered sprats and a generous scoop of potato salad.
Mom, you dont need to. Ive been watching my diet for years.
Settle down, love, this is proper nourishment! she declared.
Samuel Whitfield, Margarets husband, opened his mouth to object, but fell silent under his wifes stern gaze.
Satisfied that the childrens plates were full, Margaret retreated to her seat.
We grew up on bacon, potatoes and milk, and we turned out healthy, she boasted.
Mom, the doctor told you to watch what you eat. Youve complained about feeling poorly, Andrew reminded her.
Its all a fuss. You dont even have breakfast, do you? she retorted.
Andrew and Emily exchanged a knowing glance.
We eat well, Mum. Lots of veg, and I try to steer clear of heavy fare, Andrew said.
Margaret stared at her son, shocked at how much hed slimmed down. Whats Emily feeding you?
Why Emily? We both cook, both work late, often ordering in.
Its actually handyclean kitchen, more time for useful things, Emily added.
Margaret was in disbelief. Where had she seen a man near the stove? In her thirty years of marriage, Samuel had never peeled a potato, deeming such chores unmanly.
When Margaret married, her mother and grandmothers had taught her that a womans duty was to keep the house spotless, cook hearty meals, and keep the husbands clothes in order. Samuel barely ironed a shirt, and Margaret took pride in that. Now she was horrified by her sons modern household.
How can you be cooking, Andrew? Your job is demanding; you need rest, Margaret fretted. Emily, a man shouldnt be doing that. You wont be happy.
Emily also works, sometimes earns more than me. We share everything equally, and were not lacking in happiness, Andrew replied, his tone edged with irritation.
It was a shock to hear her son argue back, especially with such a tone. Hed once been a gentle lamb, now he seemed a different creature. Still, Margaret didnt want a fight, so she tried to smooth things over.
Fine, its your business. Ill step back. Come in, Ill make sure there are leftovers for you, Emily. You look too thin, thats not proper.
The conversation lingered. Margaret kept trying to feed them, but they ate modestly. Emily revealed she worked in event promotion, organising concerts and travelling frequently.
That unsettled Margaret further. How could a wife be roaming the country? What about the hearth at home?
She finally decided to ask about the tattoo.
Emily, whats that on your wrist? A little doodle? Something you can wash off?
We got matching tattoos with Andrew six months ago. We liked them, Emily answered confidently.
Son, those are the marks of criminals! Margaret gasped. Samuel, are you going to stay silent?
Eh, Im not sure Samuel murmured.
Andrew knew his father never took a firm stance on anything, and he feared contradicting his strict mother, so he kept quiet.
The worlds changing, Mrs. Whitfield, Emily said gently. Tattoos are fashionable now, many find them beautiful, and they can be removed later. Andrew is twentyeight; he can make his own choices.
Margarets face flushed with indignation.
Youve crossed the line, love! A man should heed his parents above all. We never allowed our son to do such foolish things.
Mother, calm down. Youre the one overstepping. As Emily said, Im an adult now, Andrew retorted with a smirk. This is my life, and I trust my decisions.
The evening lost its charm and ended quickly. Andrew and Emily packed up, trying politely to decline the remnants of dinner, but eventually took the trays with them.
Alone, Margaret washed the dishes while Samuel dozed on the sofa with a newspaper. A flood of thoughts crashed through her mind.
She couldnt understand how her boy ended up in this situation. Yes, Andrew and Emily seemed happy; Andrew often called to tell his mother how supportive his fiancée was. Emily was welleducated, welloff, raised in a respectable family. Yet, was this the modern norm for a man?
Margaret considered herself a perfect housewife. For years shed begun each day caring for her family, staying up until the last cup was clean. It didnt shield her marriage from minor squabbles; Samuel had his own youthful indiscretions, which shed long forgiven. She believed the problem lay with herselfperhaps shed given Samuel too little attention after Andrew was born. Still, she felt the marriage had succeeded; theyd just celebrated their thirtieth anniversary. Now they spoke rarely; Samuel spent evenings glued to the telly, while Margaret knitted, tended her garden, and chatted with a friend on the phone. What else was there to say when everything had already been said?
Would her son be happy with this girl? Was he making a mistake? Andrew had changed; his voice now bore a firmness, his work was booming thanks to Emilys advice. He called less often, but would always drop everything if his mother needed himprovided his plans with Emily didnt interfere. He turned down trips to the countryside, telling his mother that buying readymade food was cheaper than growing potatoes. Margaret understood less and less.
It was his decision, after all, but a mothers word should still matter. Time would tell who would prevail.
Andrew and Emily drove home. Andrew had already apologised a few times for any inconvenience, but Emily waved it off with a smile.
I expected this, really. No worriesI can handle any hiccup. Just stay on my side, Andrew, alright? Thats the most important thing, she said.
Of course, Andrew replied, planting a kiss on her temple.
Their married life promised to be interesting.
—
Live and be glad
Emily wandered through a massive supermarket. Its aisles twisted like a labyrinth, designed by clever marketers to keep shoppers lost among the bounty of goods.
Everything you could ever wish for! Whatll it be? Fruit? Right away!
In wicker baskets, piles of glossy, rubyred pomegranates glittered next to blushing cherries that seemed ready to burst into the mouth. Soft, velvety peaches, their skins as delicate as a newborns cheek, beckoned from the stands. Pears of every variety stood proudly, while exotic bananas ranging from green to bright yellow sat beside dark, almost burgundy apples. Grapes, honeysweet and translucent, dangled from neat boxes, shouting, Buy them, buy them, buy them!
Emily lingered over the freshly squeezed orange juice and the bright berries, then slipped past the refrigerated aisles where spotless glass doors revealed rows of bottles, cartons and tubs of dairymilk, yoghurts, cream, cottage cheeseso many options she could barely tell them apart.
She imagined scooping a spoonful of creamy cottage cheese and mixing it with a dollop of strawberry jam, or grabbing a chunk of goats cheese, said to be good for you. Or perhaps a milkshake flavored like vanilla custard, the kind shed once bought for her son at the local café The Little Red Hen. Now, she could just grab a readymade bottle and sip to her hearts content, no queue required.
Thinking of her son, Sam, a pang of sadness tightened her chest. Hed been eight when they used to sit together at that café, laughing while he slurped his strawfed shake, the straw rattling in the nearly empty glass. Where is that Sam now? Hes gone, the café gone, replaced by a sleek sushi bar on Station Street. Emily had never set foot inside, merely passing by without a glance.
By the frozen foods, a middleaged woman in a bright jumpsuit argued with her husband over a pack of something with less ice. He, a man about Sams age, dumped a heap of red, beetlelike creatures into a bagcrayfish, perhaps, or some exotic crustacean.
Emilys curiosity got the better of her. What are you getting?
Shrimps, the woman replied, glancing at Emily. But you might not like them.
Why not?
Have you ever tried crayfish? the man interjected. Theyre like little lobsters. Cook them with dill, have a pint of ale, and youll love it.
Emily smiled, confessing shed never tasted crayfish.
Any bloke can catch em, the man chuckled.
My familys always been women. Father died in the war, just mum and us three left. No lads to teach us about crayfish, he added, his eyes softening with empathy. It was as if a locked door had opened, inviting her inside a warm, welcoming home.
She poured her heart out to the strangertalking of her husbands death a year ago, her sons passing three months later, the loneliness that followed, the fact that her birthday had arrived and shed bought nothing sweet because shed lost appetite. She was eightyseven, from a tiny village called Dymington, where German planes once strafed homes and her mother would pull her away from windows. She missed Sam terribly; his memory haunted her, while her current soninlaw, Kolka, nagged her nightly. She longed for a listening ear, for someone to hear her story after decades of silence.
