What has she done to my son?!
Margaret Thompson flutters around the kitchen, waiting for her son, who is about to arrive with his fiancée. The oven emits the mouthwatering scent of a roasted duck, meat pies steam on the table, and a jelly terrine lies waiting in the fridge.
Margaret treats the arrival of guests with great reverence; the table overflows with dishes she started preparing yesterday morning. And the guests are a special lot! Andrew has been dating Harriet for a year, and today he finally decides to introduce his beloved to his parents.
A short ring of the doorbell cuts through the chatter. After a quick brush in the hallway mirror, Margaret hurries to the door.
Andrew, my dear, come in! Let me hang your coat, she says warmly. Andrew offers an awkward smile, steps aside, and lets the young guest in first. He hangs his own coat.
Harriet, this is my mother, Margaret, he introduces.
Margarets eyes immediately note Harriets slight frame, which she instinctively interprets as a sign of frailty. And on Harriets wrist a tattoo. Margarets eyebrow lifts a fraction, but she decides not to comment on the unnecessary drawing just yet. After all, Andrew has been raving about his sweetheart.
Good evening, Mrs. Thompson, its a pleasure to finally meet you, Harriet says, her smile radiant.
Margaret watches the way Andrew looks at his future wifepure adoration gleams in his eyes.
Polite conversation flows around the table, but Margaret soon spots a problem: Andrew eats lazily, his plate halfempty, and Harriet doesnt pass him any food. With a disapproving glance, Margaret rises heavily, walks over to Andrew, and begins to spoon a little more onto his plate.
Mum, I can manage myself, Andrew protests, but years of futile defiance have taught him that arguing with his mother is pointless.
Having rescued her son from a possible hunger mishap, Margaret turns her attention to the soontobe daughterinlaw, silently judging her behaviour. When Margaret reaches for Harriets plate, Harriet calmly says:
Mum, everything looks delicious, but I dont actually eat that. This salad, for example, Ive already taken a third serving. Could you share the recipe? she asks, reaching for the vegetable salad.
What nonsense? This noeat thing? Margaret snaps, cutting off a duck leg, placing it on the plate, adding a sardine sandwich and a few spoonfuls of potato salad.
Harriet, you dont need that, youve been watching your diet for years, Andrew interjects.
Calm down, love, this is proper nutrition! Margaret declares.
Emma, leave the girl alone, begins Samuel, Margarets husband, but he falls silent under his wifes steely stare.
Satisfied with the filled plates, Margaret settles back into her seat.
Weve always eaten bacon, potatoes, and dairy, and were all healthy, she boasts.
Mom, the doctor also advised you to watch what you eat. Youve complained about feeling poorly, Andrew points out.
Its all nonsense. What do you eat at home? No breakfast, I bet, Samuel chimes in.
Andrew and Harriet exchange a knowing grin.
We eat well, Mum. Lots of vegetables, and I steer clear of heavy meals, Andrew replies.
Margaret stares at her son in disbelief. Her heart, which has worried for nothing, finally relaxes as she notes how slim Andrew has become.
What does Harriet feed you?
Why Harriet? We both cook, we both work late, and we often order in.
Thats even more sensible. Its clean at home, and you free up time for better things, Harriet adds.
Margaret is shocked. In thirty years of marriage, Samuel never peeled potatoes; he left the cooking to her. When Margaret married, her mother and grandmothers taught her that a woman should keep the house spotless, cook hearty meals, and keep her husbands clothes in order. Samuel barely knows how to iron a shirt, and Margaret once took pride in that. Now she is horrified by her sons modern household.
How can this be you, Andrew, cooking? You have a demanding job, you should be resting, Margaret frets. Harriet, a man shouldnt be doing that. Your marriage wont work.
Harriet also works and sometimes earns more than me. We share everything equally, and were happy enough, Andrew says, a hint of irritation in his voice.
Margaret is taken aback by her sons tone. He used to be a gentle kitten, but now he seems a different person. She doesnt want to argue, so she tries to smooth things over.
Fine, its your business Ill wrap up. Come in, Ill keep you fed, otherwise there will be only bones left. Harriet, youre looking a bit too thin, she adds.
The conversation continues. Margaret attempts several more times to feed her guests, but they eat modestly. Harriet reveals that she works in the media, organising concerts and travelling frequently for gigs. The idea of a woman jetsetting around the country unsettles Margaret; what about the home hearth?
She finally decides to ask about the tattoo.
Harriet, whats that on your wrist? A translators doodle? A pretty pattern, but you can wash it off, right? Its not proper to scar your skin.
We got matching tats six months ago, Andrew and I. We like them, Harriet replies confidently.
Margaret hopes she misheard.
My son, those tattoos arent they only for criminals? Whats that about? Samuel, are you going to stay silent?
Son, honestly, Im not sure Samuel murmurs uncertainly.
Andrew knows his father never takes a firm stand, and hes learned to keep quiet in disputes.
The worlds changing, Margaret, Harriet says gently. Its fashionable now, many think tattoos are beautiful, and they can be removed. Your son is twentyeight; he can make his own decisions.
Margaret feels her throat tighten at such boldness.
This crosses every line! A man should put his parents opinions first! We never allowed our son to do such foolish things.
Mom, calm down, please. Youre the one overstepping polite boundaries. As Harriet said, Im an adult now, Andrew retorts with a smirk. This is our life, and I trust my choices.
The evening loses its pleasant tone and quickly ends. Andrew and Harriet gather their things and head home. Polite refusals of leftover food dont help, and they finally take the bags with them.
Alone, Margaret washes the dishes while Samuel dozes on the sofa with the newspaper. Hundreds of heavy thoughts swirl in her mind.
She cant understand how her son ended up in this situation. Yes, Andrew and Harriet look happy, and Andrew often tells his mother on the phone how supportive his fiancée is. Harriet is welleducated, welloff, and comes from a respectable family but is this attitude toward a man normal these days?
Margaret has always prided herself on being a perfect housewife. For years her day starts with caring for others, and she doesnt go to bed until the last cup is clean. It doesnt prevent minor marital hiccups; occasional spats happen, and Samuel once had a few flirtations in his youth. Margaret forgave him long ago and blames herself for not giving him enough attention when Andrew was born. Still, she believes her marriage succeeded they recently celebrated their thirtieth anniversary. Nowadays the couple talks little. Samuel spends evenings glued to the telly, while Margaret knits, tends to her garden, and chats with a friend on the phone. Whats left to say when everything has already been said?
Will her son be happy with this girl? Is he making a mistake? Andrew has changed his voice now carries a firmness, and at work he says his projects are thriving thanks to Harriets advice. He calls less often but always rushes over if his mother needs him, as long as there are no plans with his fiancée. Hes also begun skipping trips to the family cottage, telling his mother its cheaper to shop in stores, even though growing your own potatoes would be cheaper. Margaret feels increasingly out of touch with her son.
Its his decision, after all but a mothers word should still matter. Time will tell who wins.
Meanwhile, Andrew and Harriet drive home. Andrew apologises to Harriet a few times, and she waves it off with a smile.
I saw this coming. No worries, I can understand everyones jumps. Just stay on my side, Andrew, okay? Thats the most important thing.
Of course, Andrew kisses her on the temple.
Their married life promises to be interesting.
—
Harriet wanders through a huge supermarket. Its aisles twist like a maze, designed by clever marketers to keep shoppers lost in a sea of tempting displays.
Anything your heart desires! What will you have? Fruit? Here you go!
In wicker baskets, clusters of glossy pomegranates sit beside ripe cherries that beg to be plucked. Fluffy peaches, their skin as soft as a babys cheek, beckon from their stands. Pears glisten in a rainbow of varieties. Exotic bananas, from green to bright yellow, share space with deepred, almost burgundy apples. Bunches of honeygold grapes dangle from polished trays, shouting, Buy, buy, buy!
Harriet admires the southernstyle, sweet juices and berries, then slips past refrigerators where rows of milk, yogurts, creams, and cottage cheese line up behind spotless glass doors.
She imagines grabbing a pot of creamy cottage cheese, spooning in a dollop of cherry jam, and savoring it. Maybe a goats cheese bar, touted as healthy, or a milkshake tasting of plum custardsomething she used to buy for her son at the city café Bobbys. Now she could just pick up a readymade bottle and drink as much as she likes without queuing.
Thinking of Sam, her son, Harriets heart tightens. She remembers the day Sam was eight, sitting at a café table, laughing as he sucked a milkshake through a straw that made squeaky noises. He never noticed his mothers embarrassment and laughed loudly. Where is little Sam now? Hes gone, and the café Bobbys has vanished, replaced by a chic sushi bar on Station Street. Harriet has no idea what a sushi bar even looks like, but she walks past, trying not to stare.
Near a row of frozen readymeals, a couple argues:
Just take the whole pack, theres less ice! the woman in short, quirky trousers says.
Her husband, a man about Sams age, scoops a handful of red, beetlelike insects into a bag, claiming theyre a delicacy.
The man is stocky, the opposite of Sams lanky frame. Sam had dark hair and brown eyes; this man has a bright, round head and light eyes, but a similarly open, friendly smile.
Harriet cant help herself:
What are you getting?
Its shrimp, the woman answers, then adds quickly, but you probably wont like them.
Why?
Have you ever tried crayfish? the man interjects. Theyre like little crabs. Cook them with dill and theyre perfect with a pint.
Harriet smiles and admits shes never tried crayfish.
Come on, any lad can catch them! the man jokes.
My family has only girls. Father died in the war, leaving just my mother and three of us. No men, no crayfish, the woman replies.
The strangers eyes soften with sympathy, pulling Harriet toward him as if a locked door opens and invites her inside a warm, cosy home.
At last, the dam of silence bursts. Harriet begins to speak, telling the man about her husbands death a year ago, how Sam passed three months later, how shes been alone, how her daughterinlaw never visits, and how shes turned eightyseven, originally from the village of Dymey, where German pilots once bombed houses and her mother chased them away from the windows. She talks about missing Sam, how Kolka, a nuisance, harasses her nightly, and how nothing feels right.
She just wants someone to listen, someone to hear her after so many years of silence.
