“I don’t want a daughter like this!” shrieked Eleanor Wilson, flapping a crumpled sheet of paper. “You’re a disgrace to the family! How am I to face people?”
“Mum, calm down, please,” pleaded Isabel, hovering in the kitchen doorway, eyes red-rimmed from tears. “Let’s just talk sensibly.”
“What’s there to talk about?” Her mother’s voice rose sharper. “Dropped out of university, can’t find proper work, and now this! Got yourself entangled with goodness knows who, disgrace for the whole neighbourhood!”
Through the thin walls, Mrs Gladys from next door peeked into the hall, ears pricked by the shouting. Eleanor noticed the prying gaze and her anger surged.
“See? The neighbours are onto it already!” She slammed the paper down. “Twenty-five years raising you, gave you everything I had, and this is my repayment?”
Isabel stooped to retrieve the fallen sheet, smoothing it with trembling fingers. It was a marriage register application. Hers.
“Mum, please, I’m happy,” she tried to explain. “Edward is a good man. He loves me…”
“Good?” Eleanor barked a harsh, bitter laugh, sharp as splintering glass. “Divorced with a child? No proper job? Ten years older than you? He’s nothing but a chancer!”
“It’s not true! Ed works, he has his own vehicle repair workshop…”
“Workshop!” her mother snorted derisively. “A lock-up garage, you mean! And you fancy breathing petrol and grease fumes your whole life?”
Isabel sank onto a kitchen chair, legs suddenly weak. She’d rehearsed this conversation for days, hopeful for understanding. It was unravelling entirely differently.
“Mum, I’m not a child. I’m twenty-five.”
“Precisely!” Eleanor snapped. “At your age, I was already married to your father, working at the factory, getting our council flat. And you? Flitting about God-knows-where with God-knows-who!”
“Dad left you too,” Isabel murmured softly, instantly regretting it.
Her mother’s face blanched with fury. “How dare you! Your father died in that accident! He didn’t abandon us!”
“Sorry, Mum, I didn’t mean…”
“You did! You meant exactly that!” Eleanor paced the small kitchen like a caged tigress. “Do you want my life for yourself? Left alone with a babe in arms? This Edward of yours wrecked one family already!”
“They divorced mutually. Things just… didn’t work out.”
“Didn’t work out! Right!” Her mother sat opposite, fixing her with a piercing stare. “And with you, they will? Do you have any inkling what you’re stepping into? He has a child from his first marriage! Maintenance to pay! What scraps would remain for you?”
Isabel rubbed her temples, the shouting splitting her skull, a dull ache heavy in her chest. She’d dreamt of sharing her happiness, planning the wedding, choosing dresses together…
“And anyway,” Eleanor continued, “where did you even unearth him?”
“At Lena Baker’s birthday do. Remember, I mentioned Lena?”
“Lena Baker!” Her mother threw her hands up. “That free spirit? On her third engagement? Fine company you keep!”
“Mum, what’s Lena got to do with it? Ed was there by chance, a friend invited him…”
“By chance! Men like him don’t appear by chance. They hunt for gullible girls like you.”
Isabel shot to her feet. “Enough! You don’t even know him!”
“Why should I need to know him?” Eleanor stood too. “I see it written all over you. Wandering about like a lost soul. Lost weight, shadows under your eyes. Is this your happiness?”
“I lost weight because I was anxious. I knew you’d be against it!”
“Of course I’m against it! I didn’t raise you off my knees just to see you throw yourself at the first bloke who smiles!”
The doorbell buzzed in the narrow hall. Both women froze, listening.
“Is that him?” Eleanor hissed.
“Yes. We said he’d come today.”
“Over my dead body! He sets one foot in this house!”
“Mum, please! Just meet him. Maybe… maybe you’ll feel differently?”
“Never!”
The bell chimed again, insistent. “Izzy? It’s me,” called a male voice from the doorstep.
Isabel looked beseechingly at her mother. “Mum, please. Five minutes.”
Eleanor wavered, curiosity warring with outrage. “Let him in then. Five minutes. Not a second more. And he won’t be welcomed back.”
Isabel opened the door. A tall man in his mid-thirties stood there, dark-haired, eyes weary. He held a bunch of white roses.
“Hello,” he said, stepping into the hall. “Mrs Wilson? I’m Edward.”
Eleanor surveyed him head to toe. Jeans, leather jacket, hands roughened by work. Exactly as she’d pictured.
“Hello,” she clipped, ignoring his offered hand.
“These are for you,” Edward presented the flowers. “Isabel speaks so highly of you.”
“Save the charm,” Eleanor retorted, but took the bouquet. “Come through.”
They sat around the small kitchen table. Edward seemed composed, but Isabel saw the tension in his shoulders. “So. You wish to marry my daughter,” Eleanor began bluntly.
“Yes. I love her.”
“Love. Can you provide for her?”
“I can. I have steady work, regular income.”
“In a lock-up.”
“An MOT garage,” Edward corrected. “I employ three mechanics full-time.”
“And you pay maintenance?”
Isabel flushed crimson. “Mum!”
“I do,” Edward answered calmly. “I will. He’s my son.”
“Exactly. What would be left for my Isabel?”
“Mrs Wilson, I understand your worry. I don’t plan to use Isabel. Quite the opposite, I want to care for her.”
“Pretty words. What happened with the first wife? Carer then too?”
Edward paused, gathering himself. “We married too young. Didn’t think it through. Turned out we were chalk and cheese. She wanted the high life. I was just setting up the business. Constant rows, nagging… In the end, we agreed parting was best.”
“Right. And it’ll be different with Isabel?”
“It will. Because we fit together.”
Eleanor stood and walked to the window. “Isabel, step outside a moment. I need words with your… young man alone.”
Isabel reluctantly left. Eleanor sat opposite Edward, scrutinising his face. “Listen well, young man. Isabel is my only daughter. Invested my whole life in her. Hoped she’d marry well, live comfortably. What, precisely, can you offer her?”
“Love. Fidelity. A family.”
“Just words. The reality? Where will you live? My flat?”
“No. I rent a decent two-bed flat. I’ll put the lease jointly in our names.”
“A rented flat. Smashing. And a home of your own?”
“I’m saving for a mortgage deposit. Optimistically, within the year.”
Eleanor shook her head. “Within the year. Perhaps. And if it fails? Will Isabel drift rootless for life?”
“It won’t fail,” Edward stated firmly.
“Why so sure?”
“I’ve loyal clients. The business grows. I’m steady. All earnings go into the home.”
“The first wife likely believed that too.”
Edward sighed. “Mrs Wilson, I see you care for your daughter. Naturally. But grant me the chance to prove I won’t fail Isabel.”
“And if you do? What then? She limps back, broken, with a babe?”
“I won’t fail her.”
“Promises are cheap.”
Isabel returned. “Well? Talked?”
Her mother looked from her to Edward.
Valentina still eyed the pocket watch engraved ‘For Her Trust’ whenever Alex called, searching for flaws behind his earnest words, yet each Sunday tea she noted the happy glow slowly replacing the dark hollows beneath Katya’s eyes and Gran finally calling him ‘a genuine sort’ deepened her peace.
