Get up early and make mum a soup, James told me, halfjoking, halfserious. Who else will cook for the woman who gave you life?
I was slumped in my favourite armchair, a mug of pear juice in hand, staring blankly at the telly. It was Friday, nine oclock, and the credits of the latest drama were scrolling by, but I wasnt watching them. My mind was already on Saturday the dreaded, ritualistic arrival of my motherinlaw.
Five long years of marriage had turned every weekend into a kindofsurvivaltest. Every Saturday felt like a curse you cant shake off.
It started off nicely enough. Maggie would pop round once a month for a cuppa, a chat, a catchup about the kids. James would say, genuinely:
Your mums alone and getting on a bit. Her husbands been gone ten years. Lets give her a little moral support, have a proper catchup.
I always agreed. After all, shes family, and respecting the older generation is the right thing to do.
But slowly, almost imperceptibly, things began to change.
The first thing was the nitpicking about the house. After Maggies very first visit, she called our son into the hallway:
Tommy, love, does anyone in this house actually mop the floors?
Emily, of course we do, he replied, a bit taken aback.
Then why are there streaks on the linoleum? And theres dust on the skirtings.
From that day onward, every time Maggie was due, I turned into a cleaning fanatic. Id scrub the flat for hours, sweat soaking my shirt.
Id mop the floors twice first with a strong cleanser, then wipe them dry. Id dust every surface: the sofa, the bookshelves, even the radiators and the skirtings. Id polish the bath until it shone like a mirror.
Mum has always expected a museumstandard tidy, James would say patiently, watching me scuttle about with a cloth. She grew up with everything spotless.
Do you think Im some sort of slob? Id ask, my back aching.
Not at all, hed answer. Just a bit more relaxed around the house.
Relaxed. Thats a generous word for a woman who puts in tenhour days at the bank, dealing with nervous clients, endless reports and the bosss demands.
But I kept my head down. Marriage is all about compromise, right?
After a year Maggie started showing up more often first every two weeks, then every Saturday without fail.
It gets lonely in an empty flat, James would explain. Shes glad to have a place to rest her soul.
Rest. A nice word, isnt it?
Because the only person actually relaxing at home was Maggie. I was working like a horse on a galley.
Soon the spotlesshouse rule turned into a fullblown entertainment schedule. Maggie didnt want to sit in front of the telly with a biscuit any more. She wanted outings, shopping trips.
James, darling, lets pop out and look for a new blouse, shall we? shed say every Saturday, as if on repeat. The wardrobe is getting drab.
Of course, Mum! Right away, Poppy, get ready.
And Id dutifully get ready, trudging through crowded shopping centres, lugging endless racks of clothes, standing patiently in the fitting rooms.
Maggie was a demanding shopper shed try on five or six items just to walk out with one, or sometimes nothing at all, sighing in disappointment.
Quality isnt what it used to be, shed mutter. Back in the day they made things to last.
Shall we try a different shop? Id suggest, exhausted.
Sure, lets see if they have better stuff.
So wed queue at the tills, try on clothes, repeat. James never joined these marathon shopping trips. He always had more important male pursuits a football match on the telly, a catchup with the lads in the garage, washing his car or heading off for a day of fishing.
Ladies love this stuff more than us blokes, hed philosophise. Id just be in the way.
After a bruising week at the bank, I came home one evening utterly spent. A quarterly report for the head office, an emergency meeting with the directors, a row with a difficult client my head felt like it would split, my legs barely supported my tired body.
James was lounging on the sofa, sipping his tea and watching a crime drama, munching on a shortbread biscuit.
How was work? he asked without turning away from the screen.
Exhausted, I admitted, collapsing into the armchair.
Right, get some rest. By the way, Mums arriving tomorrow morning.
Got it, I replied shortly.
Listen, Poppy, get up early tomorrow and make mum a soup. Shell be coming back from the cottage, hungry and knackered. Use a freerange chicken, not that supermarket chemstuff. Her stomachs a bit weak now, she needs a proper, hearty broth.
I blinked.
Freerange chicken?
Yes. Theres a good stall at Borough Market Aunt Lucy keeps live birds there. Make sure its warm, not frozen. Frozen chicken is just nonsense.
What time should I be out for the chicken?
Half past five. The market opens at six, youll be back by eight, and mum usually gets in by nine.
Why arent you going yourself?
Id love to, but youre better at this. And soup is a womans job, isnt it? I can finally sleep in until lunch and recharge.
I shuffled to the bathroom, brushed my teeth for ages, chewing over how unfair life seemed. He was planning to nap until noon on his day off, while Id have to be up at fivethirty, dash across town for a chicken, then stand at the stove for three hours.
Set an alarm? James shouted from the lounge.
What alarm? I asked, confused.
Just so you dont oversleep. Mum arrives at nine, and a soup takes ages.
I stuck my toothbrush in my mouth and said, Will you set an alarm for yourself?
Why would I need one? Im not cooking tomorrow.
I said it calmly, but I didnt set any alarm on my phone.
At seventen the next morning, a firm knock rattled the door. It was still dark outside, a light drizzle pattering on the windows.
Who could that be? I murmured, fumbling for my robe.
Its Maggie, dear! a cheerful voice called back.
My heart dropped. Motherinlaw, and earlier than usual.
I opened the door to find Maggie on the doorstep, two bulky shopping bags in hand, in a light coat, looking fresh and full of energy.
Morning, Poppy! Smells like soup already, or am I too early?
I swallowed the lump in my throat.
No soup yet, I croaked.
Oh dear! Maggie exclaimed. James said youd be up early
James is still in bed.
She slipped inside as if I hadnt said a word, hung her coat and set the bags down.
No worries, love! Well pop down to the market now and grab that chicken. James told me it has to be freerange, not that chemstuff from the shop.
I stood there in my robe, feeling the heat rise inside me.
Im not going.
What do you mean, not going? Maggie asked, bewildered. And the soup?
The soup should be made by the person who asked for it.
But James works all week! He needs a break too!
And I need to work too. And I need a break.
Maggie plonked herself at the kitchen table, clearly expecting a long discussion.
Poppy, havent you heard? The doctor said Mum needs something hot in the morning, her stomachs delicate!
I get it. I just dont see why its my problem.
Five minutes later James shuffled in, hair a mess, still halfasleep in his old tee.
Mum! Shes here already?
Maggie! Wheres the soup? Poppy says she wont go for the chicken.
James stared at me, baffled.
You know what I said yesterday? Get up early and make mum a soup.
I turned slowly, wiped my hands on a dish towel and looked him straight in the eyes.
Let mum have the soup made by whoever gave her birth.
The kitchen fell silent. Maggie froze. James opened his mouth, then closed it.
What did you just say? he whispered.
Its what Ive been thinking for ages, I replied.
Maggie! she gasped. How can you speak like that!
Its simple language, I said.
But Im your motherinlaw!
And so what? Does that make me your servant?
What servant? James interjected. Mums family!
Your family, your mother. Youre the one who should be cooking for her.
I cant!
Learn. The internets full of recipes.
But youre a woman! James stammered.
Are you an alien?
Maggie softened a little. I understand youre exhausted, Poppy, but family duties
Whose duties? I snapped. Mine? And where are yours?
Im an old lady
Who zips around the countryside, hits the shops, demands entertainment. Not exactly old.
How dare you! Maggie erupted.
Easy. Five years of putting up with this and Im fed up.
I walked over to the burner, put a tiny pot on, and turned it on.
What are you doing? James asked.
Making myself breakfast. Porridge.
And us?
Thats not my job. Youre both adults.
Poppy, thats wrong! Maggie protested.
Whats wrong? That I dont want to be a freeofcharge housekeeper?
But Im Petes mum!
Then do your motherly duties. Feed your son.
Im not cooking in your kitchen!
James sat down, looking utterly bewildered.
Mum, how about we go out for a bite?
Coffee shops are pricey, Maggie groaned. And bad for the stomach.
Then make something at home.
Im not doing it!
I cant cook either! James exploded. Poppy, youre supposed to look after the family!
My own family, yes. Other peoples aunts, no.
My mum isnt an aunt!
To me she is. I didnt grow up with her, didnt choose her.
Maggie started to sob.
How cruel!
Cruel is five years of using someone as a servant, I shot back.
Where are you going? she demanded.
To my own business. You two will sort it out.
I slipped into the bathroom, letting the hot water wash away five years of fatigue.
Back in the kitchen, the two of us were left to decide whether to whip up a simple soup or maybe just a bowl of porridge.
