What are you doing, feeding my husband? Have you any conscience at all? Margaret Fletcher shouted, her voice echoing off the kitchen tiles. First you snatched my dear only son from my heart, and now you think you can strip my husband away as well!
Peter Andrews rolled his eyes, a weary smile tugging at his lips. Whats he to me now? I could feed my own wife and children without your meddling.
You never liked my cooking, have you? Margaret asked, feigning shock. Since when?
Its fine, Motherinlaw, Peter muttered, but after forty years its the same old stew every night. Cant you at least try a new recipe?
Oh, Ill show you a recipe that will have you squealing like a schoolboy! Margaret retorted. Youve never even tasted my stew, have you? Its not like youve tried Gerties famous lamb roast.
Peter chuckled. Ive had a taste, alrightjust enough to know its feeding my son and grandchildren.
Got it? Liked it? And now you expect me to argue with my daughterinlaw? Margaret lunged at him. We lived peacefully! If anything, you should have scrubbed her pots clean.
I should have experimented with something different! Peter declared. All I ever get is whats for dinner? as if it might be ambrosia or nectar.
Ambrosia? Youve never even heard of a proper garnish! Margaret snapped. Thats why you never get invited to my sisters parties, lest you go hungry.
And you never let me into the village hall, so I cant be fed there either! Ill never set foot in the canteen, not on my watch. Your daughterinlaws cooking is the only window I have into the world of fine dining.
Fine dining? Ill lock you in the loft and feed you nothing but oat porridge with waterno salt, no sugar! Margaret threatened, arms wide. Youll be thrilled.
Who are you warning, and why? Peter protested. My own husband! Have a conscience, you know. I could just leave you and claim Im joining the kids.
Oh, hell run off, hell say hes joining the lads. Hell brag to the whole village that I cant feed him right! Margaret huffed. Especially Poppyshell be waiting for you, and shell never forgive you for keeping me out of her fridge!
Poppys fridge? Her budget wont stretch to feeding a stray like you, so keep quiet! Peter replied, his tone turning cheeky. Ill even claim Im paying her wages, not yours, and shell keep me alive on her salary.
Margaret knew her husbands temper well. If he stormed out, shed see it through. She didnt plan to back down.
So, heres the deal, she said, stern as a schoolmaster. Take this bank card, head to London, and buy the cookbook I chose for you. And youll have to help me cook it, got it?
Peters face lit up. Thats where it starts! He seized the card, and within three minutes they were on the train, the card warm in his hand, the promise of a snack at the station café already tasting sweet.
Poppy! Margaret called, waving to her sons halfofthehouse. Lets argue first, then make peace!
Cant we just make peace straight away? Poppy asked, stepping into the shared kitchen.
The genre of family drama demands a proper feud first, Margaret shrugged.
Fine, if we must, Poppy sighed, rolling her shoulders. Begin!
Margarets tirade began again, but the house was empty, so the drama could run its course without anyone hearing.
Poppy, ever the quickwitted neighbour, jumped in. Whats the point of him? I need to feed my own husband and kids! Yet here he is, rummaging through the fridge like a stray cat, forcing me to run to the shop for groceries I cant afford.
Put some meat on the table, and hell stop gobbling everything like a greedy pig, Poppy added, halfjoking, halfserious.
Margaret smiled, delighted by the banter. She loved a good sparring session with her daughterinlaw, as long as it stayed light.
Poppy, Margaret said affectionately, patting the chair beside her, we need to give my dear Peter a lesson.
Your husband, thats for you to decide, Poppy replied. Hes my fatherinlaw! If Sam finds out Im insulting his dad, Ill be in trouble on both sides.
Youre the villages resident medicinewoman, you know how to treat a man whos turned his nose up at my cooking, Margaret mused. Ill be grateful if you help me.
I can, Poppy said, nodding. But you sent him off for a cookbook, didnt you?
And what? Ill keep him on his toes! I need him to turn away from your dishes, otherwise hell keep complaining about my roast.
Consider it a little indulgence from a saintly motherinlaw, Margaret whispered. Just dont hurt my dear Stephen, hes a humourist at heart, but still my blood.
Poppy agreed. Alright, the counterintelligence is on. When he gets cross, youll back me up, wont you?
Both support and a thankyou, dear, Margaret promised.
—
What does a young couple look like in England? Lots of love, a pinch of affection, and a dreadful shortage of cash. In the city, everyone you ask seems to be a businessman or a startup founder. Sam Fletcher and Poppy were just plain country folk. Sam trained as a mechanic, tinkering with tractors and combines on the old farm. Poppy ran the local healthcentre, a nurse with a heart of gold.
When Sam returned to the family cottage after his apprenticeship, Poppy was assigned to the nearby village clinicshe never chased after the cows like old MacDonald did. Their paths crossed on the modest village playing field, and Sam, seeing Poppy in her crisp white coat, declared, Ill walk past every fence until you say yes! He courted her for a whole year until she finally gave inwell, fell in love, really. Sam was honest, hardworking, and modest, which meant his bank account never swelled.
They threw a big, noisy wedding, and the Fletcher clan travelled four days to get there, though a cramped train carriage would have done. They moved into Sams parents cottage, and the first question arose:
How shall we live? the newlyminted motherinlaw asked. All under one roof, or each our own?
Why bother thinking? Sams father chimed in. Theyre young; let them have their own place!
And where do we go? Sam asked his father.
Why go anywhere? Sams grandfather, Nicholas, laughed. This house was built for two families from the start. When one side moved out, the walls were knocked down in a jiffy. Two families, one roof, separate livesperfectly English.
They settled in, though they had to organise the household on the fly. Poppy had lived in a council flat before, so she didnt bring much furniture. Margaret wasnt keen on splurging her savings either.
The daughterinlaw should bring a dowry, not drain my pension! Margaret announced.
They took out a loan for a fridge, a microwave, and a heap of dishes. Occasionally they bought extra bits and bobs, but they managed.
Of course, the shared kitchen wasnt without its squabbles. A bit of steam here, a raised voice therenothing too serious, just a bit of venting. The first real crisis hit when the kids turned four and nine.
Poppy prepared dinner, then dashed off to a neighbouring village on an emergency call. She left a note, bundled up some oat porridge, and hurried back. When she returned, Sam met her with a stern look:
Do you have any conscience? Work is work, but you cant forget the family! Ive just come home, collected the kids from school, and theres nothing for us to eat!
What do you mean nothing? I just cooked! Poppy protested.
I dont know what you made, but when we opened the fridge we found nothing but a lonely slice of breadno ham, no cheese, no butter! You need to pay more attention to the household! Sam snapped.
Poppy, who had been paid the previous week, had already gone out to the town centre to stock the fridge, buying the pricier cuts. Weve got enough drycured ham, cheese, and butter for three days, she argued. Who would think anyone else would be poking around while were away?
Peter Andrews, the husband, entered the scene, his voice booming: Where are your proofs? You have none! If youre sorry, say it! Im not the one causing this mess! He gestured dramatically, as if the kitchen were a courtroom.
Then why dont you put something decent in the fridge so we dont have to steal from each other? Poppy retorted.
Not caught, not guilty! Peter declared. Being greedy is wrong!
Left with no other option, Poppy marched to Margarets house.
Were not swimming in money, she said. If I buy treats for my husband and kids, its for them, not for your husband!
Margaret, ever the stern matriarch, replied, If youre feeling sorry, just say it!
Yes, I am sorry, Poppy admitted. I work, Sam works, we have two kids, your grandchildren. Your husband ends up eating their portions and still looks healthy. Is that right?
The argument fizzled, and Margaret eventually produced two thousand pounds for Poppy and her family to build a new cottagepreferably in another village. When my savings mature, Ill add more, she hinted.
In the end, everyone went home smiling. Margaret visited her sons family often, while Sam swore hed rather eat the soil than accept any of Poppys modern cooking tricks. The little feud had turned into a gentle, if slightly ridiculous, family sagajust another day in the English countryside.
