“Get up early and make my mum a soup,” my wife shouted, mimicking the old wartime saying. “Let the one who gave birth to her do the cooking.”
I was sitting in my favourite armchair with a mug of tea, staring at the flatscreen as the credits of the latest drama rolled by. It was Friday, nine oclock, but my mind was already on Saturday. Saturday meant the holy ritual of my motherinlaws visit.
Five long years of marriage had turned those weekends into a grueling survival testevery Saturday, like a curse you cant shake off.
It all began innocently enough. Martha Whitaker, my wife’s mother, used to drop in once a month for a chat, a cup of tea and a catchup about the grandchildren. I would say, halfseriously:
“Mas alone and getting on; my dad’s been gone for a decade. We ought to look after her, give her a bit of company.”
Ethel agreed willingly. After all, shes family, and we ought to respect the older generation.
Then, slowly, things started to shift.
The first signs were tiny criticisms of the housework. After her first visit, Martha politely called our son into the hallway:
“Tommy, dear, do you know if anyones been mopping the floors?”
“Ethel does, Mum,” he answered, puzzled.
“Strange then, why are there streaks on the linoleum? And the dust on the skirtings?” she pointed out.
From that day on, before every visit, Ethel turned into a cleaning fanatic. She scrubbed the flat for hours, down to the seventh sweated drop.
Shed mop the floors twiceonce with a strong cleaner, then drywipe them to a shine. She dusted every surface: the sofas, the bookshelves, even the radiators and the skirtings. The bathtub was polished until it gleamed like glass.
“Mums always been a stickler for spotless homes,” I told her, watching her wield a cloth like a soldier. “She ran a household that looked like a museum.”
“Do you think Im a slob?” Ethel asked, her back hunched from the endless bending.
“Not at all,” I laughed. “Just a bit more relaxed around the house.”
Relaxedan odd word for a woman who puts in tenhour days at the bank, dealing with jittery clients, endless reports and the higherups demands.
She bore it stoically. Family, after all, is a series of compromises and giveandtake, isnt it?
A year later, Martha started dropping by more oftenfirst every fortnight, then every Saturday without fail.
“She gets lonely in the empty flat,” I explained, trying to be diplomatic. “At least she has a place to rest her soul.”
Restthats a nice word when you think about it. Because the only one actually resting in our flat was Martha, while Ethel was running herself ragged.
Marthas demands grew beyond spotless rooms. She no longer settled for a quiet tea and biscuits in front of the telly; she wanted outings, shopping sprees.
“Tommy, love, shall we pop out and look at a new blouse?” she’d say each Saturday. “The wardrobes getting shabby.”
“Of course, Mum! Right away, Ethel, get ready.”
And Ethel would dutifully gather her things, trudge through the crowded shopping centres, lug endless racks of clothes, stand patiently in the changing rooms.
Martha was a demanding shoppershed try on five or six items only to buy one, or sometimes none at all, sighing in disappointment.
“The quality just isnt what it used to be,” shed lament. “Back in the day they made things to last.”
“Shall we try another store?” Ethel would suggest, exhausted.
“Yes, lets. Theyll have better stock.”
And so the endless queues at the tills and the cramped fitting rooms continued. I never joined those marathon shopping trips. I always had manly duties to tend towatching the football on the telly, meeting the lads in the garage, washing the car, or heading out for a bit of fishing.
“Women enjoy those things more, dont they?” Id muse. “Id just be in the way.”
After a hard week at the bank, Id end up dragging my knuckles through the aisles with a frazzled older ladyit turned out to be somewhat entertaining.
But even that wasnt the limit of my patience.
Yesterday, I came home from work exhausted. The quarterly report for the head office, an emergency meeting with the banks directors, a row with a difficult clientmy head throbbed, my legs barely held the weight of my tired body.
Meanwhile, I was perched on the couch, sipping my tea, munching on shortbread, and watching the latest crime thriller.
“How was work?” I asked, not taking my eyes off the screen.
“Terribly tiring,” Ethel admitted, collapsing into the armchair.
“Right, get some rest. By the way, Mums arriving first thing tomorrow.”
“I know,” she replied curtly.
“Listen, Ethel, get up early tomorrow and make Mum a soup. Shell be coming back from her cottage, exhausted and hungry. It has to be made from a freerange chickenMums stomachs delicate now; she needs a proper broth, not that supermarket nonsense.”
Ethel looked up, puzzled.
“Freerange chicken?”
“Yes. Theres a good farmers stall at Borough Market. Aunt Lucy keeps live birds there. Theyre fresh, warm, and not frozen. Mum says frozen poultry is nothing but junk.”
“What time should I be there?”
“Early. The market opens at six. You should be back by eight, Mum usually gets in by nine.”
“Why arent you going yourself?”
“Id love to, but you know your way around the stalls better. And soup is a ladys job, right? Ill be able to get some sleep before lunch.”
Ethel trudged to the bathroom, brushed her teeth at a leisurely pace, and mulled over the unfairness of it all. He was planning a morning nap on his day off, while she had to be up at half past five, drive across the city for a chicken, then stand at the stove for three hours.
“Set an alarm?” I called from the lounge.
“What alarm?” she asked, confused.
“One that actually wakes you up.”
She peered out of the bathroom, toothbrush in her mouth.
“And youll set an alarm for yourself?”
“Why would I? Im not cooking tomorrow.”
She answered as if it were a joke. I wasnt going to be the one in the kitchen, after all.
“Fine,” she said, and left the phone untouched.
At seven ten in the morning, a persistent knock rattled the front door. The sky was still grey, a light drizzle pattering against the windows.
“Who could that be?” she murmured, feeling around for her dressing gown.
“Tamar! Its me!” a bright voice announced.
Her heart lurchedMartha Whitaker, earlier than usual.
She opened the door to find Martha on the doorstep, two bulky shopping bags in hand, wearing a sleek coat, looking fresh and full of beans.
“Good morning, love! Is the soup already bubbling, or am I too early?”
Ethel swallowed the lump in her throat.
“Theres no soup,” she croaked.
“Oh dear!” Martha gasped. “James said youd be up early”
“James is still asleep.”
Martha sauntered in as if the comment hadnt landed, hanging her coat on the rack.
“Never mind, love! Well dash to the market, buy the chicken. James told me you need a farmfresh bird, not the frozen sort.”
Ethel stood in her dressing gown, watching the energetic woman, feeling as though a kettle was about to boil over.
“Im not going.”
“How can you not? And the soup?”
“Let the one who ordered it cook it.”
“But James works all week! He needs a break!”
“So do I. And I need a break too.”
Martha settled at the kitchen table, clearly assuming a lengthy discussion was coming.
“Dear, the doctor said I must have a hot broth first thing. My stomachs delicate!”
“I get it. I just dont see why its my problem.”
Exactly five minutes later, James shuffled in, halfdressed in a crumpled tee, hair a mess.
“Morning, Mum! Youve arrived?”
“James!” Martha beamed at her son. “Wheres the soup? Ethel says she wont fetch the chicken.”
James stared at his wife, bewildered.
“You told her yesterday to get up early and make Mum a soup.”
Ethel turned slowly towards him, dried her hands on a kitchen towel, and met his gaze.
“Let the one who gave birth to her swing the ladle.”
Silence fell over the kitchen. Martha froze. James opened his mouth, then shut it.
“What did you just say?” he whispered.
“The thing Ive been thinking about for ages.”
“Ethel!” Martha exclaimed, aghast. “How can you speak like that!”
“Its just words,” Ethel replied.
“But Im your motherinlaw!”
“And so what? Does that make me your servant?”
“What servant?” James intervened. “Mums family!”
“Your family. Your mother. Shes the one you should be feeding.”
“I cant cook!”
“Learn. The internet is full of recipes.”
“But youre a woman!” James stammered.
“Right. And you? An alien?”
“Ethel,” Martha said gently, “I understand youre exhausted. Yet there are family duties”
“Whose duties?” Ethel snapped. “Mine? And yours?”
“I’m an elderly lady”
“A lady who jetsets to the cottage, roams the shops, demands entertainment. Not exactly elderly.”
“How dare you!” Martha flared.
“Its easy. Five years of putting up with thisenough.”
Ethel walked to the stove and turned on a burner, dropping a small pot onto it.
“What are you doing?” James asked.
“Making myself breakfast. Porridge.”
“And us?”
“Nothing for you. Youre adults.”
“Ethel, thats wrong!” Martha protested.
“Whats wrong? That I wont be your unpaid housekeeper?”
“But Im Petes mother!”
“Then do your motherly duties. Feed your son.”
“I wont be cooking in someone elses kitchen!”
James sat down, looking bewildered.
“Mum, shall we go out to eat?”
“Restaurants are pricey,” Martha grumbled. “And bad for the stomach.”
“Then make something at home.”
“I wont!”
“I cant cook either!” James exploded. “Ethel, youre supposed to look after the family!”
“My family, yes. Other peoples aunts, no.”
“My mum isnt a stranger!”
“She is to me. I didnt grow up with her, I didnt choose her.”
Martha began to sob.
“How cruel!”
“Cruel is making a person a servant for five years,” Ethel replied.
“Where are you going?”
“To my own business. You two are adults, sort it out.”
She slipped into the bathroom, letting the hot water wash away five years of fatigue.
The kitchen was left with two grownups, still trying to decide whether to boil a simple broth or just make a bowl of porridge.
