Emma, why are you being such a stranger? Its just tomatoes they dont bite, James said, leaning against the open door of her brandnew, gleaming crossover, a guilty grin on his face.
Emma drew a long breath, her hand brushing the smooth, stillsmelling new steering wheel. Shed dreamed of this car for three years, skimping on bonuses, skipping a proper holiday, even wearing an old coat just to save enough for it. No loan, no help from James, shed bought it herself. The interior was a soft creamgrey, almost milky. She knew it wasnt the most practical colour, but she loved the feeling of luxury and cleanliness. And now, barely four days after the purchase, she was being asked to ferry her motherinlaws seedling boxes to the cottage.
James, she tried to keep her voice level, though her stomach was in knots, look at the interior its cream. Mums seedlings are mud, water and those leaky yoghurt cartons. I wont put them in here.
Well be careful! James begged. Mum packed everything. Well lay newspapers, put them in the boot. No need to hire a van for ten boxes, will we? Shell be furious. You know how Mrs. Thompson feels about her tomatoes theyre practically her children. Shes been fussing over them since February.
Emma stepped out, shutting the door gently. The sun glittered off the spotless bonnet.
Ten boxes? she repeated. Last weekend you mentioned a couple of crates. Where did ten come from?
Well there are peppers, aubergines, some petunias, I think. Please, Emma, the cars alternator is on the fritz, you know its in the garage. Mums panicking the seedlings are getting too tall. If we dont go today, well have a monthlong row.
A row if I dirty my new car, Emma snapped. Call a taxi. Big Van or just a regular estate. Ill pay.
You dont get it, James lowered his voice, glancing toward the upstairs windows where his mum lived. She wont trust a cab driver. Shell think hell jostle the seedlings and smash them. She wants us, with love, you know?
Emma stared at him. He was thirtyeight, yet he looked like a schoolboy terrified of his mums wrath more than any nuclear war.
Fine, she relented, feeling the sting of conceding. But one condition: everything goes in the boot only. No pots in the cabin. Ill check each crate to make sure the bottom is dry. Got it?
Got it! Youre the best! James pecked her cheek and bolted for the driveway. Ill be quick!
Emma waited by the car, heart racing. Shed known Mrs. Thompson for seven years a force of nature with a soft spot. She could smother you with rich scones, knit a prickly sweater and get hurt if you didnt wear it, and her cottage was her holy sanctuary.
Ten minutes later the hallway door flung open. First came James, stumbling backwards, clutching a huge, waterswollen cardboard box from a banana shipment, its sides bulging with pale tomato stalks tied up in rags. Behind him shuffled Mrs. Thompson, balancing two plastic buckets brimming with more greens.
Easy there, James, dont tilt it! the motherinlaw commanded. Those are Bullheart tomatoes, topgrade! Emma, love, open the boot, your husbands hands are full!
Emma pressed the key fob; the boot lid rose smoothly.
Mrs. Thompson, good morning. Whats this? Emma asked, pointing at the damp box. Its bottoms wet.
Wet? Nonsense! she waved it off, setting the buckets on the pavement. I gave them a light watering this morning so they wouldnt dry out. Its a scorching day!
James forced the box into the boot. Emma watched a dark patch of moisture spread instantly across the brandnew plush mat shed bought to protect the carpet.
Stop! she shouted. James, pull it out!
Whats happened? Mrs. Thompson froze, a pot in each hand.
Its leaking! I asked for a dry bottom! James, theres mud and water!
Oh, its just a drop, the motherinlaw snorted. Its soil, not oil. Itll dry, youll shake it off. A cars for hauling, not for dusting. In my day we used an old Mini to lug manure, potatoes and nothing else.
Its not a Mini, Emma said, keeping her cool. And Im not hauling manure. James, get it out. We need a tarp. Do we have one?
What tarp? James asked, confused. I thought newspapers would do
Newspapers will soak in a minute! We need a sturdy plastic sheet or a sack!
Ive got no plastic, the motherinlaw muttered, lips pursed. Ill fetch the greenhouse cover. Emma, dont be dainty. Well line it up nicely, no more leaks, it just dripped from the edge.
Just then the neighbour, Mrs. Clarke, stepped out with her tiny terrier.
Oh, Emma! Off to the farm? she chirped. And youve bought a new car? Fancy!
Yes, Clarke, were trying to get the seedlings off, Mrs. Thompson replied loudly, as if the whole street needed to hear. Shes scared to put a tomato in the boot.
Emma felt the heat rise to her cheeks classic motherinlaw move, rallying the neighbours to shame the daughterinlaw.
James, go to the corner shop and buy a roll of heavyduty plastic, Emma muttered through clenched teeth.
Why spend money? the motherinlaw pouted. Ive got an old bathroom curtain, Ill bring it.
While Mrs. Thompson rummaged for the curtain, James shifted nervously from foot to foot.
Emma, just bear with it. Well line it and go. Its only a fortyminute drive.
James, do you see how many boxes there are? Emma gestured toward the hallway where a mountain of crates, pots and bundles waited. They wont all fit in the boot. Even if we stomp them in.
Maybe we can squeeze some into the back seat, James suggested.
No. I said no. The cabins cream carpet.
Mrs. Thompson returned with the grimy, yellowstained shower curtain.
Here a solid piece! James, spread it.
They spread the curtain, then began loading. The boxes were all different shapes, damp cardboard, wobbling. Emma kept a hawks eye on every move. In the end only five boxes made it into the boot; the rest stayed on the pavement, along with buckets, spades wrapped in rags, and a massive bag of Mrs. Thompsons belongings.
Alright, Mrs. Thompson said, wiping sweat from her forehead, the rest goes in the cabin. James, open the rear door.
The cabin is offlimits, Emma said firmly, shutting the rear door.
What do you mean offlimits? Where else am I supposed to put this? On my head? she snapped, brandishing a box of soil. Ive grown these peppers for three months! Do you know how much the seeds cost?
I suggested a van, Emma replied. All would fit.
Youre mad! A van costs an arm and a leg! And you think a driver will treat my seedlings with care? Hell just dump them.
James interjected, Emma asked for the cabin to stay light
Are you defending her? Mrs. Thompson shouted, turning on him. You raised me, never slept, now youre sparing a car for a handful of seedlings? Blimey!
She grabbed a juice box, tore it open, and the soggy earth inside burst onto Jamess white trainers and Emmas light grey trousers. The floor was a mess of muddy soil and roots.
A heavy silence fell.
Emma stared at the stained fabric, then at Mrs. Thompson.
Oh dear the motherinlaw whispered. Weve ruined the car because of a row!
Emma said quietly, Thats enough.
She walked around, slipped into the drivers seat, and started the engine.
Emma? James looked up from the mud, his shoes halfburied. Where are you going?
To the car wash, she called back through the open window. You sort out the rest. Call a van or a helicopter, I dont care. Im not taking the seedlings.
Youre abandoning us? Mrs. Thompson gasped. How can you be so heartless?
James, stop! Emmas voice was icecold. I warned you. I offered to pay for delivery. You refused. Deal with it yourselves.
She eased out of the drive, leaving James and his mother amidst the scattered boxes and earth. In the rearview mirror she saw Mrs. Thompson flailing, shouting, while James slumped his shoulders in defeat.
Emma drove, hands trembling on the wheel, feeling angry and ashamed. Since she was a girl, shed been taught to be polite, to respect elders, to help the family. A thin peace is better than a loud quarrel, her mum used to say. Yet now, looking at the mud stain on her cherished car, a fierce, cleansing anger rose. Why did her no mean nothing? Why was her hardwon dream dismissed for a whim? A taxi would have solved it. It wasnt a lifeordeath matter, just seedlings.
She pulled into the local car wash. The young attendant gave a sympathetic grin.
Garden folk? he asked.
Almost, Emma sighed.
While the car was being cleaned, her phone buzzed endlessly James, Mrs. Thompson, everyone. She put it on silent.
Back home, she poured herself a cup of tea and settled by the window. James hadnt been back for four hours. She imagined them still in the driveway, collecting soil, trying to call a van, hearing Mrs. Thompson scold her son for his poor choice of wife.
James finally staggered home late, covered in dirt, eyes heavy. He slipped into the kitchen, poured a glass of water and downed it in one gulp.
Well, satisfied? he asked without looking at her. Mum was in a panic. Her blood pressure spiked, had to take some paracetamol.
Did you get a taxi? Emma asked calmly.
They called Big Van. Showed up in twenty minutes, loaded everything, delivered it.
See? No one died, and the cars clean.
Emma, its not about the car! James slammed his glass on the table. Its about respect! You showed Mum that a new car mattered more than her. She said she wont set foot in our house again.
That was her choice, James. I offered a taxi from the start, even paid for it. She wanted to force me to carry mud in a creamcoloured boot. Why? To prove her power?
Shes old, has quirks! She could have been reasonable.
I wont compromise where it harms me, Emma stood, voice steady. I respect your mum, but I expect the same for me and my things. If she asked me to drive her to the doctor, Id be there in a flash. But hauling soil and old furniture in a brandnew car when a delivery service exists is nonsense. I wont do it.
James stared at the window, then sighed heavily.
Half the seedlings died, he said suddenly. One box tipped over in the boot while we were unloading. I wiped it, but I think itll need drycleaning.
Emma closed her eyes. I told you.
Right should I call her tomorrow? Apologise? Just for peaces sake? Her birthdays coming up.
No, James. I have nothing to apologise for. I defended my boundaries. If she wants to talk, Im open, but I wont be the one to transport seedlings, old sofas or sacks of potatoes in my car. End of story.
The next two weeks were quiet. Mrs. Thompson didnt call; she complained to James about the snake hes kept. Emma held her ground. It stung to be the familys villain, but every time she slid into the spotless cabin, she felt shed done right.
On Saturday James was packing for the cottage.
Going? he asked, halfhopeful. Strawberries are in. Mum seemed calmer, asked why you werent coming.
Emma thought it over. Hiding forever felt foolish.
Ill go, but in my own car. And if anyone asks me to haul rubbish or manure, Ill turn the wheel and drive off.
Deal, James grinned crookedly. No manure.
At the cottage, silence greeted them. Mrs. Thompson was busy in the beds. Seeing Emma, she straightened, brushed off her hands, and gave a tentative smile.
Hello, she said gruffly.
Good morning, Mrs. Thompson.
She eyed Emmas sparkling vehicle parked by the gate.
Your neighbour, Mrs. Clarke, said your cars a joke, not fit for us.
I like it, Emma replied with a smile.
Mrs. Thompson hesitated, then waved her hand. Fine, come in for tea. Ive baked a strawberry tart.
The tea was polite, the conversation tentative, but the war was over. James tried a joke, Mrs. Thompson handed him the biggest slice of tart.
When they were about to leave, Mrs. Thompson walked around Emmas car, inspected the interior.
Clean, she noted.
I try, Emma answered.
The van driver was a bit of a lout, but he got the boxes to the greenhouse quickly. He asked for an extra £3 on top.
See? Its handy.
Handy, Mrs. Thompson agreed reluctantly. James cant lift heavy things now, his backs bad. This big motorbiketype van would be great for the pumpkins later.
She gave Emma a long, appraising look.
Youre a stubborn one, Emma. Ive never let anyone sit on my lap. My husbands gone, heaven took him, and everyone said I was headstrong. I just protected what was mine.
Emma raised an eyebrow, surprised by the sudden candour.
Alright, off you go. Traffic will be a nightmare, Mrs. Thompson said, handing James a sealed bag of washed herbs. Everythings triplepacked, nothing will leak.
Thanks, Emma took the bag; it was dry and neat.
And this, Mrs. Thompson added, sliding a business card for a local haulage firm across the table. Well need to clear out the courgettes and the apples later. Not in your fancy boot, mind.
Emma smiled. Small victory, no trumpets, but real.
Will do, she promised.
On the drive home the sun set, flooding the cabin with a warm golden glow.
Looks like we made it, James exhaled. I thought it would ruin you.
Its just people understanding boundaries, Emma said, turning up the music. When you say no clearly, you earn respect. When you try to be everyones convenience, you get stepped on.
James nodded slowly.
Maybe. I could never have left mum with the boxes.
You couldnt. Thats why your shoes are muddy and mine stay clean. To each their own.
Emma felt content. She hadnt become the bad daughterinlaw, just a daughterinlaw who knew her limits. And that felt a lot better than being the everpatient, evercleaning one.
