How do you picture that, Mum? Emily snapped. You expect me to live two weeks with a complete stranger?
Stranger? Hes George, son of my cousin Linda, our kin! her mother retorted. Remember how you used to play with him as a child when we visited?
Mum, Im almost thirty! Im not a child any more. Are you trying to push me into marriage again? Emily pressed.
Nonsense, hes family. Just be a good host; nothing will happen to you the woman said firmly and hung up.
Mrs. Thompson always revered family bonds; blood was sacrosanct. So she imposed on her daughter the overfiftyyearold George, who had decided to move to the capital the city of opportunity, London.
Take him in as family, she urged. You cant turn away a relative when you have a spare room in London!
Emily, a wellread teacher of English and literature at a secondary school, recalled that the adverb as family was a favourite of the notorious poet Horace Greenwood, a man as illreputed as the fictional Mrs. Shapoklyak.
She offered to host her secondcousin because she was such a sweet soul. After all, why should she let a stranger take up space on her doorstep?
But the Thompsons lived in a cramped postwar council flat with a tinny kitchen so tiny a folding chair wouldnt even fit. How could I possibly house George in there? Youre not serious, Emily! her mother scolded.
Emilys mood soured; shed been on her own for a while a brief flirtation hadnt counted as marriage. Her university romance had fizzled after six months; the only thing that survived was the memory that nothing else mattered.
Shed been lucky not to have a child yet; she didnt want offspring from a husband she never really liked. At almost thirty, she still hadnt found a partner, but that worried her parents more than her. Emily was content.
She owned a solid 1970s twobed flat inherited from her grandmother. Inside were antiquated but functional items: a washing machine that still spun, a fridge that kept cold, a television that turned on. What more could she ask for?
Emily earned a respectable salary as a senior teacher; she was wellregarded at school. Her social life was fine, and the loneliness at home was eased by her cat Mittens named just like the hunting dog in the classic Naughty Boy stories.
She prepared a spare room for her guest and waited anxiously for Georges arrival, despite her mothers assurances that shed grow fond of him.
When George finally turned the key, he inspected the flat diligently, peering into every shared space as if checking for hidden treasures.
What are you looking for, a pot of gold? Emily asked, halfjoking. Did you expect a golden toilet for your arrival?
Just trying to figure out where Ill be staying, he replied.
And if you dont like something, youll just leave? Emily probed, curiosity getting the better of her.
Ill stay, but he trailed off.
What? But what?
Nothing, really, he said with a shrug.
They brewed tea and introduced themselves properly. George brought a slice of cake that Aunt Linda had sent, and he bought a small, tasty tart. He turned out not to be a freeloading leech.
In practical matters George was exemplary: without being asked he washed the dishes, helped clean up, cooked an adequate meal, and never left puddles in the bathroom. He seemed toilettrained in the highest sense.
Thanks, Aunt Linda, and to his first wife who knows who that was, Emily muttered, noting that George was also divorced.
Are you serious? exclaimed Megan, Emilys friend, when she heard about the new houseguest. He sounds like a readymade husband! Grab him!
Megan knew what she was saying; shed divorced her own Leo for similar reasons.
But were family! And I dont like him, Emily retorted.
What kind of family are we talking about? As thin as water on jelly? How could you not like him? Is he some…
I dont think so! George was fairly handsome, though not Emilys type.
The chemistry just wasnt there. Their rhythms clashed: she was a nightowl, he a early bird. Emily favoured a slow, measured life, quoting an old Eastern proverb: Hurry slowly. George, by contrast, was a kinetic soul, always moving forward, his heart a roaring engine.
On the first day he whisked Emily off to a theatre, tickets prebought online. She felt awkward refusing him on day one, so she went, even though theatre wasnt her habit.
She loved classic productions she could stream at home; modern reinterpretations left her cold. The lack of a curtain, the contemporary costumes, and the muddled delivery of the lines grated on her. The play isnt even about our time! she thought, while the director seemed delighted with the avantgarde flair.
George, however, was thrilled and, on the way home, tried to convince her that she was wrong, arguing passionately.
You dont get it; this is progressive! he blurted.
Why do I need progress? Emily replied calmly. Im quite happy with the old ways.
Its about moving forward, he insisted, launching into a speech about progress and the city of opportunity London and his grand plans for the future.
Meanwhile, Mittens slipped under the bed, as he always did when something displeased him. The handsome newcomer didnt win the cats approval either.
The thirtysomething guest began to involve himself in the household beyond chores. On the second day he bought a new rug, tossing the old one that had been draped over the stairwell. Emily accepted the change without comment; it was done quietly, no one felt the need to argue.
Soon a new saucepan appeared; the old one had become sticky at the bottom. Emily sipped coffee with toast in the morning, noticing that George had bought the pot for himself he preferred a proper breakfast, not the halfhearted meals she usually made.
When he offered to pay the utility bills, Emily declined, sensing an intrusion on her domain. Why would you pay for my flat? she asked. It feels like youre overstepping.
Im not planning to pay for the whole place, George replied, just my share.
He also sent out countless résumés and attended a slew of interviews, hoping to land a job in the capital. He was determined; opportunities seemed to glimmer on the horizon.
Two weeks into his stay, a strange rash appeared on his face, his nose started to run, and he sneezed uncontrollably. It was the end of his fortnightly visit, but no one left yet. George grew bold, shouting at Emily about her slippers on the kitchen floor, or why shed bought that particular laundry powder Youll never get it out of the clothes!
Emily began to feel foolish, as if she were the odd one out, and wondered whether she was truly the head of the house or merely a guest herself.
Mittens continued to ignore George, emerging from under the bed only when he wasnt looking.
Finally, on the eighteenth day, George received a call: hed been offered a job in London. At last! he exclaimed, they finally hired me.
Emily counted the days; his constant presence was wearing thin, even if he was tidy, handsome, and wellmeaning. But he was still a complete stranger with his own habits.
She decided to confront the overripe relative. Are you fed up with me, dear? she asked, arranging a meeting for the next day. George had a medical checkup scheduled for that morning, a prerequisite for the new job.
When Emily returned from work the next day, the table was set for a celebratory dinner. Is this a farewell feast? she mused, Thank heavens! She felt a lift in spirits.
George poured wine, and then, to Emilys astonishment, announced his intention to propose not a business deal, but his hand in marriage. I think we could make a decent pair, he said, Im not repulsive to you, and youre attractive to me. At our age we should think carefully about marriage.
We already have a flat and good jobs. Love would only complicate things; everything should be built on respect, and we respect each other, he continued.
Emily opened her mouth to protest, but before she could, Mittens leapt out from under the bed. You have a cat? George asked, surprised.
Yes, Emily said. First time youve seen him?
Yes, first time! Blast, Im allergic to cats! The doctor just diagnosed me with an allergy! he blurted.
Cant you see the litter tray? You notice everything else, Emily retorted.
The doctor said I need to treat the cause, not just the symptoms, he explained. I cant live with a cat in the same flat.
Whos forcing you? Move out? Emily shot back.
Or get married? he countered, baffled.
The allergy isnt getting any better, George muttered, the cat will get in the way.
Then you want me to put the cat down! Emily snapped.
Thats an option, George offered, and I could pay for it.
Ill take care of you myself, Emily said after a pause, but not the cat. Get out!
George, feeling insulted, retorted, I didnt expect you to be so primitive. Emily replied coolly, Goodbye then.
He left, and the saucepan vanished from the kitchen; the new rug remained, perhaps too heavy to move.
Mrs. Thompson called, How could you kick him out? Hes already complained!
He wanted me to marry him! If youre so kind, marry yourself! He disgusts me, Emily snapped before hanging up. No one called back; the matter seemed settled.
Perhaps next time a relative would develop an allergy to her. History even records husbands allergic to their wives dandruff, with disastrous outcomes.
So, dear mother, if you ever think of helping again, remember: those who invite relatives in must also be ready to face the consequences. Emily learned that kindness to kin should not eclipse ones own peace of mind. In the end, she kept her home, her cat, and her sanity, realizing that family ties are valuable, but personal happiness must never be sacrificed for them.
