Ill make a proper boy of him yet!
My grandson will not be left-handed. Mrs. Edith Hadleys indignation echoed around the kitchen.
Philip glanced at his mother-in-law, irritation clouding his eyes.
And why is that a problem? Oliver was born that way. Its part of who he is.
Part of who he is! Edith sniffed dismissively. Its not a feature, its a flaw. Its simply not done. For centuries, the right hand has always been the leading hand. The left? Well, thats the work of Old Nick himself.
It was all Philip could do not to chuckle. The world had changed so, yet his mother-in-law still spoke as if it were the days of Henry VIII.
Mrs. Hadley, science has shown
I dont care a fig about your modern science, she interjected. I retrained my James and he turned out as a proper gentleman. Retrain Oliver before its too late. Youll thank me, mark my words.
She swept out of the kitchen, leaving Philip alone with his cooling tea and an uncomfortable knot in his chest.
At first, Philip dismissed the whole affair. Just old-fashioned views from an older generation, surely harmless. He saw Edith gently correcting Oliver at the table, moving his spoon from his left to his right hand, and thought nothing of it. Children are malleable, he supposed; what harm could the odd grandmotherly quirk do?
Oliver had always been left-handed. Philip remembered him at just eighteen months, reaching for rattles with his left hand. Later, when he took to drawing, it was always that same hand. It seemed as natural to Oliver as the colour of his eyes or the dimple in his cheek.
But not to Edith Hadley. To her, left-handedness was an error, a relic of poor breeding to be stamped out. Each time Oliver gripped his crayon in his left hand, his grandmother would purse her lips as though hed made an unforgivable faux pas.
Right hand, Oliver. Use your right, shed intone. At it again? Weve never had a left-hander in the family. Never will. I retrained your uncle, and by heaven, Ill retrain you!
Once, Philip overheard her recounting to his wife, Margaret, her triumph with Jameshow as a boy hed held his fork wrong, how shed tied back his left hand, watched over every movement, disciplined every error. Now, she declared, he was a proper Englishman.
There was such pride and conviction in her voice that Philip felt a chill.
He didnt notice the change in Oliver immediately. First it was pauseshis son hesitated before reaching for anything at the table. His hand hung uncertainly mid-air, as though contemplating the answer to some great conundrum. Then came the sideways glancesa furtive look to see if Grandmother was watching.
Dad, which hand do I use? Oliver asked at supper, anxiety plain in his eyes as he picked up his fork.
Whichever you find easier, son.
But Grandmother says
Dont listen to her, do whats comfortable for you.
But what was comfortable had been stolen from Oliver. He faltered, fumbled, dropped things. The confidence in his movements was replaced by a kind of wary hesitance, as if he no longer trusted his own hands.
Margaret saw it, too. Philip watched her bite her lip when Edith corrected Oliver again, watched her look away as her mother embarked on another monologue about raising children the right way. Margaret, who grew up under the same stern thumb, had learnt long ago that it was safer not to arguejust to endure the storm and wait for it to pass.
Philip tried to speak with her.
Margaret, this isnt right. Look at him.
Mother means well.
Its not about meaning well. Cant you see what its doing to him?
She merely shrugged, retreating from the conversation. Habit, bred by years under Ediths command, was too strong.
It only grew worse. Edith grew bolder, now commenting on Olivers every move, praising when he accidentally used his right hand, sighing dramatically when he reverted to his natural left.
See, Oliver, thats better! All it takes is effort. I made a man of your uncle, and Ill make a man of you, too.
Philip resolved finally to confront his mother-in-law. He waited until Oliver was tucked away, absorbed with his toys in his room.
Mrs. Hadley, let Oliver be. Hes left-handed, and thats perfectly ordinary. Lets not try to undo it.
Her response was volcanic. She drew herself up, affronted.
Who are you to tell me? Ive brought up three children and now you presume to lecture me?
Im simply asking you not to interfere with my son.
Your son? Margarets blood runs in his veins too, you know. Hes my grandson as well as yours. And Ill not have him turn out like that.
The way she lingered on that, as though it were some unforgivable affliction, made Philips stomach turn.
He realised then that peace was impossible.
Days became fraught with silent rivalry. Edith addressed Philip only through Margaret. He did the same. The air grew thick with an unspoken truce that shattered whenever the tension rose.
Margaret, tell your husband that the soups on.
Margaret, tell your mother I can see to myself.
Margaret, pale and exhausted, flitted between the two, while Oliver hid for longer with his books and drawing pad, hunched in his corner, hoping to be invisible.
The idea came to Philip one crisp Saturday morning, as Edith bent over her prized beef stew. She chopped carrots with the brisk air of a woman who had ruled her kitchen for decades.
He sidled up behind her.
Youre not cutting those properly.
She didnt even look round. Sorry?
The carrots should be thinner. And cut lengthwise, not across.
She kept chopping, undeterred.
Im seriousno one does it that way. Its wrong.
Philip, Ive cooked stew for thirty years.
And for thirty years youve been doing it wrong. Let me show you.
He reached for the knife. She pulled away, scandalised.
Are you quite mad?
Not at all. Just want you to do things properly. See, youve too much water there, and the heat’s too high. Youre adding the onions before the beef
Ive always done it this way!
Thats not reason enough. Now, lets start again. From scratch.
She froze, knife poised mid-air. Her look was one of utter bewilderment.
What are you going on about?
Only what youve been telling Oliver each day. You must relearnyoure doing it wrong. Should use your other hand.
Thats absolutely different!
Is it? Seems much the same to me.
Edith slammed the knife down, her cheeks flushed with indignation.
You dare compare my cooking to Thats how I do things because it suits me! Its convenient!
And its convenient for Oliver to use his left hand. That hasnt stopped you.
Thats different! Hes a childhe can change.
And youre a grown woman with old habits. Are you to be shaped anew? No? Then why demand it of him?
Her lips tightened. There was a glint of turmoil in her eyes.
How dare you! I raised three children. James was retrainedhes fine!
And is he truly content? Self-assured?
A heavy silence fell.
Philip knew he had struck home. James, Margarets elder brother, had long since moved away, calling his mother only at Christmas.
I meant only the best, Ediths voice trembled. Always did.
I dont doubt that. But in your world, the best means my way. Oliver is his own little person, with his own ways. I wont let you drum them out of him.
Youll lecture me?
I will, and Ill start harping on about your every habit, every time you slice a carrot or stir a pot, if you dont cease meddling. Lets see how you like that.
The standoff was silent, charged. Son-in-law and mother-in-law, both at the brink.
Its petty and mean, she spat.
Its the language you understand.
She seemed to sag then. Some inner scaffold collapsed; she looked old and fragile at last.
Its because I love she tailed off.
I know. But this isnt loveits control. And if you cant stop, you wont see your grandson again.
The stew was left to burn, forgotten.
That evening, after Edith retired to her room, Margaret joined Philip on the settee. She sat close, silent for a long while.
No one ever defended me, growing up, she murmured at last. Mother was always right. I just bore it.
He put his arm round her.
She wont force her way on this family. Not anymore.
Margaret nodded, squeezing his hand in quiet gratitude.
From the nursery came the soft scrape of a crayon on paper. Oliver was drawingleft-handedand no one would ever tell him it was wrong again.
