How do you picture that, Mum? Iris huffed. Im supposed to spend two weeks with a complete stranger?
Its not a stranger, her mother retorted. Its Ian, the son of my cousin Linda family, you know!
Remember when we used to play with him as kids? We were staying at their place! Mum reminded her.
Im almost thirty, Mum. Wheres my childhood in all this? Are you trying to push another marriage on me? Iris tried to get through to her mother. Or is this another one of your matchmaking schemes?
No nonsense, dear hes family. So treat him like a guest and nothing untoward will happen, the mum declared, ending the call with finality.
Mum always treated kin as sacrosanct. So when her brotherinlaw Ian announced he was moving to the capital the city of opportunity, i.e. London she insisted Iris take him in, because family in London, you cant turn them away.
Iris, a wellread English teacher of literature at a secondary school, recalled that the adverb familiarly was a favourite of the notorious TV chef Gordon Ramsays sidekick, a nod to the British love of quirky phrases.
She offered to look after her cousins son herself, being the everhelpful soul she was. After all, why should a lanky twentysomething man have to bunk elsewhere?
But Mum lived with Dad in a cramped postwar council flat, its kitchen barely big enough for a kettle, let alone a proper dinner. Youre not going to bring Ian into that kitchen, are you? Mum asked. What are you, Iris?
Iriss mood soured. Shed long been single; a brief studentfling had ended after six months, and the only thing that survived was the memory of a halffinished breakup. No children, no husband, just a tidy twobedroom council house inherited from Grandma. It was a relic, full of vintage appliances that still worked: a washing machine that spun, a fridge that chilled, a telly that displayed pictures. What more could a thirtyyearold want?
Her job paid a decent salary; colleagues respected her. Friends were plentiful, and the only solitary companion was her cat Muffin, named after the cheeky canine in the classic Little Nemo books.
She set up a spare room for Ian and waited, halfskeptical, halfcurious. Hell like it, youll see, Mum had promised.
Ian arrived, inspected the flat with the solemnity of someone touring a museum, peeking into every communal nook.
What are you looking for, a goldfilled bathroom? Iris asked, halfjoking. Did you expect Id install a golden loo for you?
Just trying to figure out where Ill be crashing, Ian replied.
And if you dont like it, you wont stay? Iris pressed, curiosity now outweighing caution.
Ill stay, but
But what? Iris prompted.
Nothing, he shrugged.
They poured tea and got to know each other. Ian even brought a homemade cake that Linda had passed down, plus a little storebought Victoria sponge. He turned out not to be a leech at all.
In the domestic arena Ian was a surprise star: he washed dishes without being asked, could cook a decent shepherds pie, and never left puddles in the bathroom. He was, in short, toilettrained.
Thanks to Aunt Linda and Ians first exwife who, oddly enough, was also a divorcee he seemed wellprepared for life.
Are you serious? gasped Lara, Iriss best friend, when Iris mentioned her new flatmate. Hes practically a husbandmaterial! Grab him!
Lara knew what she meant; shed split from her own Lev after a similar situation.
But were family, and I dont like him! Iris protested.
Youre practically related, like a seventhcousin at best! How can you not like him? Is he a…
…a weirdo? Iris finished.
Perhaps, Ian said, but Im decent looking, just not your type.
Their rhythms clashed: Iris was an owl, Ian a lark. She liked a slow, measured life, quoting some Eastern proverb about hurrying slowly. He was a kinetic, forwardthinking sort, his heart a roaring engine.
On day one he whisked Iris off to a theatre, tickets prebooked online. Iris, who preferred vintage productions she could watch on YouTube, felt uneasy about dragging a stranger to a firstnight outing, but she went anyway.
Modern adaptations of the classics didnt do it for her no curtains, flashy costumes, and actors mumbling the lines. The plays set in a different era, not ours, she muttered. The director, apparently, thought the audience needed a splash of avantgarde.
Ian, meanwhile, raved about the production and tried, en route home, to convince Iris that the playwrights vision was revolutionary. You just dont get it because youre stuck in the past, he declared.
Why do I need the new? Iris replied calmly. The old works fine for me.
Because progress! Ian exclaimed, launching into a monologue about the future, Londons bright opportunities, and his grand plans.
Muffin the cat, ever the drama king, darted under the bed the moment something displeased him apparently, Ians presence.
Day two, Ian replaced the threadbare rug on the landing with a brandnew one, which Iris accepted without comment. He also fetched a sleek new saucepan because the old one stuck to the bottom when making porridge. Iris, sipping coffee with toast, realized he bought it for himself he liked proper breakfasts but she said nothing.
Later he offered to foot the council tax and water bill. Ill pay for the utilities, you know, since Im using them, he said, trying to be the perfect gentleman.
Iris declined, sensing a hidden agenda. Why would you want to pay for my flat? That sounds like youre trying to claim a piece of it, she replied.
Ian laughed, Im not trying to take over the house, love. Just being helpful.
He was also hunting for work, sending out a slew of CVs and attending countless interviews, convinced something big was around the corner.
As his twoweek stay neared its end, he started sneezing, his nose ran, and his face broke out in a rash. He blamed it on the flats dust, perhaps.
Yet instead of packing up, Ian grew bolder. He shouted at Iris for wearing boots in the kitchen, Its hard to slip out of those! and complained about the laundry powder, You cant rinse that out of everything!
Iris felt like a roundtheworld fool, suddenly thinking she wasnt the lady of the house but merely a guest alongside Muffin.
Muffin, meanwhile, kept ignoring Ian, emerging from under the bed only when he wasnt looking.
On day eighteen, a call announced that Ian had finally landed a job a decent position in London, paying a respectable £35,000 a year. He was thrilled, but kept quiet about moving out.
Iris, now a little fed up, decided to confront her overgrown relative. Are you bored of us, dear? she asked, arranging a chat for the next day. Ian, however, had a medical checkup scheduled for that morning a prerequisite for his new role.
The following morning Iris returned from work to find the dining table set for a celebratory dinner. Is this a farewell feast? she mused, feeling oddly buoyant.
Ian, ever the charmer, poured wine and began speaking. Then, suddenly, he blurted out: Id like to propose to you. Not a business proposal, but a marriage proposal, despite the fact they were technically cousins.
In my opinion we could make a decent pair, he said, eyes shining. Im not a turnoff to you, youre attractive, and at our age we should think carefully about marriage. We already have a roof and decent jobs. Love in marriage just adds complexity; respect is what matters, and we respect each other.
Iris stared, mouth agape, when Muffin leapt from under the bed, as if declaring his allegiance to Ian.
What, you have a cat? Ian asked, bewildered.
Yes, Iris replied, surprised. First time youve seen him?
Its the first! Blimey, Im allergic to cats! The doctor just diagnosed me with catallergy today. How come? Ian sputtered.
Youd notice the litter box, wouldnt you? You notice everything else, Iris muttered.
I didnt even see the cat at all! We need to sort this out, Iris, Ian said, panic creeping in. The doctor says I need to treat the cause, not just the symptoms. I cant live with a cat.
Whos forcing you? Iris asked. Dont live here then!
What, dont live? As in marriage? Ian stammered.
Your allergy didnt sneak into your brain, did it? Iris retorted.
No, its yours too, love! The cat will be in the way! Ian declared.
You want me to put the cat down? Iris snapped.
Thats an option, Ian said, oddly offering to pay for it.
Ill put you down instead! Iris snapped back after a brief pause. And stop staring at me like that. Im done with you, not the cat.
Ian sipped his wine, rose from the table and shouted, I never expected you to be so primitive!
And you, goodbyes! Iris replied, relief flooding her.
When he left, the saucepan vanished, the new rug stayed. The call from Mum came later: How could you kick him out? He was already complaining!
He wanted me to marry him! If youre so kind, marry yourself! Hes repulsive to me! Iris snapped and hung up.
No one called back. Perhaps the question was settled.
And perhaps, someday, a relative might develop an allergy to her as well. After all, there are tales of husbands allergic to their wives dandruff, ending poorly.
So, Mum, next time you think of housing upandcoming kin, remember: whoever invents the idea also has to live with the consequences. Iris and Muffin, on the other hand, will be just fine.
