The other night, I found myself drifting through my daughter-in-laws home, though it hardly felt like a home at all. The walls seemed to breathe, sighing with the echoes of footsteps and distant laughter. In the parlour stood a woman Id never seen before, carrying a pail and dusting the grandfather clock as if she were tidying up a stage set for a play I wasnt invited to.
Ive always told my son, Arthur, that the familys pockets didnt matter; love made better company than a banknote. He took it to heart, happily wedding Alice, a lovely thing though penniless and pampered by fate, floating through life with barely a worry in her pretty blonde head.
After the wedding, the young couple moved into a terrace house my husband and I bought for them on Elm Grove. Wed had it refurbished from the cracks up, fireplaces gleaming and sills dusted fresh, and now we prop them up still parcels of groceries by the door, a little cash tucked into a birthday card. Alice stays at home now, having brought my dear grandson into the world, and Arthurs earning isnt half what youd call grand a job in the council, a wage barely enough for the bus fare.
So you can imagine my shock when, on entering their hall with my shopping bags, I found this stranger scrubbing the skirting boards. Alice, it seems, has taken on a housekeeper, hands folded, no sign of a feather duster in her own. How on earth, I wondered, could she afford such extravagance? What happened to pride, to conscience?
Mortified, I took charge, sending the cleaning lady packing with a stern word about respecting ones elders and betters. Mine was still the name on the deeds, after all! My son and his wife had no business hiring help with our pounds.
I sat, determined, in the sitting room, waiting for Alices return soon enough she floated in, baby on her hip, cheeks flushed. I didnt mince words. She barely blinked:
Mum, things are different now. Since Im at home with George, I started a blog it pays quite well, surprisingly! Truly, I need the help, as there arent enough hours in the day for all the work.
A blog? A whisper of a job, living off internet applause? Was that a real wage or a bit of fancy, a mirage in the modern air? And a stranger in my house, my rooms?
If youve such money, pay me, and Ill tidy up. No strangers need cross our threshold, I replied.
She just muttered something soft, vanished with the child to feed him. I bristled, waiting for Arthur to appear with his muddy boots and gentle eyes. Breathlessly, I delivered my grievances.
Oh, Mum, I knew about the housekeeper, he said, calm as teacups lining the shelf. Alice works hard, and I barely see George as it is this way, we can both have a bit more time together.
How do they manage it? These children of mine, spending as if the pounds grew on the apple trees. I hurried to my husband, lost in his armchair and the broadsheet.
You shouldnt meddle, love, he said, barely glancing up. Theyre grown. Let them work out their own muddles.
I havent felt such a fluttering of annoyance since the postman trampled my dahlias. But honestly, I do think Im right. Tell me, am I?
