Fed up with the Mother-in-Law and Wife
That evening, the quietest and most patient man in our village, Stephen Johnson, turned up at my surgery. You know the typemade of pure British grit, the sort of bloke youd mistake for a lamppost set in concrete. Back straight, hands like spades, every knuckle a monument to honest graft, and an expression calm as a spring morning on the moors. Never says a word he doesnt have to, never a complaint out of him. If a fence needed mending or old Mrs. Greens shed roof suffered a collapse, there was Stephenno fuss, no praise, just got on with it and tipped his cap as he left.
But that night oh dear. You shouldve seen him. The surgery door swung open about as noiselessly as an autumn draught. There he stood on the threshold, clutching his battered flat cap, eyes fixed on the worn linoleum. His coat dripped with drizzle, boots caked in mud, and the whole man, usually so solid, looked utterly deflatedlike a weathered Scunthorpe bus seat. My own heart plummeted to my socks.
Step in, Stephen, I coaxed, already setting the kettle on. You see, in our neck of the woods, some aches arent remedied by pills, but with a strong brew and a pinch of thyme.
He edged in, perched awkwardly on the edge of the patient bed, gaze still glued to the floor. The only sounds: the clock on the wall tickinga solemn metronome of his silence. And that silence, let me tell you, weighed heavier than any outburst. It hummed in my ears, filled the room until there was no space for breath. I set a mug of steaming tea before him and tucked it into his frosted hands.
He cradled the mug, tried to drink, but his fingers trembled so violently the tea sloshed about. Then, I watched a single tear sneak down his stubbled cheekproper mans tear that, heavy as a brick. Then another followed. He didnt sob or whimper. He just sat, letting the tears quietly soak into his whiskers.
Im leaving, Edith, he whispered, voice thin as moths breath. Thats it. Cant go on. Got nothing left in me.
I took a seat beside him, set my dry old hand atop his. His hand twitched but didnt pull away.
Leaving who, Stephen? I asked softly.
My womenfolk, he replied, so low I almost missed it. Wife. Mother-in-law. Theyve ground me down, Edith. Chewed me up and spat me out, like two crows fighting over crumbs. Nothing I do is ever right. Soup for Elizabeth when shes down the dairy? Too salty, and you chopped the potatoes all wrong. Put up a shelf? Wonky! Other men know what theyre about, why not you! Dig the veg patch? Too shallow, missed half the weeds. And so it goes, day in day out, year in year out. Not a kind word, not a warm look. Just the constant stinglike stinging nettles in me socks.
He paused, sipped tea.
Im no lord of the manor, Edith. I get itlifes tough. Elizabeth works at the farm from dawn, comes home cross and bone-tired. Her mother, Mrs. Barker, knees shot to bits, never budges from her chair and glares at the world like shed love to throttle it. I understand. I do. Thats why I put up with it. Up at six, fire going, water hauled, pigs sorted. Off to work, back at dusk, and its never good enough. Offer a single retort, I get three days of banshee wailing. Say nothing, even worse. Why so quiet? Up to something, are you? The soul, Edith, its not made of stone. It grows weary.
He stared into the little glow from the gas heater, and the words trickled out like a broken tap. How, for weeks, nobody spoke so much as pass the pepper, as if he barely existed. How they muttered behind his back and hid the best strawberry jam for themselves. How one year, he used his Christmas bonus to buy Elizabeth a warm wool shawl, and she hurled it into the bottom drawer: Shouldve bought yourself boots instead! Yours are a laughing stock in the village.
Imaginea man strong enough to wrestle the village bull, sitting there like a scolded puppy, quietly weeping. My heart ached for him.
I built that house with my own hands, he croaked. Remember every beam. Thought it’d be a nesta family. Turned out to be a cage. The birds in it, nothing but pecky magpies. And today, her mother started again: That doors creakingits like sleeping by the M25. Useless, the lot of you. Took my old axe was going to fix the latch. Found myself looking up at the apple tree, thinking things I shouldnt. Barely shook it off. Packed a knapsack, put in half a loaf, and came to you. Ill rough it somewhere tonightcatch the early train, go wherever my feet point. Let them get by on their own. Maybe then theyll say a kind wordwhen its too late.
Thats when I realised things were dangerously bad. This wasnt simply exhaustionit was a soul teetering on the edge. No way I could let him walk out that door.
Right, Johnson, said I, voice sharp as vinegar. Dry those eyes. Its not fitting. Running away, is it? Have you thought whatll happen to them? Elizabeth can run the farm single-handed? Mrs. Barker, legs like boiled noodles, wholl care for her? Youre their backbone, man!
And whos my backbone, Edith? he managed, sour little smile. Wholl look after me, then?
I will, I said, as stern as the headmistress at St. Marys. And what youve got isnt flu or bunions. Its called soul fatigue. Heres your medicine: go home. Dont say a word. Ignore the naggingjust lie on your bed, face the wall. Ill be round first thing, see for myself. No bolting off to the station. Understood?
He looked at me, uncertainty fighting a flicker of hope. Downed his tea, nodded, and slipped into the miserable dark without so much as a backward glance. I stayed by the heater a long time, ponderingwhat sort of healer am I if the best medicine, a simple kind word, is the rarest one folk give each other?
Come first light, I was rapping at their little garden gate. Elizabeth opened up, face pinched and sleep-starved.
What brings you round at this hour, Edith?
Ive come to check on Stephen, I replied, sweeping into the drab sitting room.
Inside, frost on the windows, frosty as the mood. Mrs. Barker sat hunched in her shawl on the settee, giving me the look of an owl thats swallowed a wasp. There lay Stephen, just as Id told himon his side, facing the wall.
Hes fine, strong as an oxjust lazy, thats all, sniped Mrs. Barker. One must work, another must lounge.
I checked his forehead, listened with my stethoscope, though I already knew the answer. His eyes were open, but dulljaw twitching in silence.
I straightened up and faced the women, grave as the vicar at evensong.
Bad news, ladies. Terribly bad. Stephens heart is like a violin string tuned far too tight. One more squeak, itll snap. Nerves shot to bits. If you dont take great care, youll be left here on your own.
They exchanged glancesElizabeths brows raised, and Mrs. Barkers scepticism flared.
Oh, dont be daft, Edith, huffed the old woman. Yesterday he was chopping logs so fast the chips hit the chickens.
That was yesterday, I shot back. Today hes at breaking point. Youve ground him downgrumbling and nitpicking. You think hes made of granite? Hes flesh and blood, and he hurts. He needs rest, complete rest. No housework. Quiet as the church during Lent. Not one cutting remark, not a sour word. Care for him like you would a priceless vase. Feed him soup, tuck him in, not a raised voice. Otherwise well, Id have to send him to hospital in the city, and you know not everyone comes back from there.
The fright in their eyes was realsticky, unmistakable. For all their sharp tongues, the two of them relied on Stephen like Buckingham Palace relies on scaffolding. The very thought of losing him made them go pale.
Elizabeth crept to the bed, nervously patted her husbands shoulder. Mrs. Barker pursed her lips, staring holes in the rug.
I left them with their fear and their conscienceand waited.
The first few days, Stephen later told me in furtive whispers, the house was as silent as the British Library. They padded about in slippers, whispered like poachers. Elizabeth brought him broth, set it down without a word, scurried off. Mrs. Barker, passing by, muttered a prayer in his direction. No one dared to raise their voice.
Then, slowly, the ice began to thaw. One morning, Stephen woke to the aroma of baked appleshis childhood favourite, spiced just so. He rolled over and there was Elizabeth, peeling an apple at his bedside. She startled when their eyes met.
Eat, Stephen, she murmured. Straight from the oven.
And for the first time in years, he saw something besides irritation flicker in her eyesawkward, but true, concern.
A day later, Mrs. Barker brought him a pair of wool socks shed knitted herself.
Keep your feet warm, she muttered, not meeting his gaze. Gets draughty by the window.
Lying there, Stephen stared up at the ceiling and, for the first time in ages, felt he was more than brawnmore than a pair of hands. He was needed. Not as a farmhand or beast of burden, but as a person someone was afraid to lose.
A week on, I dropped by again. My, how things had changed. The sitting room was toasty, thick with the scent of fresh bread. Stephen sat at the table, still pale, but no longer beat down. Elizabeth poured him a mug of warm milk while Mrs. Barker nudged over a plateful of scones. They didnt coo like a couple of lovebirdsoh nobut the suffocating chill had gone.
Stephen glanced up at me with a gentle, grateful smile. Elizabeth managed a bashful one of her own. Mrs. Barker turned to the window, dabbing her eyes with her cardigan sleeve.
That was the last time I treated them. They became their own best medicine. No, they didnt morph into a picture-perfect family. The mother-in-law still grumbled, and Elizabeth had her moments. But now, after Mrs. Barkers complaints, shed pop the kettle on for Stephen. And if Elizabeth snapped, shed stroke his arm once her temper cooled. Theyd learned to see the person, not the mistaketheir tired, treasured, perfectly imperfect own.
Sometimes, as I stroll past their home at dusk, I spot the three of them sitting on the old stone step. Stephen tinkers with something, the women shell peas or quietly chat. My heart swells, earthy and content. Thats happiness, I thinknot in grand gestures or glittering gifts, but a quiet evening, the whiff of apple pie, a pair of woolly socks, and knowing youre needed, that you belong.
Makes you wonder, doesnt it? Whats a better curea nasty-tasting pill, or a gentle word offered just at the right time? And, perhaps, do folk sometimes need a jolt of fear to finally appreciate the gold theyve got at home?
