The Daytime Cuckoo Called
No, shes taking the mickey now! Rosie snapped. George, come hereright now!
Her husband, who had just kicked off his trainers in the hall, appeared in the doorway unbuttoning his collar.
Ros, what now? Ive only just got in from work and my heads splitting
What now?! Rosie gestured at the edge of the bath. Look closely. Wheres my shampoo? Wheres the hair mask I bought yesterday?
George squinted at the sturdy row of bottles.
There stood a massive bottle of coal tar shampoo, a liter of Burdock Root conditioner, and a heavy glass jar of some thick, peculiarly brown cream.
Um Mum brought her things over. She said its easier with everything to hand he mumbled, avoiding her eye.
Easier? George, she doesnt live here! Now look below.
Rosie bent, tugging a plastic wash basin from beneath the tub. Inside, her expensive imported products lay jumbled, along with her sponge and razor.
What does that mean, George? She chucked my things in this mucky basin and lined up her own!
She decided her things were fit to keep by the mop, but her precious Burdock Root deserved pride of place on the bath!
George heaved a sigh.
Rosie, lets not start. Mums in a state, you know that. Ill just put your stuff back, and we can have dinner? Shes made stuffed cabbage, actually.
Im not touching her stuffed cabbage, Rosie cut him off. Why is she always hanging about? Why does she act as if she runs my house, George?
I feel like a lodger, barely allowed to use the loo.
Fuming, Rosie brushed past him, and George gently nudged the basin back beneath the bath with his foot.
The housing troubles that plagued so many never crossed George and Rosies path.
George had his own roomy flat from his late grandfather, and Rosie inherited her grans snug cottage.
After the wedding, they chose Georges it had a new boiler and a fresh lick of paint. Rosies was let to a nice, married couple.
Relations with Georges parents existed in a sort of cautious neutralityalmost polite fondness. Winifred and her perpetually silent husband Bernard lived on the other side of town.
Once a week: tea, weather chit-chat, questions about work and family, polite smiles.
Oh, Rosie love, youve lost weight, Winifred would remark, giving her another slice of Victoria sponge. Georgie, are you not feeding your wife?
Mum, we just go to the gym, George would wave her off.
That was all. No surprise visits, no unsolicited homemaking tips.
Rosie would boast to her friends:
My mother-in-laws goldennever interferes, never nags, never fusses George.
Everything collapsed one gloomy Tuesday. Bernard, after thirty-two years of marriage, packed his suitcase, left a note on the kitchen table (Gone to the coast, dont look for me!), blocked all contact and vanished.
Turns out, a bit of a midlife crisis was a very real, sprightly administrator from a Bognor Regis holiday park the couple had visited every summer these last three years.
For the sixty-year-old Winifred, the world turned upside down.
There were tears, phone calls at three a.m., endless reviews of the tragedy:
How could he? Why, Rosie darling, why?!
Rosie was genuinely sympathetic. She ran over with chamomile tea, listened patiently to the same sentiments repeated, nodding politely through Winifreds curses for that old tomcat.
But patience wore thinher mother-in-laws constant moaning soon grated on her nerves.
George, shes phoned five times this morning, Rosie said one breakfast. Asked you to come and change a lightbulb. In the corridor.
I get it, but When will it end?
George drooped. Shes lonely, Rosie. She lived her whole life in Dads shadow. Dont be cross with her
A lightbulb! She could do it herself or get a handyman. But it has to be you. Or me. Why should I?
Then the overnight stays beganher husband shuttling between homes.
Rosie, Mums scared to sleep alone, George said sheepishly, packing a bag. Says the quiet is deafening. Ill stay a couple nights, alright?
A couple of nights? Rosie frowned. Weve only just married, and youre already running off! I dont want to sleep half the week alone.
Itll be temporary. Shell find her feet and thingsll settle.
Temporary stretched into a month.
Winifred insisted her son spend four evenings and nights a week by her side.
She feigned blood pressure problems, claimed panics, even managed to clog the kitchen sink herself.
Rosie watched her husband wither, stretched between two homes, and made the mistake that haunted her daily after.
***
She decided to have a frank talk with her mother-in-law.
Listen, Mrs Randall, she said over another Sunday lunch. If you hate being alone so much, why not come to ours in the daytime?
George is at work, I often work from home. Youll be in the centre, you could go for a stroll in the park, sit with us. Before bed, George can drive you home.
Winifred gave her a strange look.
You know, Rosie What a smart girl you are. Why should I stew alone? Youre absolutely right.
Rosie expected a visit or two a week, perhaps a midday arrival and gone before George returned.
But Winifred had a different viewshe arrived promptly at seven in the morning.
Whos that? George mumbled sleepily as the bell rang.
He opened the door himself.
Its only me! chirped Winifreds voice through the intercom. Brought you fresh curd cheese!
Rosie yanked the duvet over her head.
For pitys sake she hissed. George, its seven! Who finds fresh curd at this hour?!
Mums always up early, replied George, already pulling on his trousers. Sleep, Ill let her in.
From then on, life became a misery. Winifred didnt just pop byshe lived in their flat eight hours a day.
Rosie would try to work on her laptop, but nonstop came:
Rosie, havent you dusted the telly? I found a nice cloth, here, let me give it a swipe.
Mrs Randall, Im working, Ive a call in five minutes!
Oh, what blether, youre only looking at pictures. And by the way, love, youre ironing Georges shirts all wrong. Creases should be crisp as razors. Let me show you before your clients ring.
Everything was criticised.
How she chopped vegetables: George prefers matchsticks, but youve done cubes like a canteen dinner lady.
How she made the bed: Throw should touch the floor, not just dangle off the edge.
How the bathroom smelt: It should smell fresh, not damp as it does.
Rosie, dont take offence, Winifred would say, peering into the saucepan. But youve over-salted the soup. Georgies always had a tender stomach, you know. Youll ruin him with your cooking. Out the way, Ill do it again.
Its tasty, Rosie gritted her teeth. George ate two bowls last night!
Oh, hes too polite, doesnt want to upset youthats why he eats, poor lad.
By lunchtime Rosie would be on the verge of a breakdown.
Shed slink off to the café, whiling away the hours just to avoid that knowing, instructive voice.
Returning home only made her angrier.
First, Winifreds special mug appeared in the kitchena big, garish thing reading Worlds Best Mum.
Next, a spare raincoat took up residence on the hall peg, and within a week, a whole shelf in the wardrobe was cleared for her lounging wear and a couple of housecoats.
Why do you need housecoats here? Rosie asked, discovering a monstrous pink terry thing nestled among her silk slips.
Well honestly, dear? Im here all day. One does get tired. Nice to change into something comfy. Were family nowyoure not really upset, surely?
To every complaint, George replied the same:
Rosie, please, show some compassion. Shes lost her husband and needs to feel wanted. Is a shelf too much to ask?
Its not the shelf, George! Your mothers pushing me out of my own home!
Youre exaggerating. Shes helpingcooking, cleaning. You said yourself you hate ironing.
Id rather be crumpled than wear anything shes run an iron over! Rosie snapped.
Her husband hardly seemed to hear.
***
The bottles in the bathroom were the last straw.
George, comestuffed cabbage is going cold! called Winifred from the kitchen.
Rosie, you tooIve left yours quite mild, I know youre not one for spice.
Rosie stormed in, finding her mother-in-law busily laying the table.
Mrs Randall, she asked, carefully calm, Why did you put my things under the bath?
Winifred didnt flinch. She laid Georges fork by his plate and smiled.
Oh Rosie, those bottles? They were nearly empty, only cluttering up the place. And the smellgave me a headache. I put my own up, ones I know. Yours are tucked away below. Hope you dont mind, it needed a tidy.
I do mind, Rosie moved to the table. Its my bathroom. My things. My home!
Oh, is it now, dear? Winifred perched on a chair with an affected sigh. Its Georges flat. Of course, youre mistress here but really now, a wife should respect her husbands mother.
George blanched.
Mum dont. Rosies got her own place, we just live here
What, that poky old granny flat? Winifred waved a dismissive hand. Come and eat, George. Your wifes cross againprobably just hungry, bless her.
Rosie looked at her husband. She waited.
Waited for him to say: Mum, enough. Youve crossed a line. Pack up your things and go home.
George stared between them for a long minute and then simply sat down to dinner.
Rosie, come on, just eat. Lets talk it through. Mum, you shouldnt have moved her things
There, see! Winifred crowed. My son understands. Rosie, why are you so selfish? Family means sharing everything.
Finally, Rosies patience snapped.
Sharing everything? she repeated. Alright.
She turned and walked out.
George called after her but she didnt listen. She packed her things in twenty minutes, stuffing cases and bags. She didnt bother with the bathroom bottlesshed buy new ones.
She left to choruses: her husband pleading, her mother-in-law moaning and sniping, barely veiling the insults.
***
Rosie had no intention of returningshe filed for divorce soon after leaving.
Her soon-to-be-ex rings daily, begging her back, while Winifred gradually ferries her bits and bobs over to the flat.
Rosie was sure her mother-in-law had planned it that way all along.
