Margaret Evans rang on a Thursday evening. David answered the phone, spoke for about ten minutes, then wandered into the kitchen with the weary look of a man about to deliver a not-so-great bit of news he hadnt quite worked out how to phrase.
Mums coming, he said. For a week or two.
Emily stirred the soup.
When?
Saturday.
She switched off the hob.
A couple of weeks. She knew all too well what a couple of weeks meant in Margaret Evanss world. About as precise as a splash in one of her recipesentirely at Margarets whim.
The doorbell rang at noon on Saturday, right to the minute. Margaret sailed in, a large bag clanking reassuringly at her side, and wore that particular look of someone come to conduct an inspectionappraising, as if she were viewing a house she might buy.
Well then, she said, eyeing the hall, no dust. Thats a start.
David laughed. Emily smiled politely.
It seemed, by Margarets standards, a compliment.
She made her way to the kitchen, peered casually into the fridgepretending it was idle curiositythen murmured thoughtfully:
You buy skimmed milk? David needs full fat, you know, what with his stomach.
He asked for that himself, said Emily.
Well, people ask for all sorts of things, Margaret replied, shutting the fridge with the satisfaction of someone whod made and filed an important discovery.
That evening, with David in the shower, Margaret sat on the sofa, folded her hands in her lap, and addressed Emily, voice calm, almost gentle.
Dont take this the wrong way, Emily. I just need to know what youre really like.
Margaret Evans was a professional. She worked in careful layers, a restorer lifting paint from an old canvas. Each commentgentle, with a smile, seemingly innocent.
On the second day, she discovered the towels.
Emily, she said, standing in the bathroom, towel in hand, did you know towels ought to hang with the loop down? They dry better that way.
I always leave them like this, said Emily.
Yes, well, quite, replied Margaret, and hung hers loop-down, the banner of a new regime.
Davids shirts hung ironed, tidy, arranged by colour on their hangers. Margaret opened the wardrobe, scrutinised the inside, nodded thoughtfully, and murmured, as if to herself:
Collars are a little creased. Unless, of course, thats the fashion these days.
Emily stood nearby, realising: this wasnt a question. It was a statement, crafted so there was nothing to say in response.
The plant on the windowsilla weary old ficus that had moved flats with Emily twicereceived Margarets criticism next.
Ficus doesnt like water from above, dear. It needs watering in the tray.
Hes lived with me eight years, Emily replied.
Well, eight years. Could be healthier, though.
The ficus wisely stayed silent.
Then came Margarets tutorial on fridge organisationdairy in the middle, meat at the bottom and always in a container, herbs in a bag with holes or theyll wilt, eggs in the tray, not the door (the door gets knocked about). Emily nodded, listening. Listened and nodded. The eggs stayed in the door.
Evenings brought Margarets phone callsEmily overheard from the kitchen, not by intention but because the flat was small and Margarets voice, honed through years as a teacher, carried easily.
No, Pam, mostly fine. Shes making the effort. But its obviousshes not used to it. She puts beans in stew, can you believe it? David eats it, bless him, hes polite. But honestly. Towels are all wrong, and houseplantsI wont even start
Emily stood at the sink, washing a mug, thinking: how much longer is this? She felt as though shed already failed the test. What came next?
David watched, with that peculiar male detachment that translated as: I see it all, but if I ignore it, maybe itll go away on its own.
At night hed tell Emily, Try not to mind. She just worries.
I know, Emily replied.
She means well.
I know, David.
She just wants to know were all right.
I know.
Hed look at her with a mix of gratitude and guilt. Thank goodness she understood. Thank goodness she didnt make a scene. Thank goodness she stayed calm.
Thank goodness, Emily thought. And went to do the washing up.
On the tenth day, Margaret deliberately left the kitchen in disarray. Emily arrived home at half sixdirty mugs on the side, breadcrumbs, a half-unwrapped block of butter. Margaret sat watching TV.
Emily tidied, washed up, wiped down.
That evening, Margaret spoke softly to David in the hallway, thinking Emily wouldnt hear.
Did you see, David? The kitchen again. She just cant keep up, can she?
Emily stood in the corridor, towel in hand.
David said nothing.
So thats that, Emily thought. Now its clear.
She wasnt upset. Or at least, not visibly so.
But the next day, over breakfast, when Margaret announced her three sisters would be coming round next weekjust for a catch-up, to get to know each other properlyEmily smiled.
Wonderful. Wed be delighted.
David looked at her, a hint of surprise. Margaret, a hint of suspicion. Emily finished her coffee and got ready for work.
Well see, as Margaret liked to say.
The guests arrived on Saturday, just before three.
Margarets three sistersEdith, Heather, and Florencewere strong women, of a certain age, with opinions on everything and voices sharpened by life. They entered the hallway and surveyed the scene like veteran clerks at an audit, then unbuttoned their coats.
Good flat, said Edith. Nice and bright.
Did you do it up recently? Florence asked.
Three years ago, replied Emily.
It shows, said Florence. Quite what showed, she didnt specify.
Margaret greeted her sisters with the air of a director about to stage a play. David helped with coats. Emily stood aside, serene, smiling faintlyutterly unflustered.
This unsettled Margaret, just a bit.
Into the living room they went. Edith looked around, rearranged a cushion out of habit, and asked, So, Emily dear, whats for tea?
And now (here was the real twist) Emily did something nobody expected.
She turned to Margaret, calm, without drama or demand.
I thought, Margaret, youd take the reins in the kitchen today. Youve always said you do it better than me. I wouldnt want to embarrass myself in front of your family.
Silence.
Margaret looked at Emily. Emily held her gazefriendly, unguarded, simply making an offer that, truthfully, puzzled her audience.
I Margaret began.
Theres everything you need, Emily added. Chicken, veg, fresh herbs, I picked them up this morning. David always raves about your cooking.
David, suddenly, became absorbed in the rug pattern.
Heather exchanged a glance with Edith. Florence eyed Margaret, curious.
Well, Margaret said. As you wish.
She headed into the kitchen.
Emily sat by Edith and, conversationally, asked, How was the drive? Any traffic?
Edith faltered, surprised by the turn of events, but answered. Florence chipped in about roadworks, Heather grumbled about their own neighbourhood. The conversation bloomed, as it tends to when silence would be awkward.
From the kitchen, sounds drifted out.
First, the fridge door banging. Then a long pause. More banging. The clatter of a saucepan. The unmistakable rustling of someone searching a cupboard, losing patience.
Emily! Margaret called. Wheres the baking tray?
Lower cupboard, on the right, Emily replied, seated.
Pause.
Cant see it.
Under the roasting tin.
A longer pause.
Oh, found it.
Edith coughed. Heather looked intently at a painting. Florence peered innocently out of the window.
Emily said to Heather, Would you like tea while we wait? Ill put the kettle on.
Lovely, thanks, Heather said, relieved.
Emily rose, went into the kitchen, stood quietly for a moment beside Margaret, who loomed over a chopping board like a general unexpectedly conscripted as kitchen help.
They didnt speak.
Emily put the kettle on, took out some cups, then went back to the living room.
Dinner happened. Nearly two hours later, a touch haphazard, the chicken a bit dry, the sauce rather thin. Margaret laid the table with the grim diligence of someone wishing to be anywhere else.
Edith sampled the chicken. Margaret, you always did cook well, she offered diplomatically.
It was quiet at the tablenot awkward, just subdued. Everyone knew, and nobody needed to say it. The guests chatted, praised the food earnestly, if not all that convincingly.
Emily barely said a word. She asked about Heathers grandchildren, joined in the chat about garden sheds, poured tea. She was gracious, effortless.
Margaret sat at the head of the table, silent.
Once the guests had gone and the plates were stacked dry, Margaret left the kitchen, drying her hands on the same towel, now hanging obediently loop-down.
Emily sat with her tea in the lounge. David by her side.
Margaret hovered at the doorway, then crossed, sank into the big chair. She stayed quiet, the dark outside pressing in, the neighbours telly humming through the wall.
Well, you played things shrewdly, Margaret said.
I just know what I want, replied Emily.
Margaret nodded, got up, made her way to her roompausing, without looking back.
The stew with beans, if Im honest, was quite good.
And she was gone.
David glanced at Emily.
How long have you been planning that? he asked quietly. Letting her have the kitchen.
Since you were silent in the hall, she replied.
He nodded. Said no more.
Three days later, Margaret packed her own bags and called for a cab. She hugged David, then, after a slight pause, pulled Emily in too.
Closing the door behind her, Emily wandered into the bathroom and cheerfully rehung her own towel, loop-upjust as she liked it.
