The mother-in-law test: Sandra puts Emily through her paces (with a twist)
Margaret “Maggie” Palmer phoned up on Thursday evening. It was Tom who answeredhe spoke for a good ten minutes, then walked into the kitchen wearing the solemn look of someone about to deliver less-than-pleasant news but who hadn’t yet decided on his approach.
Mums coming, he announced. Couple of weeks.
Emily gave the soup a stir.
When?
Saturday.
Emily turned the hob off.
A couple of weeks in Maggie Palmers language was about as precise as a pinch of salt in an old family recipesubjective at best, immeasurable at worst.
Mrs Palmer arrived on the dot at noon Saturdayarmed with a hefty suitcase emitting a promising clink, and that particular expression unique to professional inspectors. The sort of look you get when someone is eyeing up a flat before deciding whether to buy or demolish it.
Well, she said, after sweeping through the hallway, no dust. Thats a decent start.
Tom chuckled. Emily smiled.
It must have been a compliment.
Maggie wandered straight to the kitchen, opened the fridge with casual accidental intent, and mused:
Youve got the skimmed milk, do you? Tom needs semi-skimmed, love, hes got a delicate stomach.
He asked for the skimmed, Emily said.
Well, people ask for all sorts, dont they? Maggie closed the fridge door like someone whod just spotted a secret code and was storing it away for safe-keeping.
That evening, once Tom had retreated to the shower, Maggie settled herself on the sofa, folded her hands and said, so gently it was almost alarming:
Dont mind me, Emily. I just need to get the measure of you.
Maggie Palmer approached this like a seasoned archeologist, gently brushing away at layers to discover the relic beneath. Every observation was surgical, laced with a smileso innocent, so careful.
On the second day, she discovered the towels.
Emily she trailed off, standing in the bathroom with a towel in hand, you do know towels must hang with the loop at the bottom? They dry better that way.
Ive always done it like this, Emily replied.
Yes, yes, Maggie agreed amiably, then immediately rehung her own towel loop down, like it was the flag of a newly conquered territory.
Toms shirts hung ironed and colour-coded on pristine hangers in the wardrobe. Maggie stood, examined, nodded sagely, and half-whispered, apparently to herself:
Collars are a tad creased. Perhaps its intentional.
Emily stood silently, realising this wasnt a question at allit was a verdict, precision-tuned so she couldnt answer back.
The lonely old rubber plant on the windowsilla veteran of two previous flats and all of Emilys house moveswas, in Maggies view, being watered all wrong.
Emily, rubber plants hate overhead watering. You should go for the tray underneath.
This ones lived with me eight years, said Emily.
Yes, well, it could probably have had a better life, Maggie replied.
The rubber plant, wisely, withheld comment.
The fridge was a landmine of protocol: dairy on the middle shelf, meat bottom right (container only!), greens in a pierced bag or else youll have soggy spinach, eggs NOT in the door because it shakes! Emily nodded, nodded, nodded. The eggs, naturally, stayed in the door.
In the evenings, Maggie would phoneEmily overheard from the kitchen, not by choice but because the flat had paper-thin walls and Maggie had the projecting voice of a former classroom matron.
No, Pam, its alright on the whole. She tries. Bless her. But shes not a natural. Toms eating stews with beans, can you believe it! Beans, honestly. And she cant hang a towel to save her life. Plants too, its downright sad…
Emily, standing at the sink washing yet another mug, wondered: how long is this test meant to last? She felt as if shed already flunked. What came next?
Tom watched it all with that unique male detachmenttranslates roughly as: I see everything, but pretend I see nothing, because I dont really know what to do, and frankly Im hoping itll all blow over.
In the evenings, hed say to Emily,
Dont mind her. Shes just worried.
I know, Emily replied.
She means well.
I know, Tom.
She just needs to feel everythings alright.
I do know.
He looked at her, a little guilty, a little relieved. Glad she understood. Glad she wasnt about to start a row. Glad she was calm.
Glad, Emily thought, as she headed off to do the washing up (again).
On Day Ten, Maggie deliberately left the kitchen looking like an after-party: cups abandoned, crumbs everywhere, butter sweating in the open. She was watching the telly when Emily got back from work at half six.
Emily tidied up. Washed. Wiped.
Later, Maggie remarked softly to Tom in the hallway (unaware Emily was in earshot):
Did you notice the kitchen was chaotic again, Tommy? I suppose she cant keep up.
Emily stood in the hallway, towel in hand.
Tom said nothing.
Well, thats that, Emily thought.
She didnt let it show, though. Not much.
But the next morning, when Maggie announced that her three sisters were popping over the following weekjust a little get-together, get to know you, nothing formalEmily grinned and said:
Fantastic. Thatll be lovely.
Tom shot her a look. Maggie eyed her with suspicion. Emily finished her coffee and got ready for work.
Well see, as Maggie likes to say.
The sisters arrived Saturday at half-two.
Aunties: Edna, Barbara, and Jean. Women of substance, fixed opinions, and robust voices honed by decades in WI meetings. They entered the hallway, surveyed with the efficiency of veteran surveyors, and shrugged off coats.
Nice place, said Edna, lots of light.
Been done up recently? asked Jean.
Three years ago, replied Emily.
You can tell, said Jean, not bothering to clarify exactly what could be told.
Maggie, in the role of West End producer, welcomed her sisters like she was about to unveil the first act. Tom did coat duty. Emily stood serenely to the side, smiling, unscratchably calmsomething Maggie found, if anything, unnerving.
They filed into the lounge. Edna patted a cushion back into position, habit more than need.
So, Emily love, whats on the menu?
Then (and heres where things get interesting) Emily did absolutely nothing anyone was expecting.
She turned to Maggie and, perfectly neutral, stated:
I thought youd be commandeering the kitchen today, Maggie. You do it so much better than I ever could. I wouldnt dare embarrass myself in front of the family.
Pause. Tumbleweed. Dead stillness.
Maggie looked at Emily. Emily looked back amiably, as if suggesting a perfectly logical plan.
Well, began Maggie.
Theres plenty inchicken, vegetables, fresh herbs. I bought bits this morning. Tom always says youre brilliant in the kitchen, Emily added.
Tom suddenly found the carpet pattern intensely interesting.
Barbara glanced sideways at Edna. Jean took sudden fascination with what was outside the window.
Well, if you like, said Maggie, with remarkable grace, and promptly headed for the kitchen.
Emily plopped next to Edna and chirped, How was the drive? Was the North Circular jammed? Edna hesitated, unprepared for the shift, but answered. Then Jean chimed in about the traffic, and Barbara moaned about Saturday shopping in Chiswick. Small talk began to flowthe polite sort prompted by shared discomfort.
From the kitchen came noises.
First, the fridge door slammed. Then a long silence. More clattering. The crash of a casserole dish, then the shuffle of someone rummaging determinedly, but not productively, through cupboards.
Emily! Maggie called from the kitchen. Wheres your roasting tin?
Bottom cupboard, right, Emily replied without moving.
Pause.
Cant see it.
Under the baking tray.
Longer pause.
Ah. Got it.
Edna coughed. Barbara studied the picture on the wall. Jean gazed out the window as if it would sprout a musical number.
Emily said, Fancy a cuppa, Barbara? Ill put the kettle on.
Oh, yes please, Barbara breathed, relieved.
Emily went out to the kitchen, stood quietly beside Maggie for a second while the matriarch stared at potatoes as if shed just been assigned KP duty on the wrong side of a battlefield. They said nothing.
Emily filled the kettle, grabbed the mugs and left.
Dinner got there in the endan hour and a half later, not exactly piping hot, slightly dry chicken and a sauce that was, truthfully, more of a broth. Maggie laid the table with the poignant resignation of a temp filling in for HR at Christmas.
Edna sampled her chicken. Maggie, you always had the touch.
The table was hushed. Not awkward, just quietly aware. No one mentioned the experiment. The aunts nattered, praised the chicken ever-so sincerely, if not overly enthusiastically.
During the meal, Emily made small talkabout Barbaras grandchildren, allotments, tea refills.
Maggie sat at the head, unusually silent.
When the guests left and the washing up was done, Maggie came out of the kitchen, hands drying on a towelhung loop-down, mind you.
Emily was in the lounge with Tom.
Maggie paused in the doorway, then joined them, lingering in the armchair as dusk set in and the neighbours telly droned ebulliently through the wall.
Very deft, you were, Maggie said.
I just know what I want, Emily smiled.
Maggie nodded, got up, and as she reached her roomwithout looking backremarked,
The bean stew, in all honesty, was rather good.
Then vanished.
Tom looked up at Emily.
You plan that kitchen thing long?
Since you stayed quiet in the hallway, she replied.
He nodded, and asked no more.
Three days later, Maggie packed, hailed herself a cab, and went home. Hugged Tom, and, after only a tiny pause, Emily too.
Emily shut the door behind her, then popped into the bathroom andquietly, unceremoniouslyflipped her towel back the right way up, as always.
