My sisterinlaw turned up at my flat unannounced, and I shoved her belongings into the hallway.
Whose leopardprint boots are those in the hall? I asked, staring at the pair of shoes. We werent expecting any guests. I was standing in the doorway of my own home, a sack of groceries in each hand.
Oliver, my husband, slipped out of the sittingroom, rubbing his neck as if hed just broken Mums favourite vase and was now scrambling to hide the shards beneath the carpet.
Dont worry, Irene, he began, and a cold shiver ran down my spine. Such words were usually followed by news of a dented bumper or a surprise visit from the motherinlaw. Its a bit of a situation Margaret has arrived.
A visitor? I asked, moving toward the kitchen to unload milk and veg. Strange that she didnt call first. And why the boots in such numbers? There are three pairs.
Its not exactly a visit, Olivers voice dropped to a whisper as he shifted from foot to foot by the fridge. Shes had a row with Victor. He threw her out, can you imagine? Told her to pack a bag and get out. Shes got nowhere to go. Our mother, you know, lives in a oneroom flat with her husband and the cat she cant host anyone. So Margaret asked to stay, just for a while.
I set a sack of buckwheat on the table and turned to my husband.
For how long, Oliver? And why do I only hear about this after the leopardprint boots have claimed my rug?
Dont get worked up, love. She called during the day, but you were in a meeting and didnt answer. She was in tears outside, suitcase in hand. What am I to do, send my own sister to the station? Shell stay a week or two, find a flat or patch things up with Victor, then be on her way. Shes quiet, she wont be a bother.
Just then the bathroom door swung open and Margaret lumbered out, wrapped in my soft white bathrobe the one I reserve for special evenings after a long soak. A towel turban perched atop her head, she was munching a hefty ham sandwich.
Oh, Irene dear, youre home! she chirped, mouth full. By the way, I used the last drop of your hair balm. Youll have to buy more tomorrow, otherwise my hair will go to the dogs.
I stared at the crumbs falling onto the floor, at the smug round face of Margaret, and thought, This quiet life is over.
Take the robe off, I said, my tone as cold as ice.
Come off it, will you? My things are all in a crumpled suitcase, Im too lazy to dig them out, she replied, flopping onto the sofa and snatching the remote. Oliver, could you make me a tea, love? With a slice of lemon my throat is dry from nerves.
The evening passed in a tense hush from me, while Margaret launched into a relentless monologue about how Victor was a cad, how hed wasted her best years, and how she was now starting a new life. That new life began with her devouring all the meatloaves Id prepared for the next two days and turning the bathroom into a steamy spa for an hour and a half.
When we finally went to bed, I snapped at Oliver:
Oliver, this cant continue. Why is she in my robe? Why is she bossing me about? One week is the limit, understand?
Patience, Irene, he pleaded. Shes grieving, its a personal drama. Shell settle down and everything will be fine. Show a little mercy, shes my sister.
The next morning I left early for work. As chief accountant I was amid a frantic reporting period, numbers whirling in my head. All I could think of was returning home, taking a shower, and sitting in quiet with a book.
Reality smashed that dream the moment I turned the key in the lock.
Loud pop music blared from the flat, a popsong thudding against the panes. The hallway smelled of nail polish and something burnt.
I shuffled into the kitchen. A pan on the hob smoked black bits that had once been potatoes, judging by the scent. Margaret was nowhere in the kitchen; shed slipped into the livingroom. On the coffee table shed spread an entire arsenal of cosmetics all mine and was painting her toenails bright red, her foot perched on the sofa upholstery.
Margaret! I shouted, cutting the music. What on earth is happening?
Oh dear, you scared me! she squealed, a brush of lacquer smearing the lightbeige velvet of the sofa. Blimey, Irene, why are you sneaking about? Look, now theres a stain because of you.
I stared at the crimson streak on my favourite sofa, anger gathering in my eyes.
Did you take my makeup?
I needed to look presentable Ive got a date tonight. You know what they say, one nail at a time, she replied, flicking her fingers nonchalantly. And the potatoes? I forgot about them.
You almost set the kitchen on fire! And get your feet off the sofa! Do you have your own polish and creams?
Theyre in my suitcase, she waved it off. It takes ages to rummage through. By the way, do you have a decent pair of tights? Mine are all with runs. I saw a pack in the chest of drawers Omson, fortyday supply. Lend me, will you?
No, I snapped. I wont. Put my cosmetics back where they belong and clean the pan.
Youre such a nigg uh, petty thing, Margaret muttered. Ill tell Oliver youre a miser.
When Oliver returned from his shift, Margaret met him with a mournful look.
Oliver, I think Ill spend the night at the station. Your wifes a right terror, shouting about polish and the like. I feel like a stray relative.
Oliver, exhausted, looked pleadingly at me.
Do we have to keep arguing, love?
Shes ruined the sofa, Oliver. She nearly started a fire, and she pilfers my things without asking.
I didnt mean to! Margaret shrieked. Shes yelling at me like Im a servant!
Alright, girls, enough. Margaret, Ill buy you a pair of tights, calm down. Irene, well get the sofa cleaned. Lets try to live together peacefully.
Peace never materialised. Days slipped by and the flat descended into chaos. Margaret left dishes piled in the sink, even under the sofa, and hung her underwear on the towel rail despite having a dryer. I tried to set boundaries.
Margaret, we wash dishes straight after meals, I urged.
Later, Ill do them, Ive soaked them for now, she replied.
Please dont crank the telly up past eleven; we have to rise early.
I cant wear headphones my ears hurt. Im sleepless from depression, she complained.
The worst part was Oliver, my gentle Oliver, beginning to bend to his sisters will when I wasnt there.
Youre a henpecked wretch, shed tease, stirring my tea with my spoon. Shes got you wrapped round her finger. She takes your salary, blocks your mates. Victor was a goat, but at least he could throw a punch. And you sigh.
I tried to stand my ground.
Why didnt you cook dinner? Margarets been at home all day, shes hungry, and theres only yesterdays soup left in the fridge.
Margaret is an adult; she could have made something herself, I retorted.
Its a guest! Shes stressed!
Guests dont live for months and dictate the house, I snapped.
Three weeks passed and I felt like a squeezed lemon. I dreaded returning home, lingering at work, strolling in the park just to delay the inevitable encounter with my beloved sisterinlaw.
The climax arrived on a Friday. Id been granted a halfday for overtime and decided to give the flat a thorough cleaning while Margaret was supposedly off to an interview though I suspected she meant a job fair at the nearby shopping centre.
I arrived home at one oclock. The front door was ajar strange. I stepped quietly into the hallway and spotted a pair of mens boots, huge and filthy, size fortyfive.
From the bedroom came muffled laughter and music.
I crept to the bedroom door and flung it open.
On our marital bed, atop the quilt, lay Margaret in a lace nightgown the very one Oliver had gifted me for our anniversary and a stranger with a tattoo on his shoulder. Empty beer bottles and a pizza box rested on the nightstand beside a framed wedding photo.
Oi! the bloke said, pulling the blanket over himself. The ladys home.
Margaret, unfazed, stretched.
Ellen? Why so early? Were just watching a film. Meet Stan.
A cold bolt of fury snapped inside me, then settled into an icy calm. I spoke softly.
Out. Both of you. You have two minutes to dress and leave, or Ill call the police.
What? Why are you shouting? Stan asked, startled.
Out of here. Now. My voice rose, shaking even the tattooed man. Youve brought a stranger into my bedroom? Youve stolen my nightdress? Youre eating pizza on my bed?
Whatever, Margaret snorted, pulling on her jeans. Youll wash up later. Lets go, Stan, its getting stale in here.
When Stans door shut, Margaret tried to saunter back to the livingroom as if nothing had happened.
Youve ruined my night, she muttered.
I marched back to the hallway, grabbed three large black trash bags, and returned to the bedroom where Margaret still occupied the sofa.
Get up.
Why?
Im gathering your stuff. Youre leaving now.
You have no right! This is my brothers flat too! He invited her! I wont go until Oliver returns!
I didnt argue. I opened the hallway cupboard where Margaret had dumped her belongings, shoving clothes, that leopardprint dress, dirty socks, everything onto the bags. She flailed, screaming, Thats cashmere! Youll ruin it!
Adrenaline gave me strength. Within five minutes the three bags were full of her rubbish. Her suitcase lay open on the floor, spilling cosmetics, shoes and chargers.
Youre sick! Ill call Oliver! she shrieked, snatching for her phone.
I slipped the bags and suitcase onto the stairwell.
Youre out, too, I pointed at the door.
I wont go!
Fine, then Ill call the police. Ill say an unwanted guest refuses to leave and threatens me. Wheres your address? Mums in BirleyGreen? Thats where youll be going.
Seeing the resolve in my eyes, Margaret finally fled, clutching her bag.
Youll regret this! Youll crawl back begging for forgiveness! Oliver will dump you, you witch!
I slammed the door shut, turned the lock twice, and chained it. My heart hammered. I leaned against the door, slipped to the floor, and heard Margarets shrieks echo down the corridor, her cries about being robbed and left out in the cold even though it was a mild September evening.
I dialed Oliver.
Oliver, I said, keeping my voice steady. Your sister is now in the stairwell with her luggage.
What? Irene, what have you done?
She brought a man into our bedroom. They were in our bed, she was in my nightdress.
Silence stretched. Oliver processed the news.
The bedroom? Our bedroom?
Yes. If you defend her now, you can go straight to Mums with her. Im changing the locks today.
Im coming.
An hour later the flat fell into a heavy hush. Margaret, apparently exhausted from shouting and aware the neighbours were threatening to call the police, took her bags down to the stairs and waited for a taxi.
Oliver arrived, pale, and first loaded Margaret and her suitcase into a cab, sending her to her mothers house, before heading up to the flat.
I sat at the kitchen table, tea cooling in my hands, my hands still trembling. Id already shoved the soiled sheets into the washing machine on a boil cycle and tossed the lace nightgown into the bin I could never wear it again.
Did she leave? I asked, not looking at Oliver.
To Mums. Shes on the phone, yelling. She says were beasts.
We? I raised an eyebrow.
Well you, mostly. I told her not to interfere.
Oliver took my hand across the table.
Im sorry, love. I was foolish. I thought shed just stay a short while, calm down. I never imagined a stranger in our bed. It made my stomach turn just thinking about it.
And the three weeks of her driving me mad, the ruined sofa, the stolen things you didnt see it?
I saw, he sighed. But I feared upsetting my mother. She always says, Family is sacred, you must help. So I put up with it, hoping it would dissolve.
Family doesnt dissolve on its own, Oliver. Parasites dont fall off; you have to pull them out.
At that moment Olivers phone buzzed Mum on the screen. He glanced at it, then at me, and hung up without answering.
Shall we just sit in silence? he suggested. No TV, no talk of Victor or her problems.
Lets, I agreed.
The peace was brief. The next day my motherinlaw, Mrs. Natalie Whitfield, turned up at the door, determined to confront me after failing to reach her son.
It was a weekend. She knocked persistently, her handbag clenched like a weapon. Peering through the peephole, I saw her standing on the landing, eyes fierce.
Open up! I know youre home! she shouted.
I opened the door.
Mrs. Whitfield, good afternoon. If youre here about Margaret, theres nothing to discuss.
She stalked into the hallway, like a corkscrew.
How can you say that? Youve thrown a girl out onto the street with garbage bags! Shes traumatised! She was crying all night!
My trauma is from strangers rolling around in my bed, I retorted sharply. Your daughter has crossed every boundary. She cant behave as a guest.
She isnt a guest, shes staying with my son! And youre an intruder too! This flat may be ours, but Oliver has poured his heart into it!
Ive poured money into it, Mrs. Whitfield. We paid the mortgage together, the deposit came from selling my grandmothers house. So my rights here outweigh hers.
You selfish woman! Were trying to help, and youve given her boots! Lingerie! What do you care for? she shrieked. The only thing you seem to care about is the drapes!
Exactly the human relationships. Margaret behaved like a pig. I endured three weeks. Thats it. The flat is closed to her.
Oliver stepped out of the kitchen.
Mother, please stop, he said firmly.
She froze, unaccustomed to her son taking a stand.
What do you hear? Shell ruin us all! Oliver, fetch Margarets things the hair dryer, the straightener and apologise to my daughter.
I wont apologise, Oliver said, placing a hand on my shoulder. Margaret behaved disgracefully. Irene is right. She has no place here until she learns respect.
You youre choosing her over your own blood? I asked, stunned.
Im choosing my wife, my family, and my peace, Oliver replied. Margarets thirtytwo, she can get a job, rent a room, and stop bringing men here. This isnt a brothel.
Mrs. Whitfield sucked in air like a fish out of water.
Cursed be you! she spat. Ill never see you again! My feet will never tread this place!
Alright, Mother, Oliver said calmly. When youre calm, give us a call. For now, please leave. We need quiet.
She turned, nearly tripping over the doorstep, and slammed the door behind her.
When the house finally quieted, I leaned into Oliver.
Thank you, I whispered. I feared youd stay silent again.
I imagined what would happen if she returned and Id done nothing. I cant bear that again. I want peace, too.
A week later the tension eased. Margaret, realising the free lodging had closed, quickly reconciled with Victor. The prospect of returning to her mothers cramped oneroom flat and listening to her admonishments seemed worse than the fallout. She even texted Oliver: All right, I wont be a bother. Victor forgave me. Tell Irene shes still a bit of a shrew, though. I only laughed. It didnt matter how she saw herself; the flat was clean, quiet, and no one was nibbling my meatloaves at night or pilfering my lingerie.
We called a cleaning service for the sofa the nailpolish stain refused to budge. Yet, looking at the pristine beige upholstery, I thought of it as a small price for the lesson. I now knew never to accept a weeks stay from anyone again.
Oliver and I grew closer. The ordeal showed him that I wasnt just a convenient fixture in the house; I was a person whose boundaries deserved protection. He finally felt like the head of the household, able to say no even to his own mother.
Yesterday I bought a new lock, just in case. And that leopardprint robe Margaret loved I tossed it straight into the bin. To move on, one must discard old junk and strayAnd as the autumn leaves drifted down the lane, Irene finally sensed that the house was truly hers again.
