Emily lived, as the saying goes, on autopilot, shuffling down a dull, overused lane with her chin tucked under her chinstrap. Why bother sticking her neck out when, by her own reckoning, there were no achievements to brag about? Her looks were, politely put, average.
Mark, her husband, would always say that everything about Emily was perfectly ordinary. He never noticed any particular charm in her; hed missed it long ago.
Once, Emily had been one of the first pretty faces at the university, slim and sweetmouthed, a bit bony but with a surprisingly wide set of shoulders a trait shed inherited from GranAgnes, who came from a rugged farming village and was as sturdy as a brick oven. Genetics, it seemed, were a mixed bag: a dash of intellectual from her parents, who were engineers and literature buffs, and a splash of countryfolk toughness from the gran.
The result was a girl with a slightly narrower nose than Grans, shoulders that werent stuck out like a road sign, and legs that were more suited to city shoes than rubber boots or farmhouse clogs. In short, Emily turned out to be a modest, painfully shy, and quiet sort of beautiful which, in its own way, was a blessing.
GranAgnes was the type who could open her mouth and unleash a torrent of remarks that would curl your ears into tubes. Emilys mother, Olivia, tried to be the same when she first married Emilys father, Frederick. After a while, though, she bit her tongue and settled into a more genteel role, living in a comfortable flat with a ficus in the hallway, surrounded by neighbours who were academics and bright lights of science you knew better not to make a scene, or youd be shown the door in a flash.
Olivia grew quieter, and Lucy, the daughter, became even more reticent.
Raise a sturdy girl, will you? GranAgnes grumbled, stepping out of her scuffed galoshes that had long since lost their shine. And you, Beth, youve withered away. Shell be just the same a barren plain, a tumbleweed, thats all. Wherever the wind blows, youll bend. And where has our whole clan gone? The Mikhailov Street lot, anyone? Hey, you know where that is, dear?
Frederick shrugged and kept his distance from the garlicsmelling kitchen where Grans White Sea stew bubbled, retreating to his study while Olivia brewed tea for her mother and listened to stories about her own life.
GranAgnes never rushed. First shed detail village gossip, tapping the tablecloth, then shed drift to the garden, brag about her own harvest and the neighbours. Finally, with a click of her teeth, shed call out for her granddaughter, hidden behind the kitchen doors glass pane.
Lucy shuffled out, eyes full of doubt, while Olivia turned away. Frederick never greeted Gran, even though her pickled cucumbers were practically a culinary masterpiece. He did, however, tell Lucy to keep her chats with the gran short, so Olivia could usher Emily back to her room. Yet Olivia had helped her a lot she tended to Lucy when the little girl fell ill with pneumonia, lay with her in a feverish stupor, and even fetched a newborn from the hospital in a car decked out like a mayors carriage, bundled in a thick coat.
Frederick later bellowed that he shouldnt have let that happen, but Olivia calmed him down. With good food and fresh air, Lucy recovered quickly, crawling back to her mothers side, resting her tiny head on her chest and sighing, I missed you. Frederick merely waved a hand, eyes narrowed at the gran.
GranAgnes possessed a strange, confident force, like a fist that could slam a thought into the air, lighting up everything Olivia never dared to imagine. Thats why her soninlaw kept his distance; he was uneasy.
Why dont you kiss me a proper thankyou? I gave you a decent wedding gift! GranAgnes lamented loudly at Emilys mothers house, offering a large bar of Aunties chocolate.
Emily nodded politely, but placed the chocolate on the table untouched.
Come on, love, have a bite! Just a nibble, urged the guest, only to be stopped by Olivia.
Freddie says no sweets before dinner. Its not proper round here she whispered, a comment that made Grans cheeks flush and left Olivia feeling a little embarrassed. Still, the house had a man, and a head of the family, so Olivia never became the one running the home; she just looked around, kept quiet, and when friends visited her husband shed set the table, smile, and nod. Nothing much to say, just a housewifes routine.
Lucy took her mothers example and never tried to stand out.
After a while, GranAgnes grew tired of staying at her soninlaws house. The constant irritation and cramped atmosphere led to a few heated arguments, after which she stopped visiting. Occasionally, shed call when Frederick was away, listen to the long ring, sigh, and then smile when she heard Emilys voice.
Darling, how are you? You never come to see me Gran sighed, dabbing a handkerchief on her cheek. Shed been crying a lot lately, from nerves, she claimed.
Everythings fine, Gran. Im at university, todays a holiday, Mums at the clinic, Dads at work, Lucy replied, shoulders shrugged.
Her world ran on a set of unspoken rules, traditions, and a sense of order that made everything feel straightforward, if a bit dull.
FatherFrederick was the brainy one, educated and articulate. MotherOlivia, still simple, chewed sunflower seeds and spat the shells into a little pile. This annoyed Frederick, who urged her to refine her snack habits, but she refused. He eventually banished her to the balcony, waving his hand in irritation.
Olivia sat there in a housecoat, flicking seeds into her palm, sighing as she stared at her thin, pale legs. She was grateful to Frederick for rescuing her from the village, for giving her a home, and for forgiving her many flaws.
Frederick had first seen Olivia at a dance in the local park, where shed been performing. A spark ignited, and soon after, a child Lucy arrived, cementing their marriage. Their families were surprised at the match, but eventually accepted that a blend of city intellect and country grit was a noble experiment. Frederick pulled Olivia up into the cultural light, and she settled in nicely.
Lucy followed in her mothers footsteps, finishing university and choosing a teaching career. She never actually worked, though, just like her mother. She married Mark, a man simpler than Frederick but still intellectual. By the time Lucy was a teenager, the cool crowd were the mods in flashy outfits, not the oldschool scholars.
Mark, however, was a traditionalist: no gaudy suits, only classic literature and weighty philosophy. Frederick knew him from some modest projects and approved the marriage.
Lucy didnt protest; she stayed home, quietly.
When they moved, Lucy joined her husbands parents in a threebedroom flat. Marks older sister had long since moved abroad perhaps to Canada or France. His parents, now elderly, stepped back from running the house, handing the reins to Lucy and, after packing a few belongings, told Mark to take his wife and father to the countryside.
Now you two can pop out whatever the Almighty lets you. Thats all. I dont want to be here; the kitchen cant handle two queens, she said and left.
The flat was draped in darkstained wooden paneling, piles of linens, towels, oddcoloured scraps, bits of metal, four tea sets, and endless crystal of varying worth. Dim bulbs flickered, curtains perpetually drawn to keep nosy neighbours from peeking at the chaotic life inside. All of this seemed bleak to Lucy.
She thought of swapping curtains, new furniture, maybe a fresh coat on the floorboards. But that would cost a fortune, and Mark was perfectly content. Hed grown up with a mother who fed him porridge every morning; now Lucy took on that role. She adored him, fluttered about, eager to please, never questioning his frugality.
On weekends, Mark would rise early to fry eggs in his wellworn boxers, sparing no money on new clothes. Lucy, startled awake, would stare at the clock, wondering if Mark would be home all day. Mostly they stayed in, skipping theatre and cinema to save a few pennies.
Marks pennypinching was extreme. At first Lucy thought he was just a diligent provider, but shed grown up believing the man made all the decisions while the wife acquiesced. That was how her mother lived, after all.
Mark was an intellectual of humble origin; his parents had modest jobs, but he and Lucy hoped to make the family name shine. He was a junior research fellow, approaching forty, with a dissertation looming but never written, grand plans for a countryside renovation, and an iron grip on his own authority.
Good heavens, darling! exclaimed GranAgnes when she heard the latest gossip about Lucys niece. Why does she need a man like that? There are plenty of decent fellows out there!
You dont understand, Mum! Lucy made a smart choice. Shes got a flat in central London and a respectable career, just like my dear old Frederick. A woman should be wellsettled, even if it sounds a bit lowbrow. Its just how our family does things counting every penny, remember?
GranAgnes bristled. Shed never been lavish with money, but she never let Olivia go without food or clothes. If you need a coat, well find a sturdy one, even if its pricey. Well borrow, well pay it back penny by penny.
When Lucy was about to apply to a teachers college, Gran took her to a tailor to get a fashionable dress the very one Olivia herself had chosen. She was proud of that moment and thought thats why Lucy deserved a good life.
From then on, they barely called or visited each other.
Lucy and Mark lived together. Marks early passion faded; his affection for constant affection waned after a decade, especially since he was about ten years older than Lucy, leaving little room for youthful romance.
Lucy accepted it all, I have a husband who says he loves me, and thats enough. Parents praised Lucys choice. The rest the fluttery whispers, the butterflies, the romance could be left to romance novels.
Money was always a challenge.
Mark soon realised that Lucys salary would end up in his piggy bank, so he pressed for a child, hoping Lucy would work more, boost her skills and pay. Hed take a tiny portion and stash the rest, occasionally slipping a bit of vodka into the mix while philosophising about the meaning of life.
Lucy took a teaching job, loved the children, but came home exhausted, collapsing onto the kitchen floor while Mark lounged on the sofa, reading.
Shed dream of the evening ending so she could sleep, while Mark sighed, When you finally get a promotion, maybe youll be a headteacher. Until then, Ill keep you from buying a coat. Well sort it out in autumn. Hed lean in, smacking his oily lips, and whisper, Im pregnant.
What? No, Im not feeling well! Lucy snapped. Dont touch me!
Mark froze, lips forming a perfect O, genuinely bewildered as if the concept of children were a mystery. Well we werent? he stammered, trying to calculate everything. This isnt the right time, Lucy. Lets just have a coffee, something small enough to last a month. Then well sort it after work.
Lucy glared, vomit rising, and actually threw up on Marks lap. He jumped up, swearing, and chased her out of the kitchen, the bathroom echoing with splashing soap and curses.
When he returned, Lucy was gone. Everything else the tiny perfume bottles, a coat hed ordered from a colleague, a pair of boots was exactly where it should be, except Lucy.
Mark lingered, feeling the eyes of nosy neighbours, tempted to unleash a vulgar tirade like his drunken father used to, but remembered he was on the brink of a doctorate and didnt want to sully his reputation.
They divorced quietly. Lucy gathered her things, and Mark even helped her to the taxi, telling nosy neighbours they were temporarily staying apart for the childs sake.
Later, Lucy gave birth to a skinny little boy she named Charlie a fine lad, just like Grans fiddlers, she joked. Olivia sat with him while Lucy was at work; Frederick, feeling sentimental, handed Charlie toy soldiers and model cars from the childrens world shelf.
Father, hes only six months old! Lucy giggled.
Exactly, well sell the toys later, youll thank me, Frederick chuckled, arranging the toys on the table.
Life in that household took on a new, oddly entertaining rhythm. GranAgnes would pop in now and then, where did all that energy come from? shed ask, sipping tea and watching the trio share a laugh over a cuppa.
Emily, now free from the endless loop of just get settled, found herself on a modest flat in a leafy suburb of Manchester, still humming the same old tune about making ends meet, but with a bit of irony and a dash of hope. The family, though a bit tangled, managed to keep the kettle on, the curtains drawn, and the jokes rolling.
