Eleanor Whitaker had to deliver the family verdict, and the one who spoke up was her eldest daughter, Agatha. By the time she turned thirty, Agathas sharp tongue and impossibly high standards had turned her into a fullblown misandrist a sort of gastric ulcer that made any mans nightmare come to life.
An unwanted addition, she declared, as if stamping the verdict on a piece of paper. Her younger sister, Molly a plump, giggly girl laughed in agreement. Their mother kept quiet, but the sour set on her face made it clear she wasnt any happier about the new daughterinlaw. What could possibly be pleasant about that? Their only son, Thomas, had just come back from the army, and hed brought a wife with him. She arrived with no parents, no money, no obvious background it was as if shed been raised in an orphanage or had been wandering the countryside on a whim. Thomas, ever the joker, brushed it off: Dont worry, Mum, well make a fortune soon enough. Mother Whitaker, however, wondered whether she might be a thief, a conartist, or something else entirely. After all, you never know what sort of folk are roaming about these days.
From the moment Violet Whitaker the new wife set foot in the house, she hadnt slept a single night. She drifted in and out of doze, halfawake, waiting for some mischief to reveal itself. The daughters kept nudging her, You ought to hide the valuable things the furs, the gold, anything worth a penny. They feared that one fine morning the whole lot would be gone, tuytuy as they said in a halfjoking tone.
Thomas, meanwhile, was the butt of everyones jokes: Who did you bring home? Where have your eyes been? No skin, no face! Yet there was nothing to be done; life had to go on, and they had to make a place for Violet in the household.
The Whitaker farm was a decent one about thirty acres of fields, three piglets in the sty, a flock of chickens, and birds everywhere. Work was endless; you could labour from sunrise to sunset and still have a pile left over. Violet never complained. She tended the garden, fed the pigs, cooked, cleaned, and tried her best to earn the grudging respect of her motherinlaw. Still, Mrs. Whitakers heart was stone. Call me by my name, dear, Violet said on the first day, Im not your daughter, no matter how hard I try. From then on Eleanor addressed her simply as Violet Whitaker. She never called her daughterinlaw, and she never tried to sugarcoat the situation. She would mutter, Something must be done, and leave it at that. The sisters kept Violet in line, and Eleanor occasionally had to step in to stop the girls from arguing with each other. Not out of pity for Violet, but because a house needs order, not endless bickering. Besides, Violet turned out to be a hard worker never a lazy sort. Slowly, Eleanors ice began to melt.
Then Thomas went off on his own, romancing a friend of Agathas. The whole family was abuzz, and the gossipmongers in the village whispered that the new romance would finally get rid of the unwanted Violet. Eleanor stayed silent, while Violet pretended nothing had changed, her eyes drooping as if shed lost a spark.
Suddenly, two bombshells hit the Whitaker homestead: Violet was expecting, and Thomas was filing for divorce.
Dont you dare, Eleanor snapped at her son. I never set you up with her.
Thomas, redfaced, replied, If Im married, Ill live with it! Ill be a father soon enough. Mess up the family and youll see me out the door. And Shurla (his sisterinlaw) will keep the house.
For the first time ever, Eleanor called Violet by her actual name. The sisters fell silent. Thomas huffed, Im a man, I decide! Eleanor rolled her eyes, planted her hands on her hips and laughed, What kind of man are you? Youre still in your trousers. When you actually raise a child, then you can call yourself a man!
Thomas stormed out, leaving Violet now simply Shurla to the family behind. She stayed, gave birth to a little girl she named Vicky. When Eleanor heard the news, she said nothing, but the smile that crept onto her face said it all.
Nothing in the house changed outwardly, except that Thomas seemed to have forgotten the way back home. He sulked. Eleanor pretended not to mind, but she quietly cherished her new granddaughter, spoiling her with sweets and presents. She never blamed Shurla for losing her son; it was just the way things turned out.
Ten years slipped by. The sisters married and moved out, leaving just Eleanor, Shurla, and Vicky in the big farmhouse. Thomas reenlisted and went to the north with a new wife. Around that time a retired soldier named George, a respectable gentleman in his sixties, began dropping by Shurlas doorstep, offering help and, eventually, courting her. He had divorced his own wife, left her a flat, and lived in a modest council house. He was steady, had a pension, and seemed a decent match. Shurla liked him, but where would that lead? To her motherinlaws house?
She explained everything to Eleanor, begged for forgiveness, and set the stage for Georges visit. He showed up at the Whitaker door, declared, Violet Whitaker, I love Shurla. I cant live without her. Eleanors face didnt twitch a muscle.
Love, eh? she said, Well then, move in together and live as you wish.
She added, I wont have you dragging Vicky around the rooms. Youll stay here, under my roof.
And so they all lived together. The neighbours chattered endlessly, calling Eleanor a nutty old matriarch who had driven her own son out and taken in an unwanted girl, while Violet now a seasoned matriarch herself kept the house tidy and the piglets fed. No one dared to criticize her, and she ignored the idle gossip, never spilling tea about the younger folk.
Vicky grew up, married a lad named Alex, and they had a daughter called Kat. Eleanor swore shed never been so proud of her grandchildren, even though Kat was, by all accounts, a proper little rascal.
Then, as fate loves to do, trouble struck. Shurla fell seriously ill. Her husband, George, cracked under the pressure and turned to the bottle. Eleanor, without a word, emptied the familys savings and whisked Shurla off to London, where the best doctors and medicines awaited. They tried everything.
One morning Shurla felt a little better and asked for chicken broth. Eleanor, delighted, slaughtered a chicken, plucked it, and boiled it with love. When the bowl was set before Shurla, she couldnt bring herself to drink it and, for the first time in her life, broke down in tears. Eleanor, who had never been seen weeping, wept right alongside her.
What are you doing, my dear, leaving me now that Ive finally loved you? she sobbed. Then she composed herself, wiped her eyes and said, Dont worry about the children; theyll be fine. From that moment she never shed another tear, sitting by Shurlas bedside, holding her hand, gently stroking it as if asking forgiveness for all the years of coldness.
Ten more years passed. Vicky was married off, and the two sisters, Agatha and Molly, returned older, a little softer around the edges. Neither had any children of their own. The whole Whitaker clan gathered, and Thomas finally showed up, his previous wife long gone. Hed been drinking heavily, and when he saw how radiant Vicky had become, he laughed, I never imagined Id have a splendid daughter. But when he learned that Vicky called her father the other man, he turned violet with rage, blaming Eleanor for bringing a stranger into the house.
Eleanor, ever the pragmatic matriarch, replied, No, son. Youre not a father. Youve been wearing trousers all your life and never outgrew them. She repeated her earlier verdict, and Thomas, unable to bear the humiliation, packed his bags and set off again, chasing the horizon.
Vicky married, had a son she named Alexander in honour of her stepfather, and last year her mother Shurla was laid to rest beside the garden path where a lone birch had unexpectedly sprouted in the spring a tree that no one had planted, perhaps a final, silent farewell from Shurla, perhaps a last sorry from Eleanor.
And so the Whitakers remain, motherinlaw and daughterinlaw side by side, the birch growing between them, a modest reminder that even the toughest families find a way to sprout something new from old grudges.
