The guests arrived unexpectedly. Margaret winced—she was thrilled to see her son, but that dragonfly fluttering around Michael made her blood boil. The poor lad was smitten, grinning like a fool. Disgusting.
“Mum, hello! We’ve come to visit—me and Emily,” Michael announced, planting a kiss on her cheek.
“Yes, I can see that,” Margaret replied stiffly, forcing a sour smile as she hugged him.
“Mum… we’ve got happy news.”
“Oh? What might that be?”
“We’ve put in the notice—ta-da!”
“Good heavens, so soon?”
“Soon? Mum, what do you mean? We’ve been together a year. We’re getting married.”
“Well, if you’ve gone and done it, you’ve done it. Make yourselves at home. I’ll just pop to the shops then, fetch something for supper.”
Margaret needed air—needed to be alone. How had her little bear grown up, moved to London, lived his own life, and now this?
“Mum, don’t be silly. We brought everything—food, drinks, enough to last a week.”
Defeated, Margaret sank into a chair, her hands limp in her lap. She wanted to cry, to curl up on her bed like a child and sob. That dragonfly—Emily, as she insisted on calling her—was all wrong for her boy. Too flighty, too loud. He needed a steady girl, someone local.
Take Alice Wilson, for instance. A proper girl—quiet, sensible, trained as an accountant, worked at the library. They’d sat together at school! Why not marry her? Let them live in the city, but come home, bring grandchildren. The Wilsons were good stock, dependable. What had he done instead? Found some painted-up city girl and clung to her like a prized sack. Disgraceful.
The youngsters unpacked the groceries—posh hams, cheeses, sliced meats, exotic fruits. Margaret’s stomach clenched. They’d need to clear space in the fridge. And tomorrow? She’d have to cook, invite the neighbours, make it official—though she prayed the wedding might still be called off.
Where was John, anyway? Lunchtime gone, and he was probably stuffing his face at the pub again.
“Mum, we’re off to the river,” Michael called.
“Fine, go then.”
The river? That spoiled brat’s idea, no doubt. If he’d come alone, he’d have helped in the garden, maybe even given his father a hand. But no—with this princess in tow, it was all picnics and play.
Margaret bustled all day, her head spinning. She rang half the village for tomorrow, wore herself ragged, and finally collapsed onto the sofa—just for five minutes. But when she opened her eyes—good Lord, what fresh madness was this?
“What are you doing?” she shrieked.
“Mum, we’re setting the table—thought we’d help while you rested.”
“The dinner service? My good china? The crystal? John—are you just going to stand there?”
“What? The kids are right—what’s the point of it gathering dust?”
“You’ve lost your minds! My salad bowls, my glasses—have you no sense?”
“Mum, what’s the matter? We’re having a family dinner, and you’re crying over plates?”
Margaret stormed off, barely noticing that blasted dragonfly slicing the expensive salami she’d meant to save.
“Get changed, Mum—join us,” Michael called after her.
When she returned, her breath caught. The good tablecloth, the crystal goblets—all laid out. And John, of all people, in his best shirt, trousers he’d worn twice? Had the world gone mad?
“Margaret, love, come on. It’s a celebration—our son’s home with his girl.”
“His what?” she hissed.
“Mum, what’s wrong?” Michael reached for her hands, but she wrenched free.
“This is my house—my rules! You don’t touch my things!” She raged about the china, the food—meant for a special occasion.
“Enough!” John slammed his fist on the table. “What ‘special occasion’? We’ve been living like peasants—eating from chipped bowls, drinking from cracked mugs, while three full sets of china sit untouched!” He turned to Michael. “Go on, son—unroll that rug in the corner. God knows the moths’ve had their fill.”
He jabbed a finger at Margaret. “Now go put on that dress you’ve been saving. The wardrobe’s bursting, and you dress like a scarecrow.”
Stunned, she obeyed—donned her best frock, pearls, stockings. When Aunt Louisa dropped by, her jaw nearly hit the floor.
“Blimey, Margaret—you’re done up like a bride! Has someone died?”
“Don’t talk rot,” Margaret snapped, barely stopping herself from calling Emily ‘that dragonfly.’ “Sit down—have some of this salami the kids brought.”
Louisa squinted. “You’re not lying? No one’s passed?”
“Don’t be daft. Drink up.”
By nightfall, the rumour had spread—John and Margaret had cracked. Dressed in their best, eating off china, drinking from crystal. Next morning, the village was in uproar. Wives dragged out good linen, polished silver.
“Damn it all,” Aunt Louisa barked, heaving open an old chest.
“Have you lost your mind?” her husband yelped.
“From now on, we’re sleeping on proper sheets. Your mother’s been gone thirty years—how long do we wait for this ‘special day’?”
And so it went. The village woke up—threw off the old ways. They wore their best, ate from fine plates.
Margaret stared at John that night, thoughtful.
“We can’t use everything, though. Must keep something back—just in case.”
John chuckled. “Suppose so.”
But deep down, they both knew—what were they waiting for?
