“Here comes the working man,” muttered Margaret Benson as she greeted George. She was the grandmother of his wife, Lucy—a woman of the old school, hardened by years of party discipline, and she made no secret of her disdain for her granddaughter’s husband. She disapproved of everything about him—his casual dress of jeans and T-shirts, and, above all, his profession. He was a hairdresser, or as she called him, a “fancy barber.”
“A real man ought to have a proper man’s job,” she’d often lecture Lucy. “Like your grandfather, God rest him. Spent half his life as a factory fitter before the party took notice. And this one? Clipping hair all day—women’s work, plain as day. Acts like one too, fussing about like a prim lass.”
Leaning on her walking stick, she barked, “Lucy! Your man’s here!”
Lucy rushed out, pulling off her apron mid-stride, and planted a shy kiss on George’s cheek.
“Ugh, such sickly sweetness,” Margaret scoffed before demanding, “I’m starving—when’s dinner?”
Lucy flapped her hands. “George just needs to wash up, then we’ll eat.”
Margaret scowled. “Five minutes ago, you said it’d take another half-hour!”
Lucy mumbled, “Well, it… sort of finished quicker.”
Margaret roared, “So I had to wait for this layabout?”
Lucy shrugged and darted into the kitchen, Margaret hot on her heels, shouting, “Hold on, you sly thing!” A burst of laughter followed.
George, scrubbing his hands, dreaded the evening ahead. First supper, then yet another round of old war films on DVD—Margaret wouldn’t tolerate modern cinema, calling it “downright indecent.” He and Lucy suffered through the same battle scenes for the three-hundredth time, complete with Margaret’s running commentary. By nine, the lights went out, and bed was mandatory.
How many times had George begged Lucy to move into a rented flat? But she’d plead, “Just bear with her, love. She acts tough, but she’s frail. And she took me in when my own mother left me at the hospital.”
George always relented. He was from a village himself, where family meant everything. His kin had fed and sheltered him until he found his footing in the city, and now he repaid them—money for his parents, labour for relatives: a shed here, a fence there.
“Taking all night, are you?” Margaret barked from the kitchen. “Hurry up before the crows nick the food!”
When he finally sat down, the table was laden. Whatever else, Lucy could cook. Even with her job, meals were never dull.
Margaret sniffed. “Not like me. I lived off packet soups and shop-bought pies. But my husband and son never complained. I had committees to run—party meetings, trade unions, always on some board.” Yet she happily devoured Lucy’s cooking.
“How was work?” Lucy asked.
George opened his mouth, but Margaret cut in. “What’s there to ask? Snip-snip, comb-comb—no skill in that. Now, if he were a binman, that’d be worth hearing. But no, let me tell you about William Thompson—started at the factory at fifteen…”
George rolled his eyes. Here we go again—the same tedious parables, tailored to remind him he wasn’t a “real man.”
But it wasn’t his fault. At ten years old, he’d watched his mother wrestling with a tangle of thorns caught in her hair. She’d yanked and cursed before snapping, “George, before your father sees, cut this mess off.”
He’d trembled, scissors in hand—fear mixed with thrill. The first snip was jagged, but then, hesitantly, he’d asked, “Can I tidy it up?” She’d waved him on. “Go on. Your dad’ll notice anyway.”
By instinct, he’d shaped something resembling what he now knew as a layered bob. His mother gasped. He braced for a scolding.
“Lord, I look years younger!” She’d kissed his crown.
Soon, every woman in the village wanted his touch. By the time he left school, his path was set.
He’d met Lucy in the park, a delicate thing gathering maple leaves. Shy as he was, he’d approached her. They’d talked, walked, and fallen hard.
Later, she’d confided her past: a father dead young, a mother who’d bolted at birth, and a grandmother who’d stepped in without hesitation.
Margaret hadn’t approved of George, but she’d held her tongue—once, she’d forbidden her son’s marriage, and he’d drunkenly walked into traffic. She wouldn’t risk history repeating. But she still needled George at every turn.
Then, one night, he’d heard soft moans from Margaret’s room. She was grey-faced, fumbling for pills scattered on the floor. He’d given her the right one and called an ambulance.
The next two weeks were bliss—no nagging, no war films, just football and proper movies. Lucy, worried at first, relaxed as Margaret improved. George, though, dreaded her return.
“So, boy, anything good on telly?” she asked that first night back.
George gaped.
“Don’t look so shocked,” she chuckled. “Even I can tire of the same old rot.” Then, serious: “Thank you. The doctor said you saved me. You could’ve let me go—but you didn’t. You’re family now. And if I snap, ignore me. Old habits.”
Recently, Lucy shared joyful news: a baby on the way. To celebrate, George and Margaret sneaked a nip of whisky—just a drop, while Lucy wasn’t looking.
Some joys, after all, are worth toasting.
