My mother would stay with us, and yours could go up to the cottage, decided George one evening.
Listen, Ethel said, stirring the soup on the stove, shall we go to the theatre on Saturday? Theyre showing a new play, Margaret praised it.
George tore his eyes from the television and glanced at his wife.
The theatre? Im not sure Ive been exhausted all week.
Youre always tired, Ethel sighed. We havent been out together for half a year.
All right, well see, George muttered, returning his stare to the screen.
Ethel pursed her lips. It was the same old refrain well see, later, maybe. After fifteen years of marriage she had learned to accept such excuses, though acceptance was not the same as resignation.
George, she called, turning off the stove, we really need to talk.
What about? he asked without looking away from the football match on the telly.
About my mother. She called today. Her cottage roof leaks after rain, and she needs it repaired. I thought perhaps she could stay with us for a couple of weeks while the workers finish.
George frowned.
My mother called as well. Shes starting renovations and wanted to move in too.
Ethel sat down at the table.
Well then let both of them stay. We have enough room.
No, George shook his head. Two mothers in one flat is too much. Theyll end up arguing.
They wont argue, Ethel protested. They get along fine.
George rose, went to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, drank, and turned back to Ethel.
My mother will live with us. Yours, you take to the cottage, he said firmly.
A chill ran through Ethel.
So what, then? My mother will stay in the leaky cottage, and yours will enjoy our warm flat?
Yes, George shrugged. My mum is nearly sixtyfive, its hard for her to be out on a building site. Yours is younger, shell manage.
My mum is sixtytwo! Ethel snapped. Whats three years to you?
There is a difference, George replied obstinately. Besides, my mother is ill and needs peace.
My mother is not healthy either! Her blood pressure swings, her back aches!
Everyone aches, George waved off. Bottom line, Ive decided. My mum arrives the day after tomorrow, and yours stays at the cottage.
He turned back to the television. Ethel stood in the kitchen, stunned that he could decide so unilaterally, without a word of discussion.
She moved to the livingroom.
George, we havent finished our conversation.
Theres nothing more to say, he flicked channels. Its settled.
Its not settled! Ethel felt anger rise like a tide. This is my flat too! I live here and I have a say!
The lease is in my name, George said coldly. I make the decisions.
Ethel fell silent, realizing that because the tenancy was in his name, he considered himself the master and her opinion irrelevant.
Wonderful, she hissed through clenched teeth. Just wonderful.
She retreated to the bedroom, shut the door, and sat on the bed, her face buried in her hands. Resentment and fury swelled; she wanted to scream, to weep, to smash the dishes, yet she simply sat and kept quiet.
That evening they ate in silence. Ethel set the table without a word, George ate without a word and returned to the telly. When they finally went to bed each turned to their own wall.
In the morning George left for work without a goodbye. Ethel dialed her mother.
Darling, Im sorry, but you cant come up to us. George his mother also needs a place, theres not enough room.
Never mind, dear, her mother, Mrs. Smith, replied calmly. Ill stay at the cottage, whatever happens.
But the roof is leaking! Ethels voice trembled with tears.
Its fine. Ill stretch some tarpaulin, set out buckets. Ill manage somehow. Dont worry.
Ethel hung up and wept. Her mother would sit under a dripping roof, while Georges mother would settle into a warm flat. And George cared for none of it but his own mother.
An hour later George called.
My mothers arriving this evening. Prepare a guest room.
Fine, Ethel said briefly and hung up.
She straightened the spare room, laid fresh linens, placed a vase of flowers, all mechanically, without thought.
That night Georges mother, Edith Bartholomew, a stout woman with a sour expression, arrived.
Hello, dear Ethel, she kissed her daughterinlaw on the cheek. What a dreadful journey! The driver was rude the whole way.
Good evening, Mrs. Bartholomew, Ethel helped her off the coat. Come in, the room is ready.
My son! Edith launched into Georges arms. How Ive missed you!
George smiled, embraced his mother, asked about her trip. Ethel watched the scene and felt the room close in around her.
During dinner Edith bragged about the repair bill.
Can you imagine, the builders want a hundred pounds for everything! Its daylight robbery! I told them they were out of line, look for another crew.
Mother, those are normal rates now, George said.
Normal! Edith snorted. In my day you could buy a whole house for that sum! Nowadays you have to strip three skins for a trifle!
Ethel ate her borscht in silence while Edith continued her tirade about prices, the government, neighbours, the weather. George nodded sympathetically.
Why so glum, Ethel? Edith suddenly asked. You look downcast.
Im just tired, Ethel replied.
Tired, eh? Edith mimicked. You sit at home all day and complain of tiredness. I was three jobs when I was your age and never whined!
Ethel said nothing. Arguing with Edith was pointless; she would always win the debate.
After dinner Edith retired to her room, and Ethel began washing the dishes. George came over.
Whats wrong, love?
Im not angry, Im upset, Ethel said without turning. Because you didnt even ask my opinion. She finally met his eyes. You just decided, and thats that. My mother will be drenched in rain, and yours will warm here.
Dont exaggerate, George grunted. Your mother will manage.
What if it were the other way round? What if I said my mother would come and yours stay with the builders?
Thats different, George muttered.
How is it different?
My mother is older and more ill.
Three years! Ethel snapped. Three years makes no difference!
George waved his hand and left. Ethel stayed alone in the kitchen, finished her cooling tea, and thought what if I just left? Pack my things and drift back to my mothers cottage, leaving George with his precious mum.
But then she stopped herself. Where would she go? This was her home too.
The next morning Edith rose early and began bustling about the kitchen. Ethel woke to the clatter of pots.
Good morning, Edith called as she entered.
Morning, Ethel muttered, rummaging through cupboards. Ethel, wheres the colander? I want to make porridge.
In the right cupboard, top shelf.
Edith rummaged, pulling out dishes.
Good heavens, what a mess! How do you find anything in here?
I do, Ethel replied calmly.
It needs rearranging, everything in order, Edith declared, already planning a redecoration.
No need, Ethel took her hand. Im comfortable as it is.
Comfortable, are you? Living in chaos and then wondering why George is always disgruntled! Edith snapped.
Ethel clenched her fists. She could say something shed later regret. She took a deep breath, exhaled, and steadied herself.
This is my kitchen. Ive been cooking here for fifteen years and I know where everything belongs, she said. Im fine the way it is.
Very well, very well, dont get your feathers ruffled, Edith waved off. I only want whats best.
Ethel left the kitchen, went to the bathroom, and faced her own reflection tired eyes, dark circles, a strained expression. She felt the weight of years pressing down.
George left for work, and Ethel remained at home with Edith. The older woman spent the morning wandering the flat, commenting on everything.
These curtains are worn, they need replacing. The sofa is sagging, time for a new one. The wallpaper in the hallway is peeling why not reglue it? The carpet is dusty when was it last cleaned?
Ethel listened in silence, thinking of her own mother, who never meddled or criticised when she stayed over.
By lunch Edith decided to cook.
Ill make my signature stew! George loves it!
She occupied the entire kitchen pots, pans, bowls piled on the counter. Ethel tried to help.
May I chop something?
No need, Ill do it myself, Edith brushed her off. You never cut it right anyway!
Ethel stepped onto the balcony, dialed her mother.
Mum, how are you?
Im fine, dear, Mrs. Smith replied cheerfully. Ive set out buckets, stretched the tarpaulin. The rain seems to have stopped, at least its not dripping now.
Mum, Ethel felt a lump rise, could you maybe come after all? Well find a way to fit you in
No, love, I can manage here. I hear your voice and know youre holding the fort without me. Dont worry.
Ethel hung up and sobbed. Her mother would sit under a leaking roof, while Edith lounged in a warm flat. Was that fair?
That evening George returned from work, and Edith greeted him with a delighted shout.
Son! Ive made you your favourite stew!
At dinner George raved about his mothers stew.
Mmm, how delicious! This is the best stew Ive had in ages!
Ethel ate in silence. Was her own stew now inferior? She had been making it every week for fifteen years, and George never complained. Now his mothers stew seemed supreme.
What, Ethel, cant you cook? she snapped.
No, its fine, George replied, not grasping the issue. Your mothers stew is just special, Ive loved it since childhood.
Fair enough, Ethel set her spoon down. Eat, Im satisfied.
She rose from the table, went to the bedroom, lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. So it is, she thought, cook, clean, strive, and still be unappreciated. Mothers stew wins. Mother matters more.
A week passed. Edith settled in completely rearranged the kitchen to suit herself, hung her towels in the bathroom, claimed a shelf in the fridge. She rose early, banged pots, prepared breakfasts for her son, and criticised Ethel over every trivial matter.
Ethel, why is Georges shirt creased? Cant you use an iron?
Ethel, theres hair on the bathroom floor! When did you last clean?
Ethel, youve put too much salt in the soup! How can you eat that?
Ethel kept her mouth shut, endured, clenched her teeth, and bore it.
Then her mother called, her voice weary.
Darling, Ive a fever. The draft must have chilled me. Ill lie down and rest.
What temperature? Ethel asked, alarmed.
Just a mild thirtyeight, Mrs. Smith whispered. Dont worry.
Ethel hung up, went to George, who was at his computer.
George, my mother is ill. Shes suffering at the cottage, we need to bring her in.
Where to bring her? he asked without looking up. We already have a mother here.
Let your mother move out! Ethel snapped. My mother is sick!
My mother wont move, George said coldly. She still has work to finish.
My mother cant be left out in the cold! Ethels fury boiled. George, do you understand what youre saying?
I understand, he finally looked at her. Your mother exaggerates, as usual. Thirtyeight isnt even a fever.
Shes sixtytwo! Her blood pressure, her heart! Ethel shouted. She cant be out in the cold!
Dont shout at me, George rose. I said no. End of story.
Ethel stared at him and suddenly realised she barely knew the man she had lived with fifteen years. He felt like a stranger.
Fine, she said quietly. Then Ill go to my mothers cottage. Ill stay until she recovers.
Go, George replied indifferently. Just leave dinner for us.
She packed a bag, prepared a few meals for three days, listed where everything was in the kitchen. Edith watched, curious.
Leaving for long?
I dont know, Ethel answered. My mother is ill, she needs me.
And who will look after George? Edith asked, offended.
You, Ethel said, you are his mother.
She left for the cottage. Her mother lay with a fever, coughing, complaining of weakness. Ethel lit the fire, boiled broth, gave her tea with honey.
Why did you come, love? Mrs. Smith asked weakly. George is alone here.
Hes not alone; his mother is here too, Ethel corrected. You need me more.
For three days Ethel cared for her mother, cooking, cleaning, dispensing medicines. George called once, asking when she would return, then said nothing more.
When her mother improved, Ethel returned home to a scene of chaos piles of dirty dishes, untended pots in the sink, Edith lounging on the sofa watching television.
Ah, youre back, Edith grumbled. We were starving.
Wheres George? Ethel asked.
At work, of course. Im alone here, nothing to cook, nothing to clean.
Ethel walked to the kitchen, began washing dishes, anger bubbling inside while she tended to her sick mother, these two had simply waited for the housemaid to return.
That evening George came home.
At last! My mother was quite a mess without you.
Good evening to you too, Ethel replied coldly. My mother, by the way, has recovered. Thanks for asking.
Great, George said, removing his shoes. Whats for dinner?
Ethel stared at him for a long moment.
Nothing. I didnt cook.
How could you not cook? Youve been home all day! George was taken aback.
Ive been home for half an hour, Ethel stood. I came in, tidied after you both. If you want to eat, cook yourself.
What?! George stammered. Ethel, whats happening?
Im tired, she said simply. Tired of being a servant. Either you cook or let my mother do it the very mother you value above all.
She retreated to the bedroom, closed the door, and refused to answer his frantic knocks.
The next morning she dressed and announced,
Im moving back to my mothers. For good. Ill stay with her until I decide otherwise.
Youve gone mad! George shouted, eyes wide. Why this drama?
Because you chose your mother over mine, Ethel replied calmly. Your mother gets comfort, mine must endure the rain.
Dont speak nonsense! he protested.
It isnt nonsense, she said, grabbing her bag. Its the truth. Im done. If you want to live with your mother, live. Im leaving.
Edith burst from her room.
Ethel, where are you off to?
Nothings wrong, Ethel replied, pulling on her coat. I just realised Im not valued here, so Im leaving.
She stepped out of the flat, closed the lift doors behind her, and felt a strange relief. For the first time in years she did exactly what she wanted, not what was expected of her.
Her mother met her at the gate, surprised.
Love, whatsHer mother embraced her, whispered that at last she had reclaimed her worth, and together they walked toward the quiet countryside, leaving the cramped flat behind.
