No, Mum, Im not coming. Ill buy everything I need at the shop.
But how? The stores! The vitamins! You always love them!
I dont need your stores, Emma said calmly. Let anyone who wants them spend their own time and effort on them.
Just twenty more jars of pickles, and thatll be it for today, declared Mrs. Whitfield, wiping her hands on her apron.
Emma brushed a damp bead of sweat from her forehead. Her shirt was soaked through, clinging to her skin. The kitchen was suffocating, the air thick with the sharp bite of vinegar and dill.
She glanced at the table, a chaotic mountain of jars, lids, and vegetables. In the cellar, tomatoes waited their turn, cabbage prepared for fermenting, a dozen different salads perched in anticipation. A weeks worth of work still loomed.
All right, Mum, Emma exhaled, reaching for another jar.
Her hands moved almost on autopilot: drop the cucumbers, pour the brine, twist the lid. Again and again. She kept at it, trying not to think how much remained.
There, Mrs. Whitfield said with satisfaction, surveying the rows of sealed jars. Soon the family will be ready for winter.
Emma set the jar down and turned to her mother.
Mum, wheres Olive? Why isnt she helping?
Mrs. Whitfields eyes flickered away. She began wiping the nowclean table.
Olives got a new job, dear. She cant take time off, you see. Its a responsible position, a strict boss.
Emma pressed her lips together. Of course. Olive always found an excuse. Last year she caught a cold the very week the jars needed sealing. The year before that she was on a business trip that perfectly coincided with the harvest. Emma, on the other hand, never had any plans. Her mother had practically ordered her to quit work and come home.
Dont look so glum, love, Mrs. Whitfield said softly, noticing Emmas expression. At least well eat our own preserves all winter. Vitamins! Nothing healthier.
Emma nodded. That was the only silver lining. The pickles did turn out wonderful.
The following days blurred into an endless whirl. Emma sealed tomatoes, mixed salads, fermented cabbage. She hauled heavy boxes of jars to the larder, climbing the steep stairs a dozen times. She swept up after each round of preserving, mopped the floor, cleared the tables, took out the rubbish. Her hands ached, her back throbbed. By night she collapsed onto the bed, exhausted.
When it was finally over, Emma returned to her flat. She was drained. Her holiday had ended a day ago, and she wanted nothing more than quiet and stillness. The house was empty. The fridges shelves were halfempty. Yet her mother seemed satisfied, and that mattered most. Olive never called, never asked how things were going, never offered a hand.
Winter slipped in. Emma visited her mother periodically to collect jars of pickles, tomatoes, saladseverything tasted homemade and fresh. Mrs. Whitfield welcomed each visit with tea and long conversation.
At the end of January Emma came back again. Mrs. Whitfield greeted her with a smile, set the table. Emma sat, looked around. There were storebought sausages, cheese, bread, but no jars of homepreserve.
Emma frowned. It was odd. Usually Mum would lay out something from the larder, but the table looked strangely bare.
They talked about everythingnews, work, the weatherwhile Emma almost forgot the missing jars.
When it was time to leave, Emma rose and slipped on her coat.
Mum, Ill pop down to the larder and grab three jars of carrotandcabbage mix, she said, walking toward the door.
No, you mustnt! Mrs. Whitfield snapped.
Emma turned, eyebrows lifted.
Why? I was just about to
Just dont, Emma. Dont go into the larder.
Mrs. Whitfields gaze drifted away, tension tightening Emmas shoulders. She tossed her coat onto a chair.
Mum, whats happened? Why cant I take a couple of jars?
I I simply cant give you any preserves, Mrs. Whitfield muttered, staring at the floor.
Emmas eyes narrowed, irritation bubbling up.
Mum, I spent a week on the preserves, remember? And now I cant have a couple of jars? Explain, please.
Emma, its not the time to argue I just cant give them to you, thats all.
Emma spun and hurried toward the larder. From behind came her mothers shrill voice:
Emma! Dont touch them, I told you!
But Emma had already flung open the door and descended the steps. She flicked the light switch. The small room flooded with harsh light. Shelves stared back empty.
Where rows of neatly stacked jars had stood, now less than half remained. Emma knew they had been full just moments ago. Where had they gone?
She climbed back up slowly, entered the kitchen, and faced her mother. Mrs. Whitfield stood with her head bowed, cheeks flushed with shame.
Mum! Emma gasped. Youre short of money? Selling the preserves? You should have told me! I could have sent what you needed. You shouldnt be out in the cold selling jars at your age!
Emma reached for her mothers hands, but Mrs. Whitfield recoiled. Emmas anger cooled, a cold numbness spreading inside.
Its not that youre not selling them?
Mrs. Whitfield shook her head. Emma sank back into a chair, meeting her mothers eyes.
Then tell me
Silence hung heavy. Mrs. Whitfield sighed, ran a hand over her face.
Its all Olives doing, she whispered. She met a bloke from a big family in town. She told them she was stockpiling for winter, and his relatives started demanding jars.
So shes giving them away? Emma breathed. She cant refuse, you know? She wants to marry him. His familys wealthy, influential and everything fell apart quickly.
Emma paused, heart tightening. She thought her mother needed help, felt a pang of sympathy, but the truth was far more mundane.
You stopped me from taking jars so Olive would have enough? Emma said slowly.
Mrs. Whitfield said nothing.
All you think about is Olive? Emma stood, leaning on the table. And I? Whos been twisting all these lids? Who was there while I sweated all week? And now Olive, as if nothing happened, empties the shelves!
Emma, understand, Olives at a crucial point in her life, Mrs. Whitfield began to justify. She must impress his family. It isnt vital for you.
Emma shook her head, grabbed her coat.
I get it. Im done.
She walked out without looking back, slammed into the drivers seat, and gripped the wheel until her knuckles whitened. Fury, hurt, bitterness roiled inside. She barely held back tears as the engine roared and she drove away.
Months passed. Olive married the man from town. Emma visited her mother rarely, and never asked for jars again. Mrs. Whitfield never raised the subject. They talked about the weather, work, neighbours, but an invisible wall seemed to have grown between them.
Then the next preserving season arrived. One evening the phone rang. Emma glanced at the screen it was her mother.
Emma, love, its time, dear Mrs. Whitfield said brightly. I need you next week. We have to make our winter stores again. Even more this year, so everyone will have enough.
Emma froze. Everyone. So Olive would be giving away jars again, and Emma would have to work like a madwoman.
I wont come, Mum.
What? A stunned silence stretched over the line. Emma, are you serious? Of course youll come. I cant manage on my own.
No, Mum. Im not coming. Ill buy everything I need at the shop.
But how? The stores! The vitamins! You love them!
Your stores arent for me, Emma replied evenly. Let anyone who wants them spend their own time and effort on them.
Emma! You cant do that! What about Olive? Im your mother! You should
Emma hung up. She was done being the dutiful mule, the one who toils for others. She owed nothing to anyone any more.
