Long ago, in the quiet countryside of Sussex, my husband William came from a large, bustling familythree brothers and two sisters, all with households of their own. Yet without fail, they would descend upon our home as if it were their own private estate. Birthdays, anniversaries, even the most trivial of bank holidaysany occasion would do. “Youve got the room!” theyd cheer, as though our cottage, with its sprawling garden and sturdy oak table, was their birthright.
At first, I didnt mind it much. Having been an only child, I rather enjoyed the clamourthe laughter, the clinking of glasses, the occasional tipsy uncle belting out a tune. But as time wore on, I found myself more servant than sister-in-law. Ever roasted a joint for fifteen while they lounged about? The women would settle into the garden chairs with their Pimms the moment they arrived, while the men would valiantly “oversee” the grill. Meanwhile, Id be buried in potato peelings, my curls frizzing like a startled terrier, my good dress swapped for a flour-streaked apron. William would hover in the doorway, guilt written plainly on his face. “Need a hand?” hed murmur. Id force a smile. “Im quite all right.”
The true sting came when Id emerge, flushed and frazzled, to find them all turned out as if for a garden party at Wimbledon, while I looked as though Id been dragged through a hedge backwards. All I longed for was an evening where I might sip my sherry in peace, not ferry plates like a harried barmaid.
After these endless affairs, William would quietly tackle the mountain of washing-up while I collapsed into bed. He was exhausted toohis eyes begging for a lazy afternoon with a greasy takeaway and dreadful telly. But neither of us dared make a fuss. Until the day his brother called.
“Shall we do my birthday at yours, then? Usual drill.”
William hung up, turned to me, and spoke the words Id longed to hear: “Tomorrow, youll put on that fine frock you save for best, fix your hair, perhaps even dab on a bit of rouge. But the kitchen? You shant lift a finger.”
I stared. “But what about”
“No. They can bring their own fare. Youre not their cook. Were entitled to a days rest as well.”
The next day, the lot of them arrived, arms laden with Sainsburys bags and Waitrose puddingsonly to find the table bare. The silence was delicious. William, ever the diplomat, cleared his throat. “New rules. Pull your weight, or take your revels elsewhere. Were done playing innkeepers.”
A hush fell, followed by the most subdued celebration in memory. But wonders never ceasethe very next gathering was hosted by his sister. As it turned out, they *could* manage. Theyd just needed a bit of encouragement.
