Do I have to feel sorry for a piece of meat for my motherinlaw?
No, you dont. You didnt buy it or cook it.
Im sorry, Ethan, because payday is two weeks away and the freezer looks like a desert.
Ethan sighed, stood up and paced the room, nerves jangling.
You always turn everything into a money problem, Poppy. Youve become so boring, so petty. You werent like this before.
Poppy rubbed her tired eyes and folded the expense sheet the numbers still didnt add up.
£50,000 was her salary. £45,000 was Ethans. That made £95,000 in total. Youd think she could just live and be happy, but
Every month £40,000 vanished into a ravenous mortgage, another £10,000 went to a renovation loan theyd never finished. In the hallway, exposed wires still clung to the wall, waiting for a renovation that never got funded.
Poppy, Mum called, Ethans voice drifted from the kitchen. She says the bus will be here in an hour.
Poppy exhaled heavily, closed her laptop and shuffled into the kitchen.
You meeting her? she asked, leaning against the doorframe.
Of course. And you could you make something homecooked?
Mum always complained that storebought food gave her an upset stomach.
Homecooked Poppy echoed. Ethan, theres a mouse hanging in the fridge from hunger.
Remember your parents dropped off a bag on Tuesday, Ethan reminded, sipping empty tea. There was meat in it.
Poppys lip quivered. Yes, the parents had sent a sack of pork, thirty eggs, a bag of potatoes, and jars of pickles. If it werent for them, Poppy and Ethan would have starved long ago.
Her parents, simple country labourers, were propping up the young couple, knowing that a mortgage in a bustling city felt like a chain.
But Ethans mother, Margaret Clarke, believed she should be the one to help.
I planned to stretch that meat over two weeks, Poppy whispered, chopping. Make minced meat, freeze some cutlets.
Mum doesnt visit often. Lets not be stingy, shall we? Ethan looked at her with the eyes of a beaten dog. Shes fiftyeight, already old, needs care and attention.
Old, Poppy thought sarcastically. Her own mum was the same age and still kept the household, taught at a primary school and looked after her sisters grandchildren.
Margaret, at fiftyeight, spent most evenings in a cottage village, complaining about life while watching a cat named Whiskers on the telly.
Fine, Poppy exhaled. Ill make cabbage soup and a stew.
Ethan beamed, planted a kiss on her cheek and raced to change.
***
Ethan left and Poppy retrieved a treasured bag from the freezer: a hefty slab of bonein pork. She laid the meat on a board, sliced off the flesh for the stew, saved the bones and scraps for a rich broth.
While the broth came to a boil, Poppy peeled potatoes, thoughts circling money. Her boots were worn, the zipper on her coat split new ones would cost at least £5,000. That meant postponing the dentist appointment; her tooth ached in the cold.
At least I work from home, she soothed herself while shredding cabbage. No commuting costs, no pricey office lunches. Savings.
At twentytwo, Poppy felt like a workhorse. Friends posted club photos, beach snaps, new dresses, while Poppys fridge displayed a payment schedule and a perpetual hunt for offers at the local Tesco.
The front door latch clicked.
Here we are! Margarets booming voice filled the narrow hallway.
Poppy dabbed her hands on a towel and opened the door.
Margaret, a stout woman with bright lipstick and a permanent perm, was already shrugging her coat off onto Ethans shoulders.
Oh, the road! It rattled my bones! she complained, not even looking at her daughterinlaw. The driver was rude, the heater didnt work, my feet were freezing
Welcome, Poppy. You look pale. Not putting on any makeup today?
A young woman should look after herself, otherwise the husband will be taken away.
Hello, Margaret. I work from home, who am I supposed to impress?
Oh, dont start, Margaret waved her off, stepping in shoes made for the street. Bring me a cup of tea from the road, or better yet, something to eat; Im famished.
Please wash your hands, Poppy asked politely but firmly. And get comfortable. Im about to serve.
The kitchen cramped as Margaret claimed half the space, perching on the prime spot by the window. Ethan fussed beside her, propping a pillow behind her back.
Smells edible, Margaret sniffed. Soup?
Cabbage soup, Poppy nodded, ladling it into bowls.
She tried. She really tried. She gave Ethan a generous portion of broth, while she served herself a plain soup just broth with cabbage and potatoes, no meat.
Margaret, as a guest, got the choicest bits, according to Poppy: the soft, meltinyourmouth pieces that clung to the bone. Poppy adored gnawing those bits; they were tastier than any fillet.
Eat while its hot, Poppy placed the bowl before her motherinlaw and sat opposite.
Margaret twirled her spoon, inhaled the steam, and her face slowly shifted. Her eyebrows rose, lips puckered. She speared a large bone with a tender chunk of meat dangling from it and lifted it.
What is this? she asked, voice as cold as winter.
Bones, Poppy replied earnestly, breaking off a piece of bread. The tastiest meat is on them, soft
Bones?! Margarets voice hit a high note. You gave me bones?
Ethan froze, spoon halfway to his mouth. Poppy blinked, bewildered.
Margaret, theres meat on the bones. I chose them deliberately, so theyd be hearty
Hearty?! Margaret shrieked. Who do you think I am? A stray dog? You eat the prime cuts, and I get the scraps?!
Scraps? Poppys lips trembled. I didnt even put meat in my bowl! Look!
But Margaret didnt look. She snatched the bowl and stalked to the toilet.
Mum, what are you doing? Ethan leapt up, too late.
The toilet lid slammed, water rushed, and washed away two hours of Poppys labour and her parents gifts.
Margaret returned, marched to the bin, opened the pantry door, grimaced, and flung the cursed bone inside.
So I wont have to eat that again she hissed. Ethan, who did you bring? A rude country girl with no respect for elders. Feeding us with bones!
Poppy clutched the edge of the table. Ethan shifted his gaze between his mother and wife, clueless.
Im not a dog, Poppy whispered. And youre not a dog either. Those were good ingredients. My parents gave them.
Ah, your parents! Eat your own bones then! Margaret barked. Is there decent food in this house, or shall I starve?
Poppy rose. She wanted to scream, to shove the woman out, to hurl something heavy at her face, but the proper manners drilled into her by her own parents held her back.
There are macaroni and stew,
she said, moving to the stove, grabbing a pan of stew and a pot of macaroni, and placing them on the table.
Serve yourselves. Im afraid Ill mess up again.
Poppy slipped out of the kitchen, curled up in the corner of the sofa that doubled as the bedroom, and turned on the television for background noise.
The voices carried.
Shes gone off the rails, Margaret muttered, clanking dishes. Im trying to be kind, and she gives me bones!
Did you see that, Ethan? Its an insult to the face!
Mum, she didnt mean it, Ethan replied weakly, defending his wife. She really thought itd be tastier. Thats how they do it in some families
Whatever they like! Were cultured people, not living in a barn!
The saucepan lid clanged.
Ah, now thats more like it, Margarets tone softened. Meat.
Poppy could no longer hold back. She slipped to the kitchen doorway, peeking inside.
Margaret was scooping meat from the thick stew with a spoon, like a miner extracting ore. One piece, another, a third She piled a mountain of stew onto her plate, leaving only thin sauce and a few sad noodles in the pan. Two lonely spoons of macaroni lay beside it.
The macaroni is plain, Margaret remarked with a mouthful. Shouldve added butter. Shes saving on you, dear. Oh, shes saving.
Poppys eyes darkened. The stew was meant for two days! Tomorrow Ethan would take it to work, Poppy would have it for lunch, and there would still be dinner left a full oneandahalf kilos of pure meat!
She slumped back onto the sofa, pressed her face into the cushion, and silently wept. Ten minutes later Ethan appeared in the doorway.
Poppy he began cautiously.
She lifted her head.
What?
Why are you upset? Mums just tired from the road, nerves Shes an older person. Dont take it to heart.
She dumped the soup down the toilet, Ethan. The soup Id cooked for two hours, from the meat my parents sent!
She overreacted. Thats her temperament, Ethan sat on the edge of the sofa, reaching for her hand. Poppy pulled away. Listen, she ate, but shes still upset. She says her blood pressure spiked from the insult.
From the insult? Poppy snorted bitterly. And the fact she ate a meal meant for two days didnt raise her pressure?
Poppy! Ethan winced. Why are you being so harsh? Spiked
She ate. A proper appetite returned.
Do I have to feel sorry for a slice of meat for my motherinlaw?
No, you dont. You didnt buy it or cook it.
But Im sorry, Ethan, because payday is two weeks away and the freezer is empty.
Ethan sighed, paced again.
You always turn everything into money. Youve become boring, petty. You werent like this before.
We didnt used to pay your mortgage forty thousand, she retorted.
Ethan twitched his cheek.
Anyway, Mums crying. She needs to get out, vent. She says Ive completely forgotten her, that she and her daughterinlaw have a terrible relationship
Let her go home, Poppy muttered.
No, you cant! Ill take her to that new Georgian café that just opened. Well have khachapuri, shell smile. You coming?
Poppy looked at Ethan as if he were an alien.
To a café? Ethan, we have only three thousand pounds until the next paycheck. Which café?
I have a credit card, he waved it off. A few thousand wont hurt. Mum will grin. So, are you in, or will you keep sulking?
Im not going, Poppy said, turning to the wall. Im full.
Suit yourself.
Ethan and his precious mum vanished after five minutes. Poppy rose from the sofa and dialed her parents, ready to tell them she was returning home and leaving Ethan.
That was the last straw.
A bank notification pinged: Ethan had spent almost £6,000 on a lunch for his dear mum.
