What did she do with my son?!
Maggie Thompson was bustling about the kitchen, waiting for her son, who was due any minute with his fiancée. The oven was exhaling the scent of her signature roast duck, steaming meat pasties were already lining the table, and a chilled jelly terrine sat waiting in the fridge.
Maggie took the guest arrival very seriously; the spread was brimming with dishes shed been preparing since the night before. And the guests were a special lot. Andrew had been dating Daisy for a year, and at last hed summoned the courage to introduce her to his parents.
A short knock sounded. After a quick tidyup at the hallway mirror, Maggie flung the door open.
Andrew, love, come in! Let me take your coat, she said warmly. Andrew gave an awkward grin, stepped aside and let Daisy in first, hanging his own coat.
Daisy, this is my mum, Maggie, he announced.
Maggies eyes immediately fell on Daisys slender frame, which she instinctively read as a sign of frailty. A tattoo peeked out from her wrist, and Maggies brow twitched. She held back any comment; after all, Andrew had been singing her praises all morning.
Good evening, Mrs. Thompson. Its a pleasure to finally meet you, Daisy said, her smile as bright as a summer sunrise.
Maggie watched Andrews gaze linger on his future wife, a look of pure adoration.
Polite conversation floated around the table, but Maggie soon noticed something amiss: Andrew was picking at his food, his plate halfempty, and Daisy wasnt offering him any of the treats. With a disapproving glance, Maggie rose, moved to Andrews seat and began spoonfeeding him in small portions.
Mum, Ive got it, Andrew tried to protest, but years of fruitless battles had taught him it was pointless to argue with his mother.
Having rescued her son from a possible starving fate, Maggie turned her attention to the future daughterinlaw, her curiosity about Daisys behaviour mounting. When she reached for Daisys plate, the young woman calmly replied:
Maggie, everything looks delicious, but I dont eat that sort of thing. The salad, however, is wonderfulIve already helped myself twice. Could you share the recipe?
The salad? Maggie snapped. Its our family secretduck with orange, you know? Ill just add a slice of the duck, a sprig of buttered sprats, and a dollop of potato salad.
Mom, dont. Daisy watches her diet, Andrew interjected.
Settle down, love, thats a perfectly proper diet! Maggie declared.
George, Andrews father, tried to intervene, Maggie, give her a break, but fell silent under his wifes steely stare.
Satisfied that the childrens plates were full, Maggie settled back into her chair.
We grew up on bacon, chips, and a bit of milk, and we turned out healthy, she boasted.
Mrs. Thompson, the doctor told you to watch what you eat. Youve been complaining about feeling poorly yourself, Andrew reminded her.
Youre all nonsense. Do you even have breakfast at home?
Andrew and Daisy exchanged an amused look.
We eat well, Mum. Lots of veg, and I try to steer clear of heavy meals, Daisy replied.
Maggie stared at her son, shockedher boy had indeed slimmed down.
What does Daisy feed you?
How could she? We both work late, often ordering in. Daisy answered.
Sounds efficient. Clean house, free time for other things, Maggie added, bewildered. In her day, a man never touched the kitchen. For thirty years George hadnt even peeled potatoes; that was a womans work, and Maggie had taken pride in it.
When Maggie herself married, her mother and grandmothers had drilled into her that a proper lady kept the home spotless, cooked hearty meals, and kept her husbands wardrobe in order. George could barely iron a shirt, and Maggie had worn that as a badge of honor. Now her sons modern arrangement left her reeling.
Andrew, you cook? You have a demanding job; you need rest, Maggie fretted. Daisy, a man shouldnt be doing that. Your marriage wont work.
Daisy replied calmly, I also earn, sometimes more than Andrew. We share everything equally, and were happy.
Maggie was taken abackher son was arguing with her, and not as the pampered child she remembered. She decided to smooth the tension.
Fine, its your business. Ill just tuck in. Come inside, Ill feed you a bit more, otherwise youll end up with just bones. Daisy, youre looking very thin, thats not right.
The conversation drifted on. Maggie made several more attempts to feed the pair, but they continued to eat modestly. Daisy talked about her job in the media, organising concerts and travelling for work. This bothered Maggie even morehow could a woman be on the road so often? What about a steady hearth?
She finally asked about the tattoo.
Daisy, whats that on your wrist? A little doodle? It looks nice, but you can wash it off, cant you?
We got matching ones six months ago, Andrew and I, Daisy answered confidently.
Maggies eyes widened. My son, those are the kind of marks only… well, you know who gets them. George, are you going to stay silent?
George muttered, Son, Im not sure what to say.
Andrew knew his father never took a firm stand; he was used to keeping the peace.
The worlds changing, Maggie, Daisy said gently. Tattoos are fashionable now, many see them as art, and they can be removed. Andrews twentyeight; he can decide for himself.
Maggie felt a wave of outrage.
This is crossing a line! Parents opinions should matter most! We never allowed our son to do such foolish things.
Mom, calm down, please. Youre the one breaking etiquette. As Daisy said, Im an adult, Andrew replied with a grin. Its my life, and I trust my choices.
The evening lost its pleasant air and ended quickly. Andrew and Daisy gathered their things, politely declined the leftover morsels, and left.
Alone, Maggie washed the dishes while George dozed on the sofa, newspaper halffolded. A torrent of thoughts swirled in her head.
She couldnt fathom how her son had landed in this spot. Yes, Andrew and Daisy seemed happy; hed often called to tell her how supportive his fiancée was. Daisy was welleducated, welloff, from a respectable family. But was this modern view of a mans role normal?
Maggie had always prided herself on being the perfect housewife; for years shed started each day caring for the family, not resting until the last cup was clean. It didnt keep the marriage from its tiny quarrelsGeorge had his own missteps in youth, which Maggie had long forgiven. Their thirtyyear wedding anniversary had just passed, yet now they spoke rarely. George spent evenings glued to the telly, while Maggie knitted, tended her garden, and chatted on the phone with friends. What more could be said?
Would her son be happy with such a girl? Had he made a mistake? Andrew seemed different nowmore resolute at work, credits to Daisys advice. He called less often but was ready to drop everything if his mother needed him, unless he had plans with his fiancée. He even stopped heading to the family cottage, claiming it was cheaper to buy groceries than grow his own potatoes. Maggie felt she understood him less and less.
It was his decision, of course, but a mothers word still mattered. Time would tell who would prevail.
Meanwhile, Andrew and Daisy were driving home. Andrew had already apologized a few times, and Daisy brushed it off with a smile.
I saw this coming, dont worry. I can handle the bumps, she said. Just stay on my side, Andrew, alright? Thats the most important thing.
Always, Andrew whispered, planting a kiss on her temple.
Their married life promised to be interesting.
—
Live and be cheerful
Diana wandered through the massive High Street Superstore. Its aisles twisted like a maze, the clever layout designed to keep shoppers lingering among the endless bounty displayed on glittering shelves.
Anything for the soul! What will it be? Fruit? a cheerful voice called from a wicker basket. Please, help yourself!
Rows of glossy, oversized pomegranates glimmered beside plump cherries, begging to be popped into your mouth. Soft, velvety peaches, their skins like a babys cheek, were presented in elegant wooden crates. Pears of every variety stood proudly, while exotic bananas stretched from green to bright yellow. Crimson, almost burgundy apples glistened beside hanging bunches of honeygold grapes, beckoning: Buy, buy, just buy us!
Diana admired the displays, the southernsweet juices and berries. She drifted past the refrigerated aisles, where spotless glass doors revealed rows of bottles, cartons and tubs of milk, yoghurt, cream and cottage cheesedozens of brands, impossible to count.
She imagined scooping a spoonful of strawberry jam into a pot of creamy curd, or grabbing a slice of goats cheese, touted as healthy. Or perhaps a milkshake flavored like plum puddingonce a regular treat for her son at the old Burts Café down the road. Now she could just grab a readymade bottle and sip without waiting in line.
Thinking of Sam, her son, a pang of sadness tugged at her heart. He was eight then, the two of them laughing at a café table, him sipping a strawfilled milkshake that made a lazy, gurgling sound. Where was that Sam now? He was gone, and the café had been replaced by a sleek sushi bar on Victoria Streetsomething Diana knew nothing about, as she hurried past its glass frontage, trying not to stare.
Near the frozen food section, a couple argued over a pack:
Take it whole, its less ice! a middleaged woman in bright trousers shouted.
Her partner, a man about Sams age, shrugged and tossed a handful of strange red critterscrayfish, perhapsinto a bag.
The man was stocky, the opposite of Sams lanky frame. He had sandy hair and bright eyes, while Sam had dark hair and brown eyes. Their smiles were equally open. Diana couldnt help but ask, What are you getting?
Shrimps, the woman replied, glancing quickly at Diana, but you probably wont like them.
Why not? Diana pressed.
Have you ever tried crawfish? the man interjected. Theyre like tiny lobsters. Cook them with dill and theyre perfect with a pint.
Diana laughed, admitting shed never tasted crawfish.
Any lad can catch a few, the man said.
My familys all women nowdad died in the war, just mum and us three. No crawfish for us, the woman said, a hint of sadness in her voice.
The strangers sympathetic eyes drew Diana in, as if a hidden door had opened, inviting her into a warm, welcoming home away from the cold supermarket chill.
At last, the dam of silence broke. Diana began to speak, telling the man about her husbands death a year ago, how Sam had followed his father three months later, leaving her alone. Her daughterinlaw never visited, and she wasnt sure if her elderly mother was still alive. It was her birthday, and shed wanted to buy something tasty, but nothing appealed. She was eightyseven, from a tiny village called Dymley, where shed once watched German pilots bomb houses while her mother pulled her away from the window. She missed Sam terribly; the neighbours dog, Kolka, barked at her each night, while Sam never returned.
She hoped the pair would stay, just to listen. She hadnt had a proper conversation with anyone in ages.
