22May
I still cant shake the feeling that today was a turning point. We set off early, Stephen promising a proper weekend barbecue at my motherinlaws cottage. The boot was packed with three sodden sacks of seed potatoes and an old, gasolinescented rotavator that seemed to fill the whole car with fumes.
I gave Stephen a sharp glance as he clutched the steering wheel like a Formula1 driver, his knuckles white on the cheap family hatchback rumbling over a potholed country lane. Stephen, were supposed to be grilling, not hauling a farmequipment showroom, I said, trying to keep the edge out of my voice.
He chuckled, nudged the accelerator a little and swerved around a fresh spring puddle. Love, dont start. Mum just asked us to bring the potatoes. Shell be digging them herself, thats what she likes. Well unload, set up the grill, cook the meat Ive marinated with onion and kefir just the way you like it, and then we can sit back and listen to the birds.
Outside the window the landscape was a bleak stretch of grey fields, still slick from the winter melt, with crumbling fences belonging to the local Energy allotment association and a sky heavy with lowhanging clouds. A bad feeling settled in my stomach. I know my motherinlaw, Ethel Pritchard, far too well. For her, the word rest is an insult, and the sight of anyone idle makes her grind her teeth with a pain that feels like a bad back spasm.
The cottage greeted us with a barking neighbours dog and the musty smell of rotting leaves. At the gate, leaning on the handle of a spade as if it were a staff, stood Ethel herself. She wore faded jogging pants with frayed knees, a threadbare jacket tied with a rope, and sturdy gumboots over woollen socks. Her demeanor was that of a general ready for battle.
Finally! she shouted, throwing the squeaky gates wide. I thought youd only show up for lunch. The suns high, the earths drying, and the rest of you are still sleeping! Park the car by the shed thats where its easiest to unload.
Stephen obeyed, shuffling the car into the driveway. I stepped out, shivering in the damp wind, dressed in lightwash jeans, new white trainers and a thin windbreaker. My hair was neatly brushed, my nails painted a fresh French rose a little treat Id bought for the May holidays.
Good morning, Ethel, I said politely, pulling a shopping bag from the boot. How are you feeling?
She scanned me with a look that mixed pity and contempt, lingering a moment on my trainers. As well as my age allows, she muttered. And you, Poppy, look like youve stepped off a parade float. This isnt a runway, love, its work. Grab the old boots and my husbands army jacket from the shed before you get dirty.
Why? I asked, genuinely puzzled. We only came to grill and enjoy the fresh air. Ill stay by the barbecue its clean enough for me.
Ethel let out a sound like an angry duck. What barbecue? What fresh air? Its May! The day is for work! Six acres of land here are untouched, the potatoes have sprouted eyes five centimetres long they need planting now! Our neighbour Veras already done hers, and here we are, dragging our heels. Stephen, fetch the spade; you, Poppy, change into something suitable and start breaking up the clods. Then youll dig the holes.
Stephen, already unloading the potatoes, looked guilty as he glanced at me. He could see the storm brewing and tried to shield me with his shoulders. Mum, we agreed wed rest Weve had a tough week at work, he murmured.
Youll rest in the afterlife! Ethel snapped. While youre alive, the soil must be tended. Potatoes wont plant themselves, and you dont want to starve this winter, do you? Storebought veg is full of chemicals; ours is natural, nonGMO!
She thrust a spade into my husbands hands and flung a rusty rake at me. Off you go. Ill mark out the carrot rows.
Stephen sighed heavily, slipped off his jacket and padded over to the garden in a plain tee. Hed learned long ago to give in to his motherinlaws pressure easier to act than to endure a week of lectures.
I stayed by the car, watching the rake lie next to my white trainers, watching Stephen plunge the spades blade into the damp earth, and watching Ethel, hawkeyed, overseeing everything. Something clicked inside me. Five years of trying to be the perfect daughterinlaw, ferrying Ethel to doctors, gifting her kitchen gadgets, enduring endless advice on how to make borscht and iron shirts, even braving the cottages wasps despite my allergy all of it finally snapped.
Yesterday Id been at the office until nine, desperate for a quiet evening by the fire. Id booked a manicure just to feel like a woman, not a workhorse. And now, faced with this endless digging, I realised I could no longer play the role she expected.
No, I said loudly, my voice echoing across the garden.
Stephen froze, spade still in the dirt. Ethel turned slowly, eyebrows arching as if she might vanish behind her veil.
What did you say? she asked, disbelief in her tone.
I said no, Ethel. I wont dig. I wont break up the clods. I wont make holes. I came here to rest. I lifted my chin. Stephen will help because he promised, not because you forced a change of plans. As for me, Im just a guest.
Youre mad! Ethel shouted, her voice cracking like a breaking twig. The whole family works, and you think youll just sit around? Afraid to get your hands dirty?
Exactly, I replied calmly. I spent three thousand pounds on this manicure. My back is sore enough as it is. If you want potatoes, we can buy you ten bags in the autumn the best, washed, eyefree. Cheaper than a surgeons bill for a slipped disc later.
Buy?! she shrieked, as if the very idea were blasphemy. Its our own! Labour ennobles! Are you lazy? A handmaid? Youve sold my son into slavery and now you sit on a throne?
Im a senior accountant, I said, and I earn more than your son, so Im not hanging around your neck. As for slavery, Stephen is an adult; he chooses what to do. If he wants to dig, let him. Ill read a book.
I unpacked a folding camping chair, a blanket and a novel from the boot, then strutted past the stunned Ethel, claimed the only sunny patch of grass not covered by rows, and settled comfortably. I slipped on sunglasses, opened the romance, and let the story pull me away.
Silence fell over the garden, broken only by Ethels heavy, wheezing breaths.
Stephen! she finally roared. Did you hear what your wife is saying? Are you a man or a wimp? Order her to work!
Stephen wiped the sweat from his forehead, looked at me with a mixture of resignation and admiration, then at his mother, fury blazing in her eyes. Mum, shes exhausted Let me do it. Itll take me only a few hours just three acres of potatoes.
Three? Six! I cleared the area behind the shed! Dig! she barked. When Im done with this queen Ill give her a rest shell never forget.
The work escalated. Stephen, grunting, turned over clumps of earth. Ethel, forgetting any back pain, flailed about like a woman stung by a wasp, thrusting potatoes into the soil with the fury of a battlefield commander, shouting at the top of her lungs so the neighbours could hear: Oh, my son, how hard it is for you! Youve got a lazy wife, dont you? Look at the Pritchards daughterinlaw she drives a tractor, milks a cow, while ours is just a city girl! Tsk!
I turned a page, unmoved, feeling an odd lightness. Saying no had a magic of its own it freed me. The sun warmed my back, birds sang, and Ethels rant became background noise, like static on a radio.
Two hours later Stephen was drenched, his shirt soaked through, his face flushed. He glanced enviously at me as I sipped mineral water from a pretty bottle. Stephen, a smoke break! Ethel commanded. Go have a compote. Im on the veranda.
He shuffled back to the house. I stayed in the chair, watching Ethel step onto the porch with a mug, deliberately turning away from me. Mum, does Poppy want a drink? Stephen asked quietly.
She has her own supplies, Ethel replied loudly. Shes independent. Let her drink pond water if she refuses work. No work, no food! As Lenin once said!
I smiled to myself. Id anticipated this, so my bag also contained sandwiches, fruit and a thermos of coffee. I bit into an apple, the crunch echoing my relief.
Later, neighbour Valentina Val Hughes leaned over the fence. Good day, Ethel! Planting, I see? God bless! Why is Stephen all by himself? Wheres the young one? Sick?
Ethel straightened, clutching her lower back. Val, dont ask! My grief is my own, not my daughterinlaws. Shes sunbathing! Her manicure saves her! Were tearing our veins to feed the family, and she reads books. Shame!
Val gave me a skeptical look. Really? Shes just sitting there. I thought the youth today would help. In our day
I called out cheerfully, Lovely weather, isnt it? You havent planted potatoes this year? I heard you sowed a lawn? Very European of you!
Val blushed, admitting shed let Uzbek workers tend her plot this year, planting flowers because the children forbade her hard labour. Its my health isnt what it used to be, she muttered.
Im looking after my health too! I replied. I even suggested Ethel hire a rotavator or buy readymade seedlings, but shes a heroine who needs a miracle!
Ethels face turned a shade of crimson. Her public shaming of me backfired.
Go away, Val, dont disturb the work! she shouted. And you, Stephen, stop standing around like a post! Three more rows to go!
By four oclock the battlefield of soil was ploughed and seeded. Stephen looked as though a roller had run over him; his hands trembled, his legs gave way. He collapsed onto a bench by the house and closed his eyes.
Now thats more like it, Ethel said, rubbing her hands despite her own fatigue. Ill heat the bath, youll wash, then well have a soup made from nettles.
Soup? We wanted barbecued meat Stephen murmured.
Forget the meat! Its bad for you at night. Nettle soup is full of vitamins. Who will tend the grill? Youre halfdead, and I cant trust you not to set the house on fire.
I folded my book, stood, feeling refreshed and impeccably put together. Stephen, lets go, I said. Were heading home.
Where to? Ethel shouted, flustered. Ive already laid the blankets! Tomorrow we still need to thin the carrots and plant the strawberries!
Stephen wont get up tomorrow, I observed, eyeing his sore back. If we dont leave now and I dont apply a proper ointment, he wont be fit for work on Monday and no one will cover his sick pay. And we still have to pay your mortgage, Ethel, for the roof repairs.
How dare you tell me what to do! she snapped. Hell stay! Son, say something!
Stephen opened his eyes, looking at his grimy hands, his reddened face, his furious mother, and his calm, perfumescented wife. Mum, I really cant, he croaked. My back hurts. Lets go.
Traitor! she spat. A henpecked wretch! Youve swapped your mother for this painted doll! Let your legs stay here! No potatoes in winter!
I smiled. All the best, Ethel. Take care of yourself.
I slipped into the drivers seat because Stephen was unable to drive. He managed to climb into the passenger seat, wincing at every bump. The road back to town was quiet; Stephen stared out the window, I held the wheel firmly, the radio playing softly.
Youre now my number one enemy, Stephen finally said as we crossed the town limits.
I know, I replied calmly. At least I got my rest. How are you feeling?
He rubbed his lower back. Like an idiot. Do you have that snakebite ointment?
Its at home, I said. Well put it on later.
I was right, wasnt I? he sighed. Why did we even bring those potatoes? The petrol cost us a fortune, the meat wed marinated is now wasted. A sack of potatoes in autumn will cost about £5. We burnt through twothousand pounds worth of fuel today.
The meat wont go to waste, I winked. Well grill it on the electric grill at home. As for the potatoes your mum doesnt need them. She wants your obedience, her sense of power. While you dig, shes the commander. When you stop, shell just be an old lady with nothing to do.
Its harsh, he said.
But true. Next time she calls about the cottage, you can tell her were busy, or that Im allergic to shovels. Deal?
He exhaled, a hint of relief in his breath. Deal. I wont go back there again. Let it go to the devil.
At home I turned the kitchen into a makeshift infirmary: a hot bath, a massage with the ointment, a decent dinner (we finally grilled the meat). Stephen lounged on the sofa, full and content, looking at me with admiration.
Youre amazing, Poppy. I could never just sit and read while Mum shouts.
Its a habit, love. The important thing is to start.
A week later Stephens phone rang off the hook. Ethel called daily, whining about the selfless daughterinlaw who left her to die in the garden. A distant cousin tried to lecture me on family values, only to be politely blocked.
In August Ethel called herself, voice oddly soft and a bit sycophantic. Poppy, hello. Its mum.
Good morning, Ethel. Everything alright?
Its Stephen isnt answering; hes probably at work. We need to dig the potatoes. The harvest looks good, big. When will you be here?
I glanced at my bright scarlet manicure and smiled. Sorry, Ethel, were off to Turkey this weekend. A hotweather package, cant pass that up.
Turkey?! Ethels voice hardened, metallic. What about the potatoes? Theyll rot! I cant dig them alone! My blood pressure!
You said it yourself its our own, natural stuff that gives strength. If youre serious, hire some workers or ask a neighbour for a share of the yield. Well buy you a bag in winter. Egyptian potatoes are delicious.
Go to hell! she screamed before the line clicked dead.
I set the phone down, packed my suitcase, and watched Stephen enter the room in his beach shorts. Who called?
Mum. She wants us to excavate ancient potatoes.
What did you say?
That we chose an allinclusive holiday over an allexclusive garden.
We both laughed, and he pulled me into a hug. I love you. And your attitude.
I love you too. By the way, Ive blocked your mum for the duration of the holiday. Better for everyones karma.
In autumn we learned that Ethel eventually dug the potatoes herself, out of principle. She then spent a month in hospital with a hypertensive crisis, and Stephen had to spend on medication an amount that could have bought a truckload of premium potatoes. That was her choice.
I remain, in her eyes, the number one enemy, the lazy one, the separator. It doesnt bother me. I have healthy nerves, a fine back, and a husband who finally understands that family means looking after each other, not just the garden.
