A Daughters Fortune
Getting Emily married was an uphill battle. She should have long ago! Her biological clock wasnt just tickingit whirled madly, its painted numerals practically melting, creaking and groaning like Emilys mothers endless sighs.
Emily, do you understand? I need grandchildren! I want the house bursting with laughter, the bathroom queue stretching down the hall, every hob on the stove bubbling awayporridge for the children, eggs for your husband, and me brewing coffee Thats the meaning of life! declared Margaret Williams, her mother, peering over her glasses.
Mum! Do you want me to marry the first stranger I meet just so you can have company fighting for the sink? I dont have time, and its ridiculous. Where am I supposed to meet anyone? Im at the office till seven, running around like a hamster in a wheel. I dont talk to anyone on the bus, I dont go to the cinema or anywhere else! Honestly, at least do something useful for once! retorted Emily, rearranging tea cups and moving the cheese on its plate before checking the teapotcold already.
Couldnt they have breakfast once, just once, like two grown women, without nagging, explanations that nobody really cared about? Was that so much to ask?
Apparently, yes.
Emilys grandfather George shuffled into the kitchen. Recently widowed and defeated by grief, Margaret had brought him from his cottage to live in her London flat.
Granddad was mostly quiet, spent hours nursing a cup of tea by the open window, sighing late into the night.
Its hard, darling, settling in here. I just cant. Take me back, he grumbled, but Margaret would have none of it.
Its easier if youre here, Papa, where I can keep an eye on you. I cant drive to Bletchley all the time! What if something happens? No, youre staying with us! she insisted, confiscating Georges cigarettes. Doctors orders, remember? Right, no time for chatIm off to work!
And shed leave. Granddad would see her and Emily off, then slump by the window again.
Margaret was a single motherno husband to tend to, just her daughter and old father.
Twice Emily had tried to move out, to live independently, but something always happenedher mother would have a crisis, fall ill, and Emily would rush home.
Thank goodness, at least Margarets ex left her the three-bedroom flat. Hed let her keep everything and walked out with a suitcasea rare act of chivalry.
Once Margaret accepted that Emily wouldnt simply fulfil her wisheshad no intention of carrying on the family name or Margarets delicate peace of mindshe took matters into her own hands.
Why not, Dad? she reasoned with her father. People still have matchmakers these daysIll find one to recommend a nice man, and the rest will be easy!
George Williams, sitting on a stool by the window with his crossword, dropped his pencil, stooped under the table, fiddled with the frayed cloth, then peered at his daughter.
Margaret, you sound like youre breeding livestock, not arranging Emilys future! Matchmakers? Deals? Leave the girl be, for heavens sake! Or if youre so free, come help dig potatoes at the neighbours. Marthas crops huge, she needs hands. Youll be so tired youll forget about matchmaking. Coming?
Dad! Emily, by the way, is your only granddaughter. Dont you care what her lifes like? Dont you? Margarets voice shot up to a squeak, dissolving into coughs as George poured her some water.
After drinking, she was right back at it: Will the Williams name end here, then? Emilys almost forty!
In ten years, Granddad clarified.
That isnt far off! Look, the Parkers have grandkids in sixth form already, remember the Harrisons? Their eldest is expecting! Everybodys moving forwardexcept us. Its embarrassing just to go to the bakery. Gail, the shopkeeper, who sold bread to Emily when she was six, keeps asking when the wedding is. What am I supposed to say? Just wave her off and
Tell her its no business of hers! George snapped. Shopkeepers poking into others lives! Dont buy her buns then. Ill not touch them again!
He pushed away his plate of warm Chelsea buns and turned away.
Eat, Dad! I know you love them. But Gails right, we do need to get a move on, Margaret said, biting into one thoughtfully, already plotting how shed find this matchmaker
Margaret got the tip from Linda, the canteen cook at her office.
You want Mrs Beattie, no one else! Linda nodded solemnly.
Is she a professional? Margaret eyed her glasses.
She only trusted professionalspeople with certificates and titles. If a dentist, then from a top-notch hospital. For Emily, only a piano tutor from a conservatoire, though shed had to settle for Mrs Clark, a retired teacher from next door, whose school diploma had long gone missing. Even plumbers must be certifiednot your Uncle Mike down the pub!
So the matchmaker had to be the real deal.
Linda adjusted her cap. She wasnt taught, no, but shes got experience. She used to work on health boards tooknows all about peoples medical bits, which is handy.
Medical concerns matter, absolutely. I wouldnt want Emily lumped with some invalid! Margaret made notes and excused herself.
Youve not had your dessert, Mrs Williams! piped up Maisie, a young waitress, nearly slipping on a wet patch as she hurried after her.
No time for stewed fruit, thank you, Maisie. Im arranging my daughters lifemore pressing than pudding! Margaret swept away.
Mrs Beattie greeted Margaret with a shrewd squint, seemingly slightly tipsy.
Im Margaret Williams, we arranged to meet today? Margaret said by the door.
Of course! You bring the goods, I bring the buyer! Mrs Beattie scrutinised her, fussing with her tired house robe.
Yes, thats so, wheres your filing system? Where do we look at potentials? Margaret rolled up her sleeves as if about to milk a cow.
She expected shelves loaded with personal files, polaroids of eligible gentlemenmaybe even summaries of earnings and family medical histories. Instead, she found a very ordinary room: a round table with a velvet cloth worn shiny on the corners, sideboard with glasses and porcelain, a bookcase by the window, and an old upright piano sporting plaster busts. Emily had smashed one as a little girlMozart, perhaps?
By the door sat a battered desk with a green-shaded lamp and a cluster of dog-eared books. A faded rug gathered dust in all the corners.
So where do I sit? Margaret asked, catching Mrs Beatties measuring look.
Right here at the table. Do come along, dear, lets get on! the matchmaker beamed, bustling Margaret into a seat.
Mrs Beattie quizzed her thoroughly: where did Emily study? What does she wear, even down to her stockings? Where does she shop, whats her role at work, how does she spend her evenings and weekends, has she got a cottage, does she read, like music?
Emily plays piano beautifully, does concerts at the Barbican sometimes. We had to sell our upright, sadly, after the divorce Margaret shrugged.
You sold it? Are you that hard up? Mrs Beattie frowned.
No! My ex left the flat but I gave him some money as compensation, so a few things had to go. But Emily still plays, she never forgot. Are there music lovers in your files? That would be marvellousevery mother wants the best, eh?
Yes, yes Mrs Beattie grew somber. But is your daughter interested in marriage?
In what? Margaret blanched.
In a wedding, of course! All my bachelors are serious; I wont waste my time otherwise! Mrs Beattie snapped, suddenly agitated. I spend hours persuading, talking, and what for? The new generation shuns family life! Always rushing, building, competing, at the end of the day they sit in silence, miserable, wallowing in loneliness, then dash out, pretending to be independent and business-like while running from happiness! Is that what you think is right? Grown men living with their mothers, bellies out, mustaches full-grown, too busy to marry! Its a catastrophea living hell! And its womens fault! Mrs Beattie dabbed her eyes with a tissue.
Margaret paled.
Dont blame the women! Men keep themselves distant! My Emilys so accomplished, clever, gentle, kindshe loves children, maybe a bit shy And yes, Im divorced, I
Yes, you sold the piano for your ex Silly thing to do.
We split quietly, amicably, but Emily she feels things deeply. Perhaps shes scared her husband will leave her, too, like her father did. I was so hurt, so hurt, Margaret choked up; tears pricked her freshly-powdered cheeks.
Here, take a tissue, dont cry, Mrs Beattie offered, then suddenly slapped the table. We mustnt let our families end hereno matter the times, we deserve the joy of grandchildren and our childrens happiness. All right?
All right Margaret shivered, longing for a shawl and a hot cuppa.
Lets get to it! Mrs Beattie bustled around. And youhows your own life? she asked abruptly.
Me? Oh, its not about me, Emily Margaret floundered.
Fine. Here, take a look Mrs Beattie slid over a black-and-white photo. Simon. Senior manager, well respected. Kindly, attentive. Makes splendid jamwant to try some?
Pardon?
Jam! Ive got a jar left!
Soon they were sharing tea and little dishes of jam, laughing, and Mrs Beattie burst into an old folk song about a mother bathing little feet in a gentle stream, a tabby basking in the sun, birch woods, and a hopeful lover striding down the lane.
Margaret dabbed another tear.
Youre a good woman, Mrs Beattie. Will it work, you think?
Mrs Beattie nodded.
***
Im telling you, those numbers are impossible! Youll only push peopleeveryones at their limit already! Emily asserted, standing over her manager during the Monday meeting.
Whats that supposed to mean, Emily Williams? It means it must be done. Discussion over. Mr Dawson leapt to his feet, but Emily didnt flinch.
Im telling you: by months end, youll have hundreds of resignationsmine included! She squared her shoulders, spun on her heel, and left.
She had a lot to dopick up cakes from the patisserie for her mum, fetch boots from the cobbler, get granddads medicine. Where was the prescription?
She fumbled in her bagsigh of relief when she found it, or thered be a scene from George
And heading off early, are you, Miss Williams? It was Mr Dawson at reception again. Why did he always pick on her?
I cleared it with you, sir. Im popping to the chemist! Emily flashed her pass, breezing past the cheerful doorman.
Ten oclock meeting in my office tomorrow, mind! she heard as she left. She waved a hand in response.
Shops were all busyat the pharmacy, on the bus, even the posh patisserie. But her mum wanted only these: berry tarts with whipped cream.
Back again, are we? Emily jumped at the familiar voice.
You? What are you doing here? she snapped. Shouldnt you be drowning in paperwork?
I had errands myselfMum asked me to help her friend with her telly. I trained as an engineer, actually AnywayOi! Save me those tarts, please, I really need them! he called, but the assistant had already boxed them up for Emily.
Sorryshe paid first, shrugged the shopgirl. You can have these blueberry ones.
Dawson sighed. Emily Williamsalways one step ahead! Soon shed have his job
You eat too many sweets, you know! And I thought you were off to the chemist, he said, holding the door for her. Off for a visit, are we?
Thats none of your business! Excuse me. Emily strode past, and he diverted down an alleyway, half relieved they werent headed in the same direction
Back home, Margaret was battling Granddad George, trying to swap his tatty tracksuit for pressed trousers, a smart shirt, maybe even a tie.
Why, Maggie? Im fine! he grumbled, trying to finish his crossword.
Please, Dad! We need to make a good impression. Cant we just try? she whined.
No. I dont have to impress anybody. And put those trousers awaytheyll do for my funeral one day, until then, let them hang!
Honestly, Dad! Were expecting a guest and I just want Margaret trailed off.
You want. You look lovely, Maggie, thinner even! Where are the chess pieces? Do your guests play chess?
How should I know?! Thats not the pointDad!
But George had already shuffled off to the airing cupboard, rummaging among battered pans for the chess set, then called, Found them! A quick game before dinner, Maggie?
But his daughter had vanished to the kitchen, flustered
Emily made it home just in time, gave granddad his medicine, then sat, breathless, on the shoe bench.
Tired, are we, dragonfly? George teased. Margaret! Emilys brought your precious tarts. Oh Emily, your mothers been at me all afternoon! Wouldnt let me open the sardinessaid they stank. Whos visiting, anyway?
Emily shrugged.
Must be some friend. Dont worry, grandpa. She hugged George, then followed him in to set up the chessboard. Shall we play?
Before they could start, Margaret dashed in. Emily! Im so behind. Please slice the sausage, darling. Youre paleuse a bit of rouge. And, for heavens sake, stop biting your nails!
Granddad rolled his eyes, slapped the board: Stop fussing, Maggie! Whos coming, tell us!
Never mind. Just help out in the kitchen, Emily.
The women disappeared, George pushed the chess away, stared gloomily out the window. What was Margaret up to this time? Poor girl, always getting things muddled. Maybe it was for the best hed moved inhe could at least keep an eye on things now.
He was sent to answer the door.
Straightening his tie and combing his thinning hair, he swung the door wide, tried hard to click his heelsouch, not in slippers! Welcome to our home! he announced to the man with a box. George Williams, Emilys granddad. And you are?
From the kitchen, Emily and Margaret heard footsteps and laughter.
Margaret leapt up, beaming. Oh, hello! So glad you could come! Im Margaret, this is my daughter, Emily. Emily, take the box, deardont let him stand about awkwardly! Thank you so much for the lovely treat. Well sit down and eateveryones starving after work! Emily, do help!
Good evening, Miss Williams, said Dawson, smirking.
Emily nodded and turned away.
You know each other? Margaret hesitated.
We work together. So your telly isnt broken then, is it, Miss Williams? Dawson put the blueberry tarts on the table, accidentally knocking over the salt.
George wincedspilled salt, an omen of rows.
You work together? Emilys your boss? Margaret gasped. The telly does act up at times
Lets see, then! Believe me, if my mother didnt beg me to help an old friendthat would be you, Mrs WilliamsId never bother with these gatherings! Dawson didnt quite know why he was irritable. Pity for poor George, fear of looking at Emily.
Coincidence, thats all. Or was it Emilys fault?
So, wheres the telly? No, I dont want supper! he snapped.
In granddads room Emily said quietly. Its not what you think, Mr Dawson! If Id known, Id neverMum, honestly!
Sure, sure! Cant even fix a set, how could I run a whole department, eh, Miss Williams? he sneered, following George.
Emily, love, wait in the kitchen, will you? Well sort it here, granddad muttered, blocking her from following.
Dawson fiddled with the TV, switching it on and off, George handing him tools. Needs a proper cleanhoover, really he muttered.
Right-o! George dashed off, perhaps hoping repairs would distract from all the shouting today.
Margaret scowled at the restless silence, then snatched up the phone.
Mrs Beattie? Margaret Williams here. What is going on? Theyre fighting, for heavens sakethey work together! Dont defend yourselfI didnt sign up for this! His manners are appalling and hes definitely not attractive. What, your son? Whats your son got to do with this? Oh, for pitys sake, you lied to me? No, dont come rounditll only make things worse! Margaret slammed down the receiver.
Emily looked at her mother, sadness and fatigue etched in her face.
Mum, I dont want to get marriedI dont want things to end up like you and Dad. Living together, then splitting up, selling my piano, and never telling me why.
Margaret opened her mouth, but Emily shook her head.
Theres no point saying anything now. Im an adult, I understand. Dads got a new wife. Youve got me. Youve carried me all your life, and now you want to carry my happiness too, but I dont need it, Mum.
Margaret tried to speak, but Emily drifted to the dining room, helped herself to salad and sausage, and began to eat quietly. After all, she was still hungry.
Margaret watched her across the table
The doorbell rang. Emily went to answer.
Evening! You must be Emily. Whats with all the fuss about my boy? Youll not find a friendlier soul! Ohare you that Emily? The one always arguing with him at work? Well, small world!
George listened, shoulders hunched. Theyd spilled enough salt for a lifetime of rows tonight.
My Simons not been sleeping, barely eatshes wasting away! Youve driven him to the edge! Mrs Williams, if Id known she Mrs Beattie pointed accusingly at Emily, if Id known it was her, Id never have trusted you with my son!
Whats that got to do with it? Youre a matchmaker; its your job! If hes the only candidate just because hes your son, you only recommended him when you heard how wonderful Emily is? Where are the others, then?
There are no others! And Im no matchmakernot really! Linda from the canteen suggested I help because youre searching, and I just thought
Linda? Of courseLinda
They bickered a little, not with real venom, and eventually agreed to blame Linda. In the end, they were almost laughinglike two quarrelling cats.
Meanwhile, Emily felt a gentle tug on her sleeve.
Shall we get some fresh air? Simon murmured in her ear. Lets leave them to it, George can keep an eye on things. Mum, please
Margaret and Mrs Beattie watched from the bay window as their children walked outside, talking quietly as twilight set in.
The women both sighedMargaret couldnt say whether it was with resignation or relief, and George didnt ask.
So are we eating, or what? Didnt put this shirt on for nothing! George grumbled, heaping cold chicken onto his plate. You women do muddle things up. Should have engineered a chance meeting, not all this fuss. Now Simon will probably fire my Emily. Thats that!
He wont. God willing, itll all work out Mrs Beattie murmured.
We only wanted whats best
***
So whats the story with the piano? Simon asked as they walked along the street. Miss Williams, you know, its funnyour mums trying to marry us off!
What? Emily stopped short.
You havent noticed? My mother spends half her life sending me to her friends for odd jobsthen out pops their daughter, granddaughter, or neighbour. Once I was made to meet an elderly lady. Mum pretends its all a coincidence, but I always call her out for it. Simon grinned.
Why go? Cant you find your own wife? Or do you secretly hope? Emily quipped, claws out.
I go for the sake of their broken appliances. And Im not looking for a wife.
Confirmed bachelor? A matter of principle? Emily sneered lightly.
No. I already found one. Two years ago, said Simon softly.
Then why not marry her? Oh! Youre for modern arrangements then? How convenient.
Im for family. But I cant drag her to the altar by force. She hates me. Still, it happens
Simon picked up the pace, striding ahead so Emily nearly had to jog.
Simon Williams! Wait! I cant keep up. Please, wait Emilys voice suddenly grew smalllike a frightened girls.
Simon turned just as a stocky English bulldog with an immense square head stepped from the hedge, muscles rippling. It stopped them in their tracks, giving only the faintest growl.
Im afraid of dogs, Emily whispered, fists at her chest.
So am I, Simon admitted, whistled; the dog tilted its head, then, after a long thoughtful sigh, slunk back into the bushes.
Emily hurried to Simons side.
Thank you! she whispered, still glancing back.
Youre welcome. A true act of heroism, dont you think? Youll have to marry me for that. He grinned. Want a sweet? From his pocket he produced two boiled sweets in cellophane.
Emily flushed. Could it be that simple? Take a sweet, walk down the aisle?
***
When they came home, the elders were already enjoying themselves. George spun stories; the women giggled; on the table, berry and cream pastries gleamed under the light.
Emily, some chicken? You both look famished! Margaret offered kindly.
Simon, sit down, do. Forgive me, son, Mrs Beattie whispered.
Whats the point wasting time staring? Dig in! George declared, adjusting his cuffs, standing a little straighterit was an occasion, after all.
***
Six months later Emily and Simon were married. They no longer argued at work, grumbled only sometimes at home, made jam in the summer, and took ski trips in the winter.
Margaret and Mrs Beattie became true friends: museums, theatre, park walkssometimes even dragging George along, who treated the ladies to ice cream and boat rides. Occasionally, the topic of grandchildren came up, but George would always hush them up.
Linda down at the office canteen, meanwhile, boasts shes the real reason for everyones happinessdidnt she set it all in motion? And that bulldog, that was hers; shed spent hours chasing him that evening.
And you think shes just a canteen cook? Shes a love-matching cherub in disguise, white hat and all. Not that anyones ever thanked her. Funny old world, eh?
