I’ve stopped cooking for my brother-in-law, who’d been living with us, rent-free
Where are the meat pies? I made an entire tray last night, at least twenty of them, Clara asked, staring in disbelief at the empty Pyrex on the middle shelf of the fridge.
I glanced at the man slouched at our kitchen table. Patrick, my wifes brother, poked at his teeth with a cocktail stick, his empty plate sitting in front of him, just a scattering of crumbs and a greasy streak of mayo left behind. He hadnt even bothered to pop his dishes in the sink, though he spent all day at home.
I ate them, he replied flatly, eyes glued to his mobile. Tasted good, really moist. Bit stingy with the salt though, so use a bit more next time. No side dish either had to make do with bread.
Claras irritation was practically visible. Shed finished a twelve-hour hospital shift only fifteen minutes earlier and was running on empty. All she wanted was a quick supper and sleep. Shed sacrificed two hours of her precious time yesterday to cook enough for everyone to last a couple of days. Shed hoped it would mean no cooking tonight.
Patrick, that was dinner for us all. For three days, Clara said, slow and measured to keep from shouting. There are three of us in the flat. Did you eat twenty pies in one day?
Whats so strange? Patrick looked up, genuinely puzzled, like a child. Im a big bloke, I need the calories. My body demands it. Not my fault you make portions so… diet-sized.
Diet-sized? Clara slammed the fridge, magnets clattering. Two kilos of mince is diet-sized? Do you understand how much money that costs? How much time I spent?
Oh, here we go, Patrick winced as if he had toothache. Dont be so tight. Foods just food. When Simon gets home, tell him to pick up some frozen stuff, since you cant be bothered. Im not fussy, Ill eat a pasty or something, as long as it isnt soy rubbish.
Clara left the kitchen without another word, needing to step away or risk a blazing row and she hated confrontation. She sat on the edge of our bed, her face buried in her hands.
Patrick had been living with us for three months now. Just temporary, Simon had said, when he turned up at ours with Patrick straight from the coach station. Patricks own story was vague: issues at work or perhaps rows with his wife back home in his northern town. Hed arrived in London to seek new opportunities. Those opportunities were elusive. Mostly, he sprawled on the lounge sofa, watched daytime telly, and fired off endless messages on Facebook. Job interviews? Rare as hens teeth because nothing decent offered yet, and hes not interested in slogging away for peanuts.
Simon, my wifes brother, felt guilty but helpless. What can I do, Clara? Hes family. I cant toss him on the street. Just bear with it, hell find a job, get a place and leave. Clara did her best to bear it. Shes a kind and practical woman, never mind an extra bowl of stew. But the situation had spun out of control.
That extra bowl became nothing less than full catering for a healthy forty-year-old man. Patrick didnt buy food. Not even a loaf of bread or box of tea bags. He reasoned that Simon, his brother, should feed him, and Simons wife ought to cook, naturally as it was womens business.
Later that evening, Simon got back from the engineering plant, looking drained and pale it was one hell of a busy season there.
Evening, love, he said, kissing Claras cheek. Anything to eat? Im starving.
Clara simply pointed at the bare worktop.
No, Simon. Theres nothing.
What? he frowned. Didnt you say you made those pies?
Your brother ate them. All of them. He polished off the leftover mash I did this morning, and the sausage I kept for breakfast. Weve got one jar of mustard and half a tub of margarine left.
Simon sighed, rubbing his temple.
Again? I did ask him to leave us some.
You asked? Clara folded her arms. Simon, asking means nothing. Were both working flat out, paying the mortgage, the bills, and now feeding a grown man who does absolutely nothing. I went through the budget last month our grocery bills shot up by half! Thats the winter boots money, by the way, that you said to hold off on.
Clara, dont get worked up. Ill talk to him. Honestly, this time. Shall I nip to Sainsburys for some bangers, make you pasta?
Clara looked at her husband, pity in her eyes. He was torn between family duty and loyalty to her. But pity isnt much help when someones started taking advantage.
No, she said firmly. I wont eat sausages. And I wont cook tonight, not anymore. Im done in. Im ordering something for myself. Chicken salad and breast. Want some?
Yes, please, Simon replied in defeat.
The moment the delivery arrived, Patrick appeared in the hallway, sniffing at the scent wafting from the brown paper bag.
Wow, feast tonight! He was all smiles. Thought it was too quiet in the kitchen. Home restaurant now? Good on you, sometimes you need a treat. What is it, pizza? Indian?
Clara simply took out two containers and two forks.
This is for me and Simon, she said, opening the lids.
Patricks smile slipped as he hovered in the doorway.
What about me?
Patrick, theres nothing for you, Clara said without meeting his eyes. You had your dinner. Twenty pies, I reckon thatll see you through to tomorrow.
Are you serious? He flashed a look at his brother. Simon, youll let your wife starve your own brother? One family, isnt it?
Simon hesitated with his fork mid-air, clearly uncomfortable.
Mate, you ate everything Clara made. Were hungry after work. We ordered portions for two of us.
You could have ordered for three, its not like youre skint! Patrick scoffed. Stingy, honestly. Cant even spare a meal for family. Fine, Ill have some tea. As long as thats not under lock and key.
He loudly poured himself tea, rattling his mug, and stormed off, slamming his door for effect.
That was a bit harsh, Simon murmured. Hes upset.
Let him be, Clara replied, just as quiet. Simon, Ive made up my mind. Im not cooking for three anymore. Just for you and me. Or maybe not at all we can grab food at work and snack at home. Im not here to play chef for your brother.
Clara, hows that supposed to work? We all live together. Are we meant to hide the pots?
No need to hide them. I just wont cook for him. If hes hungry, let him go to Tesco, buy his own food, and make his own meal. Hes got every limb and his wits intact.
Next morning, Clara got up early, made breakfast: exactly two cheese sandwiches and two cups of coffee. When Patrick finally lumbered in, yawning and scratching, there was nothing but crumbs on the table.
Wheres breakfast? he said, opening the empty fridge. There were eggs here, I saw them.
Yes, Clara said, finishing her coffee. Two eggs. I boiled them for Simon and myself.
Clara, whats this about? Patricks tone turned sour. Yesterday, fine, you lost your rag. But today? Am I supposed to go hungry?
Patrick, Clara started getting ready for work. Theres a Tesco round the corner. Opens at eight. Eggs are £2.80 a dozen. Butter, bread, ham all there. Hob works, frying pans in the bottom drawer. Bon appétit.
Ive got no money, Patrick muttered. Still job hunting.
Not my problem, Clara shot back. Youre a grown man. You live here rent free, dont pay the bills, use water, electricity, WiFi, laundry powder. Im not obliged to feed you as well.
Clara headed for work, leaving Patrick bewildered. He thought it was a passing mood, that shed calm down by evening. But that night brought a new surprise.
Clara came home with just her handbag instead of shopping bags bulging with food. Patrick was already waiting in the kitchen for dinner.
Alright, chef! he tried to soften the atmosphere. Im starving, absolutely famished. Whats on tonight? Stew? Curry?
Nothing, Clara replied. I had a bite at Costa with a friend after work. Simons eaten at his mums, went round to fix her tap.
Patricks face fell.
What about me?
What about you, Patrick? Hopefully, you found a job or at least some shift work. Warehouses, couriers, cab drivers loads of vacancies. You mightve pocketed enough for a microwave curry.
Are you having a laugh?! Patrick exploded, shooting up from his seat. Ive got a degree! Im an engineer! Im not doing menial labour!
Well, I suppose the engineer will go hungry, then, Clara shrugged and went off to the bathroom.
Half an hour later, Simons mum, Mrs. Knight, rang. Clara took a deep breath and answered.
Clara, dear, the older woman sounded worried Patrick called me… Says youre starving him? You wouldnt do that, would you? Hes your guest.
Mrs. Knight, Clara replied calmly Patricks no guest. Guests stay three nights and bring cake. Hes been here three months. He doesnt work, doesnt help round the house, eats us out of house and home. Simon and I are paying off our mortgage. We cant support another adult indefinitely.
Oh, it cant cost that much for one person! Just a bowl of soup… Mrs. Knight protested. Hes struggling, needs support. Youre a woman, you should be gentler, wiser.
Mrs. Knight, I do twelve-hour shifts on my feet. Im too exhausted to be a wise and gentle cook for someone who wont lift a finger. If youre worried, send him some money. Or have him move in with you.
Mrs. Knight fell silent, said a curt goodbye, and hung up. She clearly didnt want Patrick on her doorstep she knew what he was like. Easier to love her son from afar, and dish out lectures to her daughter-in-law.
A week passed. Tension in the flat reached breaking point. Clara held firm. She shopped for one meal at a time, made just two portions, and labelled anything left in the fridge Simons Lunch or Claras Dinner.
Patrick was furious. He tried guilt-tripping, shouting, accusing Clara of being cold. He moaned to Simon, but, seeing Claras resolve (and frankly sick of the freeloader himself), Simon just said, Patrick, shes right. Get a job. Any job.
One evening, Clara returned to find chaos in the kitchen dirty dishes piled high, oil splashed over the hob, spilled flour everywhere. In the middle of the table, a battered frying pan with some burnt, shapeless mass.
What happened here? she asked, stepping over a puddle of grease.
Patrick emerged, chewing a piece of bread.
Needed to eat, since youre on strike, he snapped. Found some flour and eggs. Tried to make pancakes. All burned, your pans rubbish, the coatings dodgy.
Clara inspected the hob. Her best non-stick pan was utterly ruined hed clearly scraped at it with metal, trying to hack off burnt batter.
Youve wrecked my pan, Clara said quietly. Used up the last eggs. And left an almighty mess. Whos meant to tidy this?
You can clean it, wont kill you! Patrick yelled. Driven a man to starvation, now its about a pan!
Just then, Simon stepped in from the hall, hearing the shouting. He didnt raise his voice, but the look on his face stopped Patrick cold.
Patrick, watch how you speak to my wife.
What else is she doing?! Patrick shrieked. She wont feed me, now shes on about cleaning!
Start packing, Simon said.
What?! Patrick looked gobsmacked. Youre kicking me out? For a pan?
For disrespect. And for sponging off us. I managed when you were just loafing on the sofa, but shouting at Clara in my own house isnt happening. She grafts like mad, and you cant even wash up.
Where am I supposed to go?! Its already dark!
Its only seven. Buses to mums run till ten. Ill give you fare. Pack up.
Ill ring mum! Patrick threatened, pulling out his phone.
Go ahead, Simon replied dryly. She can welcome you. Or she can come and mop up your mess herself.
Patrick finally twigged that his bluff had failed. Simon, whom hed always managed to manipulate, had turned into granite. Clearly, Claras influence ran deep or simply, Simon had had enough.
Packing was noisy. Patrick threw stuff into his holdall, slammed cupboard doors, cursed under his breath. He shouted that hed never set foot in our flat again, that Simon was henpecked, and Clara was a witch breaking up families.
You can buy a new pan! he yelled from the porch, pulling his boots on. When you grow a conscience!
Weve got a clear conscience, Clara retorted, handing him the bag hed left in the bathroom. Just make sure you shut the door and leave the keys.
When the door finally banged shut behind Patrick, the silence in the flat was beautiful. Even the walls seemed to sigh with relief. The stench of cheap tobacco (Patrick smoked on the balcony, but it always drifted in), the ever-present tension gone.
Clara looked at Simon, who was sitting on the hallway bench, head down.
Sorry, Clara, Simon said, voice heavy. I shouldve done it sooner. I just kept hoping…
Its alright, she hugged him. The important bit is its over. You did the right thing.
Mum will sulk, for ages.
Well cope. Shell grumble and forgive in the end. But now our flat is our home again, not a hostel.
We went to the kitchen. Together, we tackled the mountain of dishes, scrubbed the hob and the floor. The ruined pan went in the bin a little sad, but also a symbol of our new freedom.
Are you hungry? Clara asked, once the kitchen shone again.
Absolutely but Ive got no energy for cooking.
How about we fry some potatoes? Just plain fried spuds with onion, in the old cast-iron pan your grandmother left us indestructible!
Yes! Simons eyes lit up. And well open the pickled onions.
We ate after ten, and somehow, that simple meal tasted like the best food in the world. We laughed, chatted about little things, made weekend plans. For the first time in months, we were alone together. Bliss.
Patrick really did move in with his mum. After a few days, Mrs. Knight called Simon and grumbled about how Patrick was deeply depressed after his brothers betrayal, lying about in his old room, regaining his spark. Clara just smirked regaining his spark meant he was now eating his way through his mums pension. But that was Mrs. Knights choice.
About a month later, word got round that Mrs. Knight had given Patrick an earful after seeing the grocery bill and noticing all her food vanishing into his bottomless pit. Turns out, supporting a grown son on your pension is tougher than dishing out phone advice to the daughter-in-law. In the end, Patrick had to find work as a supermarket security guard. Not exactly management material, but enough to afford a meal.
Clara bought a new pan top-quality, thick-bottomed. Every time she cooks for Simon now, shes glad the food goes just to the two of them. A lesson well learned: helping family is noble, but only up to the point where its not enabling laziness. You have to keep your kitchen just like your life tidy and free of hangers-on.
Tonight, frying those potatoes in our new pan, I realised that sometimes being firm is the kindest thing you can do for yourself, and for the ones you love.
