Mother-in-laws Meatballs
So, you know how James and Claire have been together for three and a half years? And in all that time Claire had visited his mums house, what, four times? Tops. Usually only on big occasionsChristmas, maybe the odd birthdayand then right back to London.
But then, out of nowhere, James starts going on about his mum again. His mums called for the third time that week, moaning about missing him, telling him how his dads done his back in messing about up on the shed roof and that the veggie patchs all overgrown, but shes got no energy these days…
I mean, youve got to hand it to Jameshes a proper dutiful son. Calls his mum every Sunday like clockwork. Nods along even if shes spouting utter nonsense. Anyway, there he is, eating cheap pasta and sausages for dinner, shooting that puppy-dog look across at Claire.
Claire, he says, nudging his plate aside and folding his hands, Mum called again. She reckons weve forgotten what she looks like. What do you reckon about heading up this weekend? Just for a couple of daysthree, tops? Please.
James, Ive got a hair appointment on Saturday, Claire tries, but even she knows its a feeble excuse.
Oh, come on, James waves her off like shes just being dramatic. You know what shes likeshell be mortally offended. Shes promised to make those meatballs that you love and bake some pies. She misses us.
And hows your dads back? Claire says, mainly for forms sake. She and his dad, David, have always been civil but nothing more.
Hell survive, James shrugs. Hes always got some ailment or other. Anyway, Ive decidedwell go. Well drive up Friday night, back Sunday evening. Mumll be chuffed.
Claire sighs. By this point shes learnt that when James has decided, arguings about as useful as trying to keep the cat off the kitchen worktops.
So, Friday comes, they chuck a bag of clothes and a posh supermarket hamper into the boot, plus a fluffy throw for his mum and a bottle of whisky for his dad. The drive up to Hertfordshire takes about two hours, traffic permitting. Claire mostly watches the countryside slide bysilent lay-bys, little pubs with silly nameswhile James sings along off-key to the radio, totally convinced this visit will be absolutely fine. I mean, its just three days. And, at the heart of it, Jamess mum is decent.
They roll up after dark. The house is at the very end of the village; theres one lonely streetlamp at the gate. James crunches the car onto the gravel drive, cuts the engine, andlike something out of a sitcomthe porch light comes on, the door flies open, and out bustles ShirleyJamess mumshort, round, in a flowery pinny, grinning so wide Claire half expects her face to split.
Jamie! she shrieks, dashing over to embrace a James who barely has time to climb out the car. I thought youd changed your mind! Ive been cooking all dayyou wouldnt believe it! Claire, sweetheart, dont stand out in the cold, come inside!
So Claire lets herself be hugged, doing her best polite smile, inhaling the scent of fried onions and something almost syrupy, which prickles her nose.
Inside is roasting, packed with the smell of food. Somethings sizzling away in the kitchen. On the table: a sausage platter, brown bread, homemade gherkins, a bottle of squash, and half a cob loaf. Jamess dad is perched in front of the TV, watching the news. He gets up, offers a handshake, and nods at Claire: Alright, love. Shoes off in the hallway. Lets have our dinner.
Oh, and I made you both a mountain of meatballs, Shirley calls, bustling about, shifting plates, cleaning the table with the edge of her apron for good measure. With spuds, onions, and gravy. Jamie, you still love my meatballs, dont you?
I do, Mum, you know I do. James has dumped his jacket already and poked his nose into her saucepans, which has only inflated Shirleys pride by about ten percent.
Claire takes off her coat, pops it on a peg, and follows them into the kitchen. Shirleys kitchen is small, but theres no denying its well, homely if homely means every surface covered in jars, spice racks, flour bags, and a hundred bits and bobs.
Sit, Claire, have a seat, Shirley fusses, wiping down a chair just in case. You must be knackered from the drive. Let me finish up herewell eat in a sec.
Shirley spins on the spot, grabs a tray, puts it back, opens the oven (mmm, roasted meat waft!), and Claires stomach turns traitorshes starving, only had a thermos of coffee since lunchtime.
And thenoh god.
Shirleys by the table, rolling up meatballs. Theres a bowl, piled high with raw mince: a mountain of grey-pink mush, already shaped into neat meatballs lined up tidy, dusted with breadcrumbs. Shirley pinches off another lump, shapes it deftlyand then, with the same hand, goes straight under her left armpit.
Not just an absentminded scratchshe really dives in, whole hand, a proper wiggle, clear relief on her face. She gives it a good scratch, pulls the hand out, and, straight off, goes back to rolling the next meatball. Same hand. No washing. Not even a wipe on the apron.
Claire feels her stomach flip.
She finds herself fixated on Shirleys handregular mums hand, short nails, wedding ring a little squeezed by chubbiness, a lattice of faint linesbecause that hands just been under her armpit and now its back in the mince. The same mince that now and then Shirley sends to James and Claire, already shaped, frozen. Claires eaten piles of thempraised them, even, over the phone. Swore they were magic. And they really tasted great, to be fair.
Mum, have you got some tea? James calls through. Were freezing from the drive!
One sec! Shirleys still at the meatballs. Just finishing off, then well have dinner.
She grabs another lump, and Claire cant help notice little smears on the board where those hands have been. Or is she imagining things? She blinks, and everythings normal againboard, mince, meatballs, Shirleys hands, shaping away.
Shirley, would you like some help? Claire says, softly. I could finish those for you while you get the tea going?
Oh, absolutely not! You sit, lovely, youre a guest! Shirley flaps her hands, still raw-meaty, which makes Claire inwardly shudder. You rest, you must be tired after your drive. Nearly done anyway.
True to her word, she shapes the last meatball, lines it up, inspects her handslooks pleasedruns them under the tap (two seconds, no soap), flicks the water about the sink, wipes hands on her apron.
Claire wants to be rational. Its just an armpit scratchher own gran used to knead dough, rearrange hair, maybe straighten knickers, and everyone lived. Millions do. Probably shes just being finicky. But the image is seared into her brain now: the hand, the armpit, the mince.
Dinners in the lounge, big flowery tablecloth and all. Freshly fried meatballs, crispy and golden, just begging to be eatenbut Claires mouth fills with saliva for all the wrong reasons. Next to them: mashed potatoes with butter, a plate of chopped tomatoes and cucumbers, sliced bread, home-pickles, and juice.
Tuck in, my loves! Shirley says, shoving meatballs in Claires direction. Try these, Claireextra crispy ones. Made them for you.
The meatballs look perfectsniff of fried onions, hints of garlic. James piles two on his plate, covers them in mash, chops up a cucumber, and is straight in, sighing happily.
Mmm, Mum, youve outdone yourself, he mutters with a mouthful.
Oh, I was worried I hadnt used enough salt or onion Shirley beams and finally sits down.
Its all spot on, James says, mouth half full already.
David shovels his food quietly, nodding his approval here and therehes a bloke of few words, best known for a thirty-minute epic about changing the oil in his Mondeo.
Claire, you havent eaten anything? Shirleys worried now, seeing Claires barely touched plate. Not to your taste? Too much salt?
No, no, its lovely! Claire says quickly, knowing if she doesnt eat at least a bit, Shirleyll be devastated. Im just a bit off after the drivemy stomach, you know? Ill have a little bit in a second.
She picks up her fork, breaks a tiny piece (just the crispy tip), brings it to her mouth. It smellsfine. Nice, even. But the knowledge that fifteen minutes ago these were being rolled by a hand fresh from an armpit is just too much. The piece sticks in her throat, and she has to force it down, feeling a wave of nausea rise up.
Very tasty, Claire manages, pushing her plate away. Could I have just some mash and cucumber, please, Shirley? I dont want to overdo it, but the meatball is delicious. Really.
Oh poor love, of course you can, Shirley fusses, Eat whatever you fancy, I made loads for you both to take back, you know. I just thought you might be hungry after the drive.
James throws Claire a sideways look and continues demolishing the meatballs as if the concept of bacteria had never occurred to him.
Claire picks at the mash, nibbles her cucumber, and tells herself shes just tired and sensitive. Millions, literally millions, eat mum-style meatballs and live forever. She tries to let it go, but that hand keeps creeping back into her mind.
After tea, Shirley clears up. James and his dad slope off to the shed to check the generator, leaving Claire alone in the kitchen with Shirley making a proper strong brew in a chipped old teapot.
Dont take it the wrong way, Claire. I just miss you two so much, Shirley says, pouring steam into mugs. City life, jobs, I get itbut a mum cant help worrying, wants to see if youre happy.
Alls well, Shirley, Claire says politely as she takes the mug. Same as everwork, home, all ticking along.
Thats good then, Shirley sighs, sits down opposite Claire and peers at her. My meatballs, though, I know you two love them. Jamies always asking for a batch for the freezer. You cant buy real food in Londonfull of chemicals. I get my pork direct from Dave at the butchers, only the best, grind the mince myself, dont trust shop stuff!
Claire sips her tea and nearly chokesthe taste is perfectly normal, but all she can think is, did Shirley even wash her hands before making this?
Shirley, would it be alright if I went to my room? Ive got a splitting headacheits probably just the journey.
Of course, of course! Shirley flutters. Theres spare bedding in the wardrobeJames will show you. Anything you need, just holler, love.
Claire drags herself to the little box room, shuts the door, sits on the bed and nearly retches. Dashes to the loo, just about manages not to throw up, and sits there breathing, fighting to hold it together.
James comes in after a bit. You alright? He sits by her on the bed. Are you really ill?
James, Claire says, wide-eyed, dont freak out, but I have to tell you something.
James just studies her.
So she tells himwhat she saw with the meatballs, the armpit scratching, shaping, not washing, the lot, whispering so Shirley wont hear next door.
Jamess expression is unreadablemix of disbelief and probably a bit of irritation.
She didnt mean to! he says eventually, shrugging. She just had an itch. Who hasnt? Dyou think our grans scrubbed up after every cough? Its life, Claire. Home-cooked food.
She didnt wash, James. Just went from armpit to mince. Im never going to get that out of my head! And all those frozen onesweve been eating them for three years.
So what do you want? Jamess voice sharpens. Tell her shes unhygienic? Shell be devastated. She does this for us!
Im not telling her anything, Claires voice is trembling now. I just I cant eat them again. Im sorry.
James paces, running his hands through his hairthe tell-tale sign hes annoyed. Youre overreacting. Everyones dirty by your standards. Even you must scratch your face or touch your hair when youre cooking. This isnt a hospital. Millions manage.
I wash my hands, James. Its normal.
Well done, James snaps. But my mums always done it this way. Ive survived on those meatballs. You even said theyre tasty!
I didnt know. Now I do. I cant un-know.
Then just let it go, Claire. Seriouslydont eat them if you dont want. Ill tell Mum youre poorly. But please dont mention it to her.
I wont, Claire buries her face in his shoulder. I just want to go home.
Well leave tomorrow. Ill tell them youre not well, we need to get back. Alright?
Alright. But nothing about this is really alright.
That night Claire lies awake while James watches telly through the wall, his dad coughs, and Shirley clangs about in the kitchen. Three-and-a-bit years together, eating those meatballs, never knowing. And part of the magicthe secret ingredientis definitely ruined for her now.
The next morning, Claire feels like shes been hit by a bus. James is already up, chatting to his parents over tea. Claire washes her face in cold tap water and shuffles into the kitchen.
Oh Claire! Shirley exclaims. James said you were ill. Temperature, was it? Ill make you a raspberry tisanemy last jar from last year!
Thank you, Shirley, Claire sits, avoiding looking at yesterdays plate of meatballs, now covered with mesh like thatll stop anything. I do feel a bit better. Must have been something on the road.
Those roadside cafes! Shirley huffs, shoving a mug towards her and opening jam. I always tell David, youre better off with home food, and you lot always stop in those dreadful little places. Look where that gets you.
Mum, we didnt stop anywhere, James pipes up. Just had coffee from a flask.
Well, somethings upset you, Shirley insists. You drink upmalady cant fight a good cuppa.
Claire takes a tiny sip, scalds her tongue, and for a second wonders all over again: has Shirley washed her hands at all today? She pushes the thought away; she cant do this to herself forever.
Thank you so much, Shirley, but we should probably head home. Best to recover in my own bed, you know? James said wed leave today.
What, already? Shirleys face drops. I was going to bake a pie, do one of my soups James loves my soups.
Next time, Mum, James says, giving her a peck. Claires not feeling right. Ill be up in a couple of weeks, help Dad out, and you can spoil me rotten then, yeah?
Shirley sighs, looks at Claire for a secondsomething in her gaze makes Claires scalp pricklelike maybe shes figured it out, exactly whats up. She quietly packs up a bag.
Theres meatballs in there, she says, almost curt, some jam, some of my homemade lard. Enough for the week.
Thanks, Mum. James kisses her again, but she doesnt smile, just nods and slips inside before theyre out the drive.
They head home in silence. Claire can feel the bag of meatballs in the boot like a ticking bomb. Jamess jaw is set, his driving clippy. He doesnt look at her.
You can eat them, Claire says quietly, when they hit Camden. I wont stop you. I justcant.
James exhales long and slowa days worth of frustration in that sigh. You know she guessed, right?
Guessed what? Claire glances up.
Everything, Claire. She knows. You barely touched any food, got ill, left the next morning. She knows. Shes hurt. I get it.
And you dont understand me? Claires voice is sharp.
He just shakes his head.
At home, she dumps her things, heads into the kitchen, breathes in the peace of clean countertops, sparkling dishes, spotless chopping boardsher territory, where hands get washed before and after handling food, and never, ever go from armpit to dinner.
James drops the bag of meatballs into the freezer.
Youre not eating them? she asks.
I will, James says, defiant. Always have.
And he stalks off for a shower.
Claire marches over to the sink, grabs the soap, and scrubs her hands hard, up to the elbows, the way you do before an operation. When shes done, she wonders if any of this helps. Whether you can ever really scrub out whats gone into your memory.
But one thing is for sureshes done with Shirleys meatballs, and nothing on earth is changing her mind.
Three days later, James fries up four meatballs, piles on the mash, cuts some pickled cucumber, and sits down with his dinner.
Want one? he asks, holding a fork out.
No, Claire says firmly. Thanks, though.
She leaves him to it, crawls into the armchair in the lounge, turns up the telly so she doesnt have to hear James chewing.
Claire knows somethings shifted in her marriage, maybe for good. All because of a hand. A perfectly ordinary hand that couldnt resist an itch.
She closes her eyes and decides to let it go. If she doesnt think about it, shell be alright. Cook her own food, trust her own hands, and never, ever eat anything again thats rolled by someone else.
