Albert, you really shouldnt be hitching yourself to that country bumpkin, said Mother Margaret, eyeing Emily over the teacup. What could a provincial girl without polish or education ever offer you?
Mother, wheres this snobbery coming from? Albert retorted. Emily is a brilliant lass, wellbroughtup, studying at the University of Edinburghs medical school and now a cardiothoracic resident.
Apparently the whole herd was sold off to foot the tuition, Margaret snapped.
Mother, you never finished your own degree and youve never held a job in your life. Your parents live in Manchester, not London, Albert shot back.
How dare you! Margaret huffed. I left university after my third year because I gave birth to you. Then your father barred me from work, insisting hed provide for the family. Ive given my whole life to you!
Mother, thank you for that, but Im a grown man now and Ill decide my own fate, Albert said.
Do as you like. I wont be at the wedding, Margaret declared, turning away with a huff.
With Mother Margarets cold shoulder, Albert and Emily agreed to skip the grand ceremony and avoid provoking the future motherinlaw. Emilys own parents couldnt travel eitherthey were caring for a frail grandmother. So the couple simply signed the registers at the local registry office, then celebrated with a few witnesses over tea at a nearby pub. When Mrs. Margaret Whitaker learned of this, she grimaced again, muttering that the brides family hadnt sold all their milk and therefore couldnt scrape together enough money for a proper wedding.
Emily and Albert werent overly upset by their new motherinlaws attitude; they assumed shed get used to it. Emily already had a flat of her own where the two planned to live. The only snag was a tiny remodel to combine the flat with the space formerly occupied by Emilys grandmother and parents, but that was no big deal. The young pair were happy, having met in a manner straight out of a romance novel. Theyd been strolling on the Chiltern Hills, each in his own company, when a sudden gust whisked a sheer silk scarf from Emilys shoulders. Albert lunged after it, caught it, collided with Emily, locked eyes, and completely forgot the scarf. From then on, flowers, chocolates, cinema nightseverything followed the expected script, and six months later they decided to tie the knot properly.
After the registry, they arranged to meet the parents. First up was Alberts mother. They warned Mrs. Whitaker of the visit, bought a lovely bouquet, a box of her favourite chocolates, and turned up at her house. Albert had already warned his wife that his mother considered her a bumpkin.
Good afternoon, the motherinlaw intoned melodiously. So this is the daughter youve chosen, my son.
Good afternoon. Alberts a proper lad, we were all quite a crowd, but he singled me out.
Where was this crowd? Mrs. Whitaker asked, puzzled.
At the spot where he chose his brideon the Chiltern Hills, Emily replied, gazing affectionately at the hostess.
Please, have a seat, Mrs. Whitaker offered.
Delighted, Emily said, whilst Albert concealed a grin.
The table was laid with a touch of flourish: plates of roast beef, poached salmon, a delicate trifle, each set with the appropriate fork or spoon, and glasses for both white and red wine. The arrangement seemed designed to prove just how illmannered a daughterinlaw could be.
How splendidly set, like a museum, Emily admired. Albert and I never do it quite like this.
Emily, stop calling my son Albert Alik. His name is Albert, the motherinlaw scolded.
Apologies, as you wish, Emily replied.
The hostess began serving. Heres some salmon terrine, and now a hot chicken fricassée you must eat straight away.
I love fricassée. Its a signature dish at the Prague restaurant I was invited to by Albert, Emily said, noting the hostesss surprised look, then added, He took me there.
Emily handled the cutlery with confidence. Mrs. Whitaker tried to advise which fork to use, but Emily cut her off.
Thank you, Mrs. Whitaker, but Albert has been teaching me proper etiquette all morning.
Albert cleared his throat, and Mrs. Whitaker was at a loss for a reply.
Later, as they rode home in a black cab, Albert teased, Why did you have to tease my mother all evening?
I wasnt teasing, I was just pretending Id just stepped out of a dairy with a pail of milk, Emily replied with a grin.
Soon after, they planned a visit to Emilys family. They suggested a trip with the motherinlaw to meet the new relatives. Mrs. Whitaker rolled her eyes, thinking the countryside was beneath her, but curiosity won, and she agreed. The three of them set off in Alberts sturdy SUV. The village was only about 75 miles away, so they arrived quickly. The parents house was a solid, threebedroom cottage with two attic rooms, its interior adorned with carved wooden panels and the warm scent of freshly baked pies wafting through the air.
A tidy, wellkept lady greeted them at the door.
Tom, come quick, the guests are here! she called, then turned to the newcomers. Good afternoon, dear friends, please come in. Father will be with us shortly. Im Emilys mother, Catherine Parker. And you must be Mrs. Whitaker? A pleasure.
Mrs. Whitaker smiled thinly, surprised to see a wellpresented woman who looked only a few years older than her daughterinlaw. She lifted her chin and resumed her regal pose, as if shed just spotted a prize goat. Shortly after, Emilys father emergeda tall, distinguished man with silvertinged hair and a sturdy build. He lifted Emily effortlessly, gave Albert a hearty handshake, then turned to the motherinlaw, who stared at him with mild interest.
Mrs. Whitaker, is that you? he asked.
Im sorry, I dont recall you, the lady replied.
Its me, Catherine. I thought of your family when Emily mentioned her new surname. Isnt Anatoly Craven your husband? Hes supposed to be in Argentina now, isnt he?
Yes. Do you know him?
Im Constantine George Crisp. Anatoly and I were at MGIMO together, and we met at a Kremlin reception. Later we crossed paths at our institutes anniversary.
Yes, I remember nowsorry for the delay.
I remember you as well, Mrs. Whitaker, Catherine said.
Mrs. Whitaker recalled that Kremlin reception, a gathering of diplomats where shed watched, with envy, a woman in a seagreen dress studded with museumquality jewelsCatherine herself. She realised she had come to flaunt her aristocratic airs before a bunch of rustic folk, only to be outshone by genuine elegance.
Lunch went wonderfully. Conversation drifted to weather, countryside walks, and even the frail grandmother, who sat in her armchair, chuckling along. Mrs. Whitaker felt oddly at home, as if shed returned to her own familys drawingroom.
After the meal they strolled to the nearby lake, accompanied by a sprightly sevenyearold boy named Andy. He resembled the cartoon version of his nameredhaired, shaggy, and surprisingly thoughtful. He promptly seized Mrs. Whitakers hand and led her to the water, spilling all his boyish secrets along the way. The group swam, and the motherinlaw watched from the bank, smiling. Andy scampered over.
Auntie Whitaker, lets splash about!
Im terrified of water, and I didnt bring a swimsuit. Ill just watch, she replied.
Dont worry, Auntie, Andy said in a surprisingly mature tone, you look like a queen watching from a balcony. But youre not a queen, youre just a citygirl. Here we love everyone who visits. If you turn away from people, youll end up alone, old, and no one will keep you company. Even queens need friends.
Andy dashed back into the lake, and Mrs. Whitaker watched the happy crowd, feeling a deep blush for her earlier haughtiness. The main thing is its never too late, she thought. Im no longer a queenIm part of this wonderful lot, and I love them all.
