Perhaps you might at least make your bed, your Highness? my sister-in-law devised a cunning plan to encourage her husbands relatives to move out
I still cant quite believe how skillfully Emily nudged things along when my mother-in-law and brother-in-law descended on us for what became a two-week occupation. In that brief stretch, my mother-in-law, Pauline, had managed to break the washing machine and flood the kitchen all while maintaining an air of unruffled innocence.
The turning point came when Pauline announced at breakfast, Ill be heading to a health spa, but Oliver will stay here with you. The nerve of it! Two weeks under our roof, and now she expected us to watch her teenage son. Oliver, though polite enough for a fifteen-year-old, still needed a firm hand. Frankly, leaving the house to a bored teenager made me anxious.
Pauline, perhaps we could give it some thought, I suggested, still trying to be diplomatic. James and I both have work commitments. We really cant give Oliver the attention he needs right now.
James, my husband, threw me a pleading look. Lets not argue tonight, Em. Its my birthday. Can we just enjoy the day?
I begrudgingly let it drop. Our dinner reservation was for 8pm, and as I hurried home after work, hoping to have time to change, I was met with an infuriating surprise I couldnt get into my own flat. Wed had only two sets of keys, one of which Id given to Pauline for her sightseeing sprees.
Pauline, do make yourself a copy of the key, Id asked on day one. But shed brushed me off, claiming the nearby key kiosks werent worth the bother, and that we all returned home more or less at the same time anyway.
So it was, on James’s birthday, I found myself shivering on the doorstep, shopping bags at my feet, dialling Paulines number. She finally answered after a quarter of an hour, distinctly irritable.
I cant talk, Emily. What is it?
Im stood outside with the shopping! Where are you?
Youre home already? Who on earth gets home this early? Well be about twenty minutes. Im with Oliver at the shops and cant talk.
Fuming, I perched on the bench outside until James arrived, surprised and sympathetic.
Why are you out here? Its cold enough to freeze the Thames!
Ask your charming mother, I muttered through gritted teeth.
Chastened, he tried to placate me, promising Pauline meant no harm. Meanwhile, the minutes ticked by. Pauline eventually arrived, juggling a bedraggled bouquet of burst helium balloons.
Why are these corridors so narrow? she complained, dropping more balloons on the hallway floor. I had to bite my tongue.
She handed the pitiful bundle to James with a proud smile. Happy birthday, love.
Thanks, Mum
I caught myself whispering, Were not taking these to the restaurant, are we?
Why ever not? Pauline huffed. They add to the atmosphere! Oliver and I struggled to carry them.
I gently suggested, Perhaps theyll be safer at home. Half have already popped.
Pauline grudgingly agreed, then bossed everyone about until the house was in chaos. Unsurprisingly, we were late for the meal.
Luckily, the rest of the evening was incident-free apart from Pauline making a scene over a supposedly dirty fork before carefully sanitising it and beaming like the paragon of cleanliness. The irony, I thought, recalling her kitchen flood.
The next morning, while spreading jam on toast, Pauline delivered her announcement: Work will only cover one spa stay, not Olivers. So it will just be me this time.
Does that mean you wont go? I ventured, hopeful.
I cant skip my annual treatment! Ill only go for a week.
Mum, Oliver will be bored here James tried.
Nonsense. I’ll give him a list of daily tasks. You two just make sure he sticks to it. Anyway, main thing is to speak to the spa director myself its not a conversation for the phone.
James, ever the peacemaker, compromised, Alright then. Mum goes tonight. Once she sorts a slot for Oliver, well send him along. A couple of days here wont hurt.
As Pauline swept away packing her suitcase and scribbling endless to do lists for Oliver (4pm online English tutorial, 7pm literary talk at the public library!), I could see Olivers only thought was, Please just let her leave…
If Pauline thought Id manage a regimented teenage boy by myself, she was gravely mistaken, but I had no energy to argue.
Once she was gone, Oliver begged for the laptop for his English lesson, then promptly disappeared into a vortex of computer games. I turned to James.
While your brothers here, youll have to take time off and keep an eye on him.
Why? Hes fifteen, hes fine on his own! Doesnt even leave his room. Can feed himself. Does he need a nanny?
Your mum insisted we supervise him.
Shes too anxious. Itll be fine.
We both moaned about our work: an important meeting for James the next day, a grim deadline for me and the broken washing machine for good measure. James breezily said, Let Oliver let the men in for the new one, to which I reluctantly agreed, putting my faith in the teenager.
Big mistake. That evening, I came home and the door was locked. No answer from Oliver. Luckily, Id anticipated trouble and had made myself another key. I let myself in to chaos: dirty plates piled high, uneaten soup spoiling on the hob, a trail of crumbs everywhere. I thought wryly, What would Pauline say if she saw this?
Oliver, of course, was oblivious, glued to his headset. It took five minutes of loud talking to rouse him.
Wheres the washing machine? I asked.
They never delivered it. I waited all day.
Why is the flat a tip?
Dunno. I just had lunch. Mum normally tidies up.
Perhaps you could make your bed, your Royal Highness? Or have you forgotten how? I shot him a meaningful look at the rumpled sofa bed.
Why are you so uptight? You sound just like Mum… he muttered.
Turned out he wasnt lying about the delivery, but cleaning was still beyond him.
Later, when James asked what was for dinner, I was terse: Sausages.
Why?
Because your brother ruined the soup its in the bin.
James looked rueful. He never liked sausages.
Next day at work, the delivery man called. Hed been waiting half an hour outside our door. Oliver wasnt answering his mobile or the bell. They took the new machine back to the shop.
James had to leave the office early to check what was going on. Oliver, of course, didnt see the problem. Hed left his mobile dead and buried under sofa cushions.
James scolded him, but relented, offering yet another chance. I wasnt so optimistic and planned to stay in the next day myself.
When the new washing machine arrived, it turned out Pauline hadnt paid for it to be carried up the stairs. The lone delivery man needed help carrying it to our flat on the third floor.
Oliver, could you give him a hand?
Um Ive got a dodgy back. And flat feet. And whats it called oh, right, osteochondritis. Mum says not to carry things.
So Im to lug it up myself, am I?
He shrugged, headphones on, lost again in his gaming world. The chore lists his mother left lay untouched.
Pauline soon rang, demanding an update.
Pauline, youre welcome to discuss this with Oliver yourself. Hes old enough to make his own choices.
But I left him with you! I trusted you
Have you sorted his place at the spa?
No! Thats why Im ringing Have you finished looking after him?
Im afraid Im unwell. Picked up something on the train Let him stay with you a bit longer. Hes not causing trouble, is he?
I was fuming by this point.
I should have put Oliver on the train with your mum, I told James.
He just sits in his room. At least we hardly see him.
Exactly! He doesnt help, wont tidy, and I ended up dragging the machine upstairs and had to bribe the neighbour with £10!
James couldnt disagree. Oliver had become almost unmanageable after Pauline left: sloppier by the day, ignoring basic hygiene.
My patience ran out when I came home for lunch on a hunch, only to be met by the acrid smell of burning. I dashed to the kitchen, finding the saucepan filled with charred pasta, smoke curling up towards the ceiling. I chucked the ruined pan onto the balcony.
You nearly set the flat on fire! I yelled.
I didnt know how long to cook it for Oliver grumbled.
James was beyond furious. Thats it. Hes going backtoday if need be. Mum, talk some sense into him and buy his ticket yourself!
Later, Pauline phoned again, her voice suspiciously healthy against a background of classical music.
I told James, Your mums playing us. Shes not ill, shes on holiday, cruising concerts and spa treatments while we babysit!
He was startled. Actually, youre right she never gets sick.
One thing was clear: Oliver couldnt be left alone any longer.
As the pattern continued, I finally devised my own plan.
Meanwhile, at the spa, Pauline had ditched her scheduled massage and was seen strolling arm in arm with a gentleman a new friend, perhaps.
Londons weather did its worst, and I regretted leaving my umbrella at home. By the time I reached the main building, I was soaked, but I spotted Pauline instantly, beaming and clad in a bright yellow mac, absolutely brimming with health.
Excuse me, do you know where new arrivals check in? I called, watching Paulines jaw drop.
Emily?!
Just enjoying the weather, Pauline. How are you feeling now?
What are you doing here? she hissed.
Taking a break, obviously! James is joining me tonight.
And Oliver?
Who else? Hes holding down the fort.
But he cant be trusted by himself! She looked panic-stricken.
Dont worry. The flats insured. And your youngest? Not my problem at the moment, I smiled sweetly. I warn you, Pauline, if anything goes wrong its on you.
She tried to protest but I breezed past her towards the check-in, quietly triumphant. Finally, a little holiday of my own only three days, but blissfully free.
Of course, Pauline promptly rang James.
Please bring Oliver with you. He cant be left! she begged.
But the spa ticket? he queried.
Doesnt matter. School starts soon Ill pay for a hotel for him myself if I must.
James agreed, and thus Paulines budding romance at the spa was put firmly on hold. Still, I promised to keep her secret, even as she followed me, cheeks pink with embarrassment.
At last, I could breathe and laugh. If nothing else, from that moment on, my relationship with my mother-in-law changed. Now, at least, we were neighbours for good or for ill. And frankly, I hadnt relaxed that much in years.
