The verdict that sealed the family was delivered by the eldest daughter, Eleanor. She had never married her temperament was sharp, her standards for suitors impossibly high and by the time she reached thirty she had hardened into a bilefueled misandrist, a ulcer in the belly of every mans nightmare.
Imprudent, she declared, as if stamping a seal. The younger daughter, Lucy, a rotund, giggling lump of warmth, smiled approval. Their mother, Margaret, stayed silent, but the sour line of her jaw made it clear she, too, found the new daughterinlaw unwelcome. What could possibly be likable? Their only son, Thomas, the familys pillar and hope, had gone off to the army and returned with a bride. The bride brought no dowry, no family connections, no money not a single pound. It was as if she had grown up in an orphanage or was rescued from distant relatives; nobody knew. Thomas shrugged it off with a joke, promising, Dont worry, Mother, well build our fortune one day. Talk to him, you fool, Eleanor muttered. Who did he drag into our home? Perhaps shes a thief, a fraudster theres a new breed of them everywhere!
Since Miriam first set foot in the house, Violet Whitaker the mothers name for her hadnt slept a full night. She drifted halfasleep, waiting for some hidden trick from the newcomer, for the moment when she would start rummaging through the closets. The daughters, too, whispered, Mother, hide the precious things with the relatives, just in case. They feared the loss of furs, of gold, of anything valuable, lest one morning they awoke to find everything vanished.
Within a month, Thomass reputation was shredded. Who did you bring home? the neighbours snarled. Where were your eyes? No skin, no face!
But life must go on. They learned to place Miriam in her proper spot.
The house was a respectable one, with a thirtyacre garden, three piglets in the allotment, birds that were hardly worth counting. The work never ceased, even if one laboured day and night. Yet Miriam never complained. She tended the garden, fed the piglets, cooked, cleaned, and strained to please her motherinlaw. Still, if Margarets heart was not soothed, no amount of gold could straighten the crookedness of the day.
On the first bitter morning, Miriam, trembling with suppressed rage, said:
Call me by my proper name and patronymic. It will be better. I already have my own daughters; you will never become a true mother to me, no matter how hard you try.
From then on, Margaret called her Violet Whitaker, and she referred to the bride only as the new daughterinlaw. The mother never gave her a nickname. She merely said, It must be done, and left it at that. No one coddled the intruder, but they also would not let any illdisposed relative cut a corner. Every tiny rule was enforced, every loose end tied. Occasionally Margaret had to pull the wayward sisters back from wandering, not out of pity for Miriam, but to keep order in the house and prevent quarrels. After all, the girl was industrious, never idle, grabbing at every task. She was not a loafer. Slowly, without admitting it, Margarets ice began to melt.
Perhaps things might have settled, if only Thomas hadnt drifted off.
What man could endure a wife who, from dawn till dusk, shouted at him in two voices, Who did you marry, and who did you marry again? Yet Eleanor had introduced him to a friend, and the whole thing spun into a dizzy whirl. The sisters celebrated the triumph: the hateful Miriam would finally clean up. Margaret kept quiet, while Miriam pretended nothing had happened, her eyes shrinking to pale, sad orbs.
Then, as if a thunderclap split a clear sky, two shocking news arrived: Miriam was pregnant, and Thomas was divorcing her.
This cannot be, Margaret told Thomas. I never set her up as a wife for you.
But youre married, live with it! No point in sulking. Soon youll be a father. If you break the family, Ill throw you out and never speak to you again. And Sarah will stay here.
For the first time ever, Margaret addressed Miriam by her given name. The sisters fell silent. Thomas roared, Im a man, I decide! Margaret placed her hands on her hips and laughed, What man are you? Youre still in trousers. When you bring a child into the world, raise him, give him sense, turn him into a proper man, then you may call yourself one!
Margaret never kept a word in her pocket. Yet Thomas clung to his mothers side.
If he ever thought of leaving, he did and Sarah stayed behind. In due time she gave birth to a girl, naming her Vicky. Margaret heard the name and said nothing, though a fleeting smile brightened her face.
Outwardly, nothing changed in the house, only Thomas lost his way home, nursing a sore pride. Margaret, of course, worried, but showed no sign of it. She adored her granddaughter, spoiling her with gifts and sweets. Sarah, however, never forgave the loss of her son through her, though she never voiced it.
Ten years drifted by. The sisters married, and the large house was left to three: Margaret, Sarah, and Vicky. Thomas enlisted again and left with his new wife for the north. A retired soldier, a stern gentleman a few years older than Sarah, began dropping in to keep her company. He had divorced his own wife, left her a flat, and lived in a council house himself. He drew a pension, was respectable, and seemed a suitable match. Sarah liked him, but where would she take him? To the motherinlaws house?
She explained everything plainly, begged forgiveness, and turned him away. Yet the man, not a fool, went to Margarets doorstep, proclaiming, Violet Whitaker, I love Sarah, I cannot live without her.
Not a muscle in Margarets face twitched.
Do you love her? she asked. Very well, marry and live together.
She paused, then added, I wont let Vicky be shuffled from room to room. She stays here, with me.
Thus they all lived together. The neighbours chattered until their tongues were raw, gossiping about the mad Violet Whitaker who had driven her own son out and taken in the stranger Miriam with a grin. Only the lazy neighbour never bothered to dust the corners of Violets mind. She ignored idle chatter, never conversed with the other women, never spoke of the young ones, and kept a proud, untouchable air. Sarah bore a child, Kate, and Margaret could not bring herself to rejoice over her beloved grandchildren. What is Kate, a grandchild? she muttered, Shes nothing to me.
Then calamity fell as it often does, sudden and cruel. Sarah fell gravely ill.
Her husband broke down, started drinking. Margaret, wordlessly, emptied the familys savings and whisked Sarah off to London. She ordered every medicine, visited every specialist. Nothing helped.
One morning Sarah felt a little better and asked for chicken broth. Margaret, delighted, slaughtered a chicken, plucked it, boiled it. When she brought the steaming bowl, Sarah could not drink it; for the first time in her life she wept. Margaret, who had never been seen crying, wept with her:
What are you doing, child, turning away from me now that I love you? What are you doing?
She then composed herself, wiped her tears, and said:
Dont worry about the children; they will not be lost.
From that moment she never spoke of tears again, sitting beside Sarah, holding her hand, gently stroking it as if asking forgiveness for everything that had passed between them.
Another ten years slipped by. Vicky was being courted for marriage. Eleanor and Lucy, now old and wrinkled, arrived together, both childless. A small gathering of kin assembled. Thomas returned, his marriage dissolved long ago. He sipped his brandy, eyes widening at Vickys beauty. I never expected such a wonderful daughter, he said, then learned that the girl called her father a strangers man, and his face darkened. He turned to Margaret, accusing, Its your fault. Why did you let a foreign husband into the house? He should be cleaning. He has no place here. I am the father!
Margaret answered:
No, son. You are not a father. Youve been wearing the same trousers since boyhood and never grew into a man.
She said it as she had stamped it. Thomas could not bear the humiliation; he packed his few belongings and set out again to wander the world. Vicky married, bore a son, and, in honour of her stepfather, named him Alexander. Last year, Vickys motherpoor Violetwas laid to rest beside Sarah.
Now they lie in a row: daughterinlaw and motherinlaw, and between them, in spring, a birch sapling had sprouted. No one had planted it; it seemed to have appeared from nowherea final farewell from Sarah, perhaps, or the last forgiveness from Margaret.