The final verdict on the family came from the eldest daughter Agnes. Because of her sour temper and lofty expectations of any suitor, she never married, and by the time she hit thirty she had become a bitter, manhating shrew a sort of ulcer in the household, a husbands nightmare made flesh.
Scandalous, she muttered, as if it were a brandnew label. The younger daughter, Milly, a rotund, goodnatured girl, chuckled approvingly. Mother kept quiet, but the sour set to her face made it clear she didnt like the new daughterinlaw either. What could possibly please her? Our only son, the familys rock and hope, had gone off to the army and returned with a wife. That wife came with neither a father nor a mother nor a penny. It was as if shed been raised in an orphanage or snuck in on a relatives wing. No one knew for sure. Tom, our son, tried to brush it off with jokes about being patient, Mother, well build our own fortune soon enough. He kept quiet about who hed actually brought home perhaps a thief, a swindler, who knows how many such folk are running around these days!
From the moment Ruth stepped into the house, Varvara Nikitichnawell, thats what we called her nowhad not slept a single night. She dozed with half an eye open, waiting for some mischief from the newlyarrived relative, hoping shed start rummaging through the cupboards. The daughters even nudged her, Mother, you ought to hide the valuable things among the family. Who knows what might go missing a fur coat, a bit of gold. We cant wake up one fine morning to find the pantry emptied!
And Toms complaints kept coming, Who did you bring into this house? Where were your eyes? No skin, no face! Yet there was no choice; life had to go on. So we learned to accommodate Ruth.
Our homestead was a decent one: thirty acres of garden, three piglets in the sty, birds everywhere you could never count them all. You could work yourself to the bone and still not finish everything. But Ruth never complained. She tended the garden, tended the piglets, cooked, and kept the house tidy. She tried hard to please her motherinlaw. Yet, if the old heart of a mother refused, no amount of gold linings would smooth things over. The unwanted daughterinlaw, trembling with irritation, declared on her very first day:
Call me by my name and patronymic. Thatll be better. I already have my own daughters; youll never be a mother to me, no matter how hard you try.
From then on, she was known as Ruth Whitaker, and I, the mother, never called her anything else. I kept telling myself, Something must be done, something must be said. And that was all. No point in pandering. Yet we never let a meddlesome sisterinlaw slip through. Every petty remark was snapped up. On a few occasions I even had to rein in my own daughters, not out of pity for Ruth, but because a house needs order, not endless squabbles. The girl turned out to be a hard worker, grabbing at any task, never lazy. Slowly, without admitting it, I began to thaw toward her.
Perhaps things would settle with time, if only Tom hadnt gone off gallivanting. What man can stand when his wifes voice haunts him from dawn till dusk, Who did you marry, who did you marry? Then Agnes introduced him to a friend, and the whole thing spiralled. The sisters celebrated as if a victory had been won: now the loathsome Ruth would finally clean up. Mother fell silent while Ruth pretended nothing had happened, her eyes drooping, gaunt. Then, like thunder on a clear day, two pieces of news arrived: Ruth was expecting a child, and Tom was divorcing her.
That wont happen, I told Tom. I never set her up as a wife for you.
But he was married, so hed better make do. Dont be a wimp. Youll be a father soon enough. If you upset the family, Ill throw you out and wont even know your name. And Sherry will stay here.
For the first time ever, I called Ruth by her proper name. The sisters fell silent. Tom snapped, Im a man, I decide. I crossed my arms and laughed, A man? Youre still just a pair of trousers. Youll be a real man when you raise that child, teach him, turn him into a proper lad.
I never hid behind my purse. Neither did Tom. If he had any scheme, he left the house. Sherry stayed, and after the usual waiting period she gave birth to a little girl, whom she named Vicky. When I learned of the name, I said nothing, but the smile on my face said it all.
Outside, nothing changed, only Tom lost his way home, feeling slighted. Mother, of course, worried but showed no signs. She fell in love with her granddaughter, spoiling her, buying presents, sweets. As for Sherry, she could never forgive that her son slipped away through her, but she never voiced a word against her.
Ten years passed. The sisters married and the big house was left to three: Mother, Sherry, and Vicky. Tom enlisted again and left for the north with his new wife. A retired soldier, a steady, older gentleman, began visiting Sherry, offering to fix little things around the house. Hed split from his own wife, left her a flat, and lived in a council hall himself. He collected a pension, was respectable, and seemed a solid match for Sherry but where would she take him? To the motherinlaws house?
He listened to her earnest explanation, begged forgiveness, and made his appeal. Mrs. Whitaker, he said, I love Sherry, I cant live without her.
Not a muscle on my face twitched.
Love, eh? I replied. Well then, get married and live together.
I paused, then added, I wont let Vicky be shuffled around. Stay here, in my house.
So we all lived under one roof. The neighbours chattered away, rubbing their tongues together, gossiping how the oncecrazy Whitaker had driven her own son out and taken in a scandalous daughterinlaw. No one ever gave Ruth a proper lick of work on her bones, and she paid them no mind, steering clear of idle chatter, never spilling the beans about the younger folk, keeping a proud, untouchable front. Sherry gave birth to a boy, Kat. Mother could never quite muster pride for her grandchildren. Whats a granddaughter to me? she muttered, Shes no more than a stranger.
Then disaster struck out of the blue. Sherry fell gravely ill. Her husband cracked, even turned to drink. Quietly, without fanfare, I emptied my savings and whisked Sherry off to London for treatment, paying for every drug, every specialist. It didnt help.
One morning Sherry felt a little better and asked for chicken broth. Delighted, I slashed a chicken, plucked it, and boiled it up. When I brought the steaming bowl to her, she could not swallow it and, for the first time ever, burst into tears. I, whod never been seen weeping, wept with her:
Why are you leaving me now, dear, after Ive loved you? I sobbed.
Then I steadied myself, wiped my eyes and said, Dont worry about the children, theyll be fine. I never shed another tear after that, staying beside her, holding her hand, gently stroking it as if begging forgiveness for everything that had happened between us.
Another ten years slipped by. Vicky was being courted. Agnes and Milly, now greying and a little cracked, arrived, childless. The whole clan gathered. Tom showed up, his marriage already shattered, nursing a bottle of whisky. He gawked at how beautiful Vicky had become, thrilled at the thought of a fine daughter. Yet when he heard that his own daughter called the man who raised her father, his face darkened and he turned on me, Youre to blame for bringing a stranger into this house. He has no business being here. Im the father!
I answered, No, son. Youre not a father. Youre still wearing the same old trousers you had as a lad.
He took the words as a humiliation, packed his things and set off again, roaming the world. Vicky married, bore a son, and named him Alexander after his stepfather. Last year Vickys mother, dear old Agatha, was laid to rest beside Sherry.
Now they lie side by side: daughterinlaw and motherinlaw, and between them a birch sapling has sprouted this spring. No one knows where it came from; no one planted it. It seemed to have appeared out of nowhere perhaps a goodbye from Sherry, perhaps a final pardon from me.