Mother-in-Law Puts Olivia to the Test—The Surprising Outcome No One Expected

Thursday evening brought a phone call from Henrys mum. He answered it, chatted for about ten minutes, and then wandered into the kitchen looking like he was rehearsing how to break bad news gentlystill undecided on the exact approach.

Mums coming to stay, he said. For a couple of weeks.

I stirred the soup. When?

Saturday.

I turned off the hob.

A couple of weeks. I knew all too well what a couple of weeks meant to Patricia Woodhouse. It was as ambiguous as a pinch of salt in her recipescompletely subjective.

She arrived promptly at midday on Saturday, a large suitcase in tow jangling with mysterious contents, and wore that expression people reserve for inspections. Surveying the place the way buyers size up a house.

Well, she announced after scanning the hallway, no dust. Thats a start.

Henry laughed. I smiled.

Apparently, that was a compliment.

Patricia made a beeline for the kitchen, had a casualthough obviously intentionallook in the fridge, and mused,

You buy semi-skimmed milk? Henry needs whole milk with his stomach.

He asked for this, I replied.

Well, thats as may be, she said, shutting the fridge as if shed just uncovered a major secret.

That evening, as Henry went for a shower, Patricia settled on the sofa, folded her hands neatly in her lap, and said, almost affectionately,

Look, Olivia, dont take it the wrong way. I just need to understand what youre truly like.

Patricia was a consummate professional in her way.

Quietly methodical, she chipped away at me as a restorer would delicately strip away paint, layer by layer. Each comment was gentle, delivered with a smile, and expertly positionedone could almost believe it was innocent.

By the second day, shed discovered the towels.

Olivia, she said, standing contemplatively in the bathroom holding a towel, Towels should hang with the loop at the bottom. They dry better.

I always hang them like this, I replied.

Yes, yes, of course, she said, rearranging her towelloop downlike a new flag.

Henrys shirts hung pressed, by colour, in the wardrobe. Patricia inspected the wardrobe, nodded thoughtfully, and noted quietly to herself,

Collars are a bit creased. Although, maybe thats the style.

I stood by, realising it wasnt a questionit was a statement, specifically crafted so that nothing needed saying in reply.

The plant on the windowsilla ficus from my last flat, surviving two moveswas, according to Patricia, watered incorrectly.

Olivia, ficuses dont like water from above. You water from the base.

This ficus has lived with me for eight years, I said.

Well, perhaps it could have had a better life.

The ficus kept its own counsel, and wisely so.

The arrangement of groceries in the fridge prompted a full lecturemilk on the middle shelf, meat at the bottom in a tub, herbs poked in a perforated bag, eggs only in their tray, never in the door because of all the shaking. I nodded and listened dutifully, though the eggs remained where theyd always been.

In the evenings Patricia made phone callseasy to overhear thanks to the thin walls and her teachers voice.

No, Pam, all in all, Olivias doing her best. But its plain to seeshes not quite there. Can you imagine, she puts beans in her stew! Henry eats it, of course, kind soul. But I see it. And she hangs towels wrongly. Doesnt know how to look after plants

Washing up, I wondered: How much longer? By all accounts, Id already failed whatever test it was. What was left?

Henry observed the whole affair with that particular kind of male detachment that really means: I see it all, Im just pretending not to because I cant think what to do and hope itll sort itself out.

At night, hed try to reassure me,

Dont worry about it. She just wants the best.

I know, Id reply.

Shes not being mean.

I know, Henry.

She just wants to make sure were alright.

I know.

He seemed relieved, even a bit grateful that I understood, didnt kick up a fuss; that I was calm.

Thats good, Id think, and do the dishes.

On day ten, Patricia left a calculated mess in the kitchen. I got back from work at half sixdirty cups and crumbs on the table, a tub of butter left open. Patricia sat in the lounge watching telly.

I tidied up. Washed. Wiped.

Later, Patricia remarked quietly to Henry in the hallway (thinking I couldnt hear):

Henry, did you notice the state of the kitchen again? She cant seem to keep up.

I stood in the hallway with a towel.

Henry said nothing.

So thats that, I thought.

I wasnt upset, not obviously so.

The next morning, Patricia announced over breakfast that her three sisters would be visiting next weekjust for a natter, get to know each other better.

I smiled and said, Wonderful. Looking forward to it.

Henry gave me a slightly startled look. Patricia eyed me, just a bit suspicious. I finished my coffee and went off to work.

Well see, as Patricia liked to say.

They arrived on Saturday at half two.

All three sistersJean, Barbara, and Ednasolid, opinionated women with voices honed over decades. They swept into the hallway and sized up the place with the brisk efficiency of warehouse inspectors.

Nice flat, said Jean. Bright.

When did you last redecorate? asked Edna.

Three years ago, I replied.

It shows, Edna observed, though she didnt specify how.

Patricia welcomed her sisters in the hall like a stage director sizing up her cast, waiting to see how the drama would unfold. Henry handled the coats. I kept a quiet distance, calm, with a faint smile, not a whisper of panic.

That seemed to unsettle Patricia a little.

We all settled in the sitting room. Jean rearranged a cushionout of habitand then asked,

So, Olivia, whats for tea?

And it was here that I did something no one expected.

I turned to Patricia, utterly calm, no drama,

Patricia, I thought perhaps youd like to be in charge of the kitchen today. You always say you cook better than I do, and everything tastes better when you do it. I wouldnt want to disappoint the guests.

Silence.

She looked at me. I looked back warmly, openly, as if Id just made the most reasonable suggestion in the world, and couldnt see why it was such a shock.

Well, Patricia began.

Theres plenty in, I added. Chicken, veg, herbsI bought it all this morning. You do make such a lovely roast, Ive often heard Henry say so.

Henry, suddenly very interested in the carpet pattern, kept his eyes down.

Barbara glanced at Jean. Edna watched Patricia with keen interest.

Very well, Patricia said at last. By all means.

She went to the kitchen.

I sat next to Jean and, utterly unruffled, asked, Did the traffic give you much trouble on the way? Saturdays are dreadful around here.

Jean seemed a little thrown off but answered anyway. Then Edna chimed in about the traffic. Barbara declared it was impossible to get anywhere in her area on the weekends. Conversation emerged on its own, just as it always does when the alternative is awkward silence.

Sounds drifted in from the kitchen.

First, the fridge opened and closed. Then quiet, a bit long. More cupboard banging. The clang of pans. The unmistakable soundtrack of someone searching for something in an unfamiliar kitchen.

Olivia! came Patricias voice. Wheres your baking dish?

Bottom cupboard, right-hand side, I called back.

Pause.

Cant see it.

Behind the tray.

Long pause.

Oh, here it is.

Jean cleared her throat. Barbara studied the painting on the wall. Edna stared innocently out the window.

I turned to Barbara. Tea while youre waiting? Ill put the kettle on.

That would be nice, she sighed.

I went to the kitchen, stood by Patricia in silence for a few seconds. She hovered over the chopping board as if recently demoted from Captain to Potato Peeler.

We said nothing.

I made the tea, gathered the cups, and left.

Dinner was eventually servedafter a fair wait, a bit on the dry side, and the gravy was rather runny. Patricia set the table like a woman completing necessary duties, though shed rather be elsewhere.

Jean tasted the chicken. Patricia, you always cook so well, she said diplomatically.

Dinner was quiet. Not uncomfortable, just subdued. Everyone understood, and none dared voice it. They chattered about children, gardens, summer plans, anything but the obvious.

I kept the small talk going, asked about Barbaras grandchildren, joined in the discussion about garden sheds, made sure everyone had tea.

Patricia sat at the head of the table, silent.

When the guests left and the washing up was done, Patricia came out of the kitchen, drying her hands on the famous towel with the loop pointing down.

I sat in the lounge, cup of tea in hand. Henry beside me.

Patricia hesitated at the door, then found a seat in the armchair. She was quiet for a bit. It was dark outside, and through our thin walls I could hear the neighbours telly humming away.

You handled that quite cleverly, Patricia said.

I just know what I want, I replied.

She nodded. Got up. Stopped in the doorway without turning.

Truth be told, that stew with beans was rather good.

And she left.

Henry looked over at me.

Did you plan this kitchen thing ahead of time? he asked quietly.

When you kept silent in the hallway, I answered.

He nodded. That was enough.

Three days later, Patricia packed up and went home. Sorted her own taxi, did her own packing. Hugged Henry at the door, then after a seconds hesitation, hugged me too.

I closed the door behind her. Then I walked to the bathroom and hung up my towelloop at the top, as always.