He Pulled You Out of the Mire

Son, tell me what you saw in her? Margaret Hargreaves voice cut through the quiet of the kitchen. A girl from some backwater hamlet, no schooling, no prospects. You could have chosen anyone, yet you brought this

Ethel stood frozen in the doorway of the lounge. Heat flushed her cheeks, shame and anger burning her face. She wanted to storm into the kitchen and spill everything that roiled inside, but she was only a guest in this house, a stranger.

Mum, please, Olivers weary voice drifted up. I asked you not to start this.

Whats wrong? What didnt mother say? The facts speak for themselves. Geoffrey, tell him!

Ethel slipped back into the lounge, lowered herself onto the edge of the sofa. The soft upholstery offered no comfort.

They had met six months earlier at a county fair, when Oliver visited his distant relatives in the countryside. He fell for her at first sight, he would later say, while kissing her fingertips and promising to whisk her away, to give her a new life. Ethel believed him.

Geoffrey Hargreaves and Margaret Hargreaves had not welcomed her at all. From the first moment Ethel saw the cold contempt in their eyes, a desire to erase her from their sons world. They made no effort to be polite; at family lunches they spoke to her only through Oliver, as if she were invisible or didnt understand English.

Its just a passing craze of his, Margaret announced over tea, when Ethel stepped into the bathroom and overheard a fragment of conversation through the ajar door. Hell tire of it and leave.

Ethel stayed silent then, and the next day, and the week after, when her motherinlaw muttered something poisonous about her rural manners. There was nowhere to return. She could not live apart she had no means. And she loved Oliver.

Despite the familys fierce opposition, Oliver married Ethel in August. A modest ceremony, a handful of friends, her mother arrived from the hamlet in the only decent dress she owned. Olivers parents made a show of absence, sending a terse note that they disapproved and washed their hands of the union.

The first months after the wedding were a taut silence. Oliver tried to bridge the gap, calling his mother, but Margaret answered with cold, clipped phrases. Ethel did not block communication after all, it was his family, his right to try to keep peace. She kept to the side, arranging their tiny rented flat, hunting for work.

When his mother finally agreed to a meeting, Ethel put on her best blouse, smoothed her hair, even bought flowers. Margaret accepted the bouquet with a look as if shed been handed a rotting fish, then shoved it into the nearest empty vase.

So, have you found a job? the motherinlaw asked, seating herself at the head of the table.

Not yet, but Im not giving up, Ethel replied, striving for calm. I think Ill enrol in a parttime course. I want an education.

How noble, Margaret said. Oliver will have to work twice as hard for you both!

Ethel clenched her teeth but said nothing. Oliver cleared his throat awkwardly, shifting his gaze between his mother and his wife.

She did enrol in the parttime programme a month later not to win Margarets approval, but for herself. To prove she was more than a country lass, a person with ambition and aims. She landed a job in a small firm, handling paperwork, while digging into textbooks. She grew weary, fell asleep over her notes, yet kept going.

Olivers parents became more active in spring. Margaret called, her voice sweet as honey, asking for help in the garden.

We need seedlings planted, beds turned over, she explained. Oliver cant do it alone, and youre used to it, right? You grew up in a village.

Ethel stayed quiet for a long moment, irritated by her tone.

Ill think about it, Ethel managed before hanging up.

Darling? Oliver called.

I wont be bending over in their garden, she said firmly.

Theyre my parents, Ethel. Is it so hard to lend a hand?

Helping is one thing. Using me as free labour is another. They think Im a farmer who must bend my back for their plots? Let them dig themselves or hire someone.

Oliver sighed, but said nothing. Ethel knew he would later call his mother and excuse himself. And he did that night he locked himself in the bathroom, murmuring apologies into the receiver.

The motherinlaws demands grew relentless. Weekly calls came: wash the floors, launder the curtains, run to the shop.

Have you lost your hands? Ethel finally snapped. Youre grown adults; hire a maid if you cant manage.

And how dare you speak to your elders! Margaret roared. Oliver, do you hear how your wife insults me?

Oliver shifted nervously, muttering about compromise and respect.

I will not be a servant, Ethel declared, her voice echoing. Remember that. I am your daughterinlaw, not your maid.

She turned and left the room, slamming the door. Behind her, Olivers feeble attempts to please everyone lingered.

Work rose swiftly. Ethel earned a promotion, her salary swelled, interesting projects appeared. Oliver seemed supportive, praising her, yet his words were strained, as if politeness hid a deeper tension.

Sometimes Ethel imagined leaving. She lay awake at night, replaying breakup scenarios. But there was nowhere to go her mother lived in the hamlets modest cottage, and Ethel had no savings for her own flat. She was trapped like a fly in a web.

Another family dinner came in June. Oliver coaxed her to attend, promising his parents would be conciliatory. Ethel agreed with a heavy heart, donned a severe dress, tucking her hair into a low bun.

From the start it was clear peace would not dawn. Margaret set the table with a grimace as if every movement caused her pain. Geoffrey sat at the head, dark and silent, occasionally casting a heavy glance at Ethel.

So, will you keep living off your sons neck? the fatherinlaw blurted after the salads. Youre earning pennies, studying, and still draining my sons last coins?

I earn more than Oliver, Ethel replied calmly. I pay for my own tuition.

Geoffrey smirked.

Of course You think Id believe you? A provincial girl outshining my son?

Father, enough, Oliver muttered.

Im speaking truth. I brought you here I thought youd be submissive and grateful. Instead you lift your chin, wont tend the garden, wont hand over money.

Because I am not your servant, Ethels voice rang with tension. If you need help, ask properly, like a human. But youre used to ordering and humiliating.

How dare you speak to my husband? Margaret snapped.

As he deserves! Ethel shot back stubbornly.

Geoffrey rose slowly, his face flushing, veins throbbing in his neck.

If it werent for my son, he roared, youd still be living in your stinking hamlet, milking cows! He pulled you from the mud, and you now sway your rights!

Ethel also rose, her heart thudding in her throat, but her voice stayed steady and firm:

No decent woman would endure a petty, worthless man like you. Yet, it seems Margaret enjoys living with a tyrant!

A heavy silence settled, crushing.

How dare you! Margaret leapt, overturning her chair. Leave this house at once! Never return! Oliver, until you divorce her, dont call us! Understand? Out!

Ethel calmly grabbed her bag, slipped on her cardigan.

Oliver, lets go.

He rose silently, following her.

After cutting ties with his parents, Oliver changed. He came home late, lay on the sofa with his back to Ethel, saying nothing. Days passed in that mute rhythm until he began to unravel.

You ruined everything, he blurted one morning, pouring coffee. Because of you I lost my family.

Because of me? Ethel asked, incredulous. Seriously?

You couldnt stay silent, you had to bite back. No, you had to be rude.

They insulted me, and you kept quiet, Ethel moved closer, meeting his gaze. You never defended me once in our whole marriage.

Its my parents! What could I have done?

Stood by me. Yet you chose the sidelines, as always.

Oliver turned away. For months he stayed sullen, making bitter remarks about a good wife respecting elders, forgiving, meeting halfway. Ethel listened, realizing their love had burnt to ash, leaving only ash and bitterness.

One night she could no longer hold back:

Your parents are petty, cruel people. And youve become one of them. A worthy son

Oliver exploded, hurling his mug against the wall, shards scattering.

If it werent for me, he shouted, voice alien and angry, youd still be rotting in your hamlet! Understand? I pulled you out, gave you a chance at a decent life! Ungrateful!

Ethel saw in him the mirror of Geoffrey: same contempt, same selfimportance.

Go, Oliver hissed. Leave my house at once.

She did not argue. From the loft she retrieved an old suitcase, packed swiftly in silence.

She called a cab, dragged the suitcase to the door, and turned for a final glance:

Youre weak, Oliver. Pathetic. Youre a perfect copy of your parents.

Six months drifted in fog. A cramped council flat, neighbours chatter, foreign smells, arguments through thin walls. Ethel worked to exhaustion, saved every penny, filed for divorce in court. Oliver signed the papers without protest, perhaps also weary.

By autumn she had saved enough for a proper flat. A modest onebedroom on the outskirts, hers alone, free of others shadows and memories. Ethel stood in the empty, bright room, looked out at the grey sky, and for the first time in ages smiled. Life moved on. Without Oliver, without his parents, without humiliation. Just on, and it was beautiful.