З життя
Setting Things Straight with Shameless Relatives on a ‘Family Holiday’ That’s Anything But Relaxing: Two Weeks Enduring Aunt Nina, Her Out-of-Control Son, Mummy’s Favourites, and Finally Reaching the Boiling Point in a Run-Down British Seaside B&B
On Holiday with Brazen Family: Putting Everything in Its Place
Its been two weeks, Alex! Two weeks in this dump they call a hotel. Why did we ever agree to this? I asked.
Because Mum insisted. A little holiday will do Annabelle good; shes had such a hard life, Alex drawled, mimicking Mums wheedling tone.
It was true that Aunt Annabelles life hadnt been the easiest, but I couldnt seem to pity her no matter how hard I tried. Shed always been the poor relation, always expecting the world to owe her something, and everyone in the family had to pick up the slack.
My suitcase wouldnt close. With a grunt, I pressed my knee against the lid, trying to force the zipper over the stubborn lip, but all it managed to do was spit out the edge of a garish beach towel.
From the other side of the flimsy paper-thin partition that this sad little guest house had the cheek to call a wall, came the shrill wail of Annabelles six-year-old son, Alfie.
Dont want porridge! No! I want nuggets! he screamed, as if someone were cutting him.
A plate crashed, and Annabelles smoke-roughened voice followed, thick with lazy exasperation, All right, darling, just a spoon for Mummy. Olivia, nip down the shop, will you, and fetch him those blasted nuggets? My feet are killing me. I simply cant.
I froze, hands gripping the useless zip. Olivia! And, of course, Mum would hurry off for her.
Alex sat slumped on the rooms one wobbly chair, scrolling gloomily through his phone. His bag lay where hed thrown it, not even unpacked.
Do you hear that? I asked, tilting my head towards the wall. Shes ordering Mum about, yet again. Olivia, fetch this, Olivia, fetch that. And Mum always comes running.
Leave it, Grace, Alex muttered, eyes fixed to the screen. Were off home tomorrow.
Its been two weeks, Alex! Two weeks in this flea-pit, I exclaimed again. Why did we ever let ourselves get roped in?
Mum twisted our arms, didnt she? he said, parroting, Annabelle needs a break; shes had a hard life.
I sank onto the edge of the bed; the springs wheezed in protest.
Truth was, Aunt Annabelles luck had been harsh. Shed lost her first child as a baby, a whispered family tragedy. Her husband, who loved the bottle too well, had burnt himself out only a few years after that. Now Aunt Annabelle raised two children by different fathers, all living crammed in our nans old flat, with the latest gentleman callernumber eight, by my countunder the same roof.
Work had never agreed with Annabelle. She always insisted her purpose in life was to adorn the world and endurepreferably in comfort while others footed the bill, especially my mother, Olivia, who, in Annabelles estimation, was made of money.
I wandered to the window. The view? Delightfulrubbish bins and the crumbling wall of a neighbouring chicken shed.
This whole trip had been Mums big idea: Lets all go together, help Annabelle unwind, make a family affair of it. Help meant Mum had paid for most of the holiday, supplied endless groceries, and cooked for everyone while Annabelle, sprawled by the pool with a new best matesome brash woman named Sharon, whod latched onto her by the loungerslounged as though auditioning for a lazybones competition.
Pack up, Alex, I eventually said. Were heading out for dinner tonightlast supper and all that.
***
Naturally, we didnt choose the restaurant.
Annabelle declared she had a taste for something posh. The place was perched along the seafront; they had to push together two tables for our whole unruly clancircus was the word I secretly preferred.
Annabelle, squeezed into a sequinned dress stretched thin at the seams, lorded it at the tables head beside Sharona burly, henna-haired woman with the voice of a drill sergeant.
Oi! Waiter! Annabelle bellowed, not bothering with the menu. Your best, pleasemixed grill, salads, and a jug of that red stuff!
Mum, at the edge of the table, mustered a tired smile. She looked spent; in two weeks shed barely sat down, always chasing after Alfies tantrums, Annabelles dramatics, or Sophies endless boredom.
Mum, have the fish, go onI know you fancied it, I said quietly, leaning in.
Far too dear, love; Ill have the salad, Mum muttered, brushing it off. Let Annabelle have a good meal for once. Shes had such a year of it.
I boiled with anger. Yes, right, poor Annabelle! Meanwhile, little Lord Alfie was battering his plate with his spoon.
Feed me! he demanded, mouth gaping, eyes glue-stuck to an iPad.
Dropping her chat with Sharon, Annabelle obediently shoved a spoonful of mash between his lips. Theres my precious! Eat up, darling.
Hes six, for goodness sake. Cant he feed himself? The words slipped out before I could stop them.
A hush swept the table. Annabelle swivelled in her seat, eyes sharp.
Who asked you, dear niece? she sneered. You can raise your own when the time comes. My Alfie is sensitive, he needs special care!
What he needs is boundariesnot a gadget at the table. Youre raising a little tyrant, not a child, I shot back.
Well, I never! Sharon butted in, rolling her eyes. Annabelle, look at her! Miss Psychology Degree! Eggs teaching hens. You havent seen life, my girl, yet youre preaching to your elders.
Grace, hush, Mum whispered, tugging at my sleeve. Dont spoil the evening, please, darling.
The dinner dragged on forever. Annabelle and Sharon cackled about men and hotel neighbours, wailing over the woes of womanhood. Sophie seemed glued to her phone, shooting us looks that dripped with contempt. Alfie periodically screamed for pudding, securing himself the biggest ice cream on offer every time.
When the bill came around, Annabelle tutted theatrically. Oh, heavens! Left my purse in the room! Olivia, would you mind? Ill pay you back soon as we get home.
You never will, I thought, watching Mum meekly produce her bank cardan old family routine.
***
Back at the guest house well after midnight, I made straight for the shower to wash off the sticky feeling of the evening. The water dribbled meanly, now icy, now scalding. As I stepped out, my path took me past the half-open kitchen door, where a raucous hiss of voices slipped out.
Did you see the face on her? Sharon was braying. Sat there looking down her nose. He cant eat on his own indeed. None of her concern, that pretentious thing! Never worked a day, if you ask me.
If not for you, Olivia, shed still be shovelling manure, not turning up her nose at us in restuarants! Sharon went on. Arrogant, empty girl! No boyfriend, no sense, just attitude.
I held my breath, heart thumping painfully. I waitedhoped eventhat Mum would slam a hand on the table and roar, Stop it, Sharon, dont you dare speak about my daughter like that! Or at least get up and leave.
But all that came through was Annabelles sigh and whinge: Dont get me started, Sharon. Shes a hard girl, is Grace. Takes after her dads lottheyre all the same, full of complaints. Not like mine. My Sophies tough, but what a heart! Grace just acts like were beneath herI can barely eat when shes about.
Youve spoiled her, Olivia! Sharon chimed in. Shouldve tanned her behind, not coddled her. Now lookshes a little queen, no respect for her mother. Id have turfed her out ages ago to let her get a taste of hardship.
I pressed my forehead to the door frame. Mum said nothing. She sat there, letting them drag me through the mud.
Sudden resolve surged and I threw the kitchen door open, the bang echoing around the room.
A silence settled. The three of them sat at the plasticky table, topped with empty wrappers and stray bread crusts. Annabelle, bulging at the seams of her glimmering dress, Sharon, flushed and puffing, and my mother who immediately ducked her head.
So Im empty, am I? I said, voice steady as granite. Youre a soul of goodness, are you, Aunt Annabelle?
Annabelle hiccoughed. Sharon loomed over the table like a bear.
Eavesdropping, are we? she growled. Learning to respect your elders, are you?
Im not eavesdropping; youre shrieking across the house, I shot back, stepping into the light. So, Aunt Annabelleis it hard to swallow that food youre forever begging for? Funny, since it went down so well when Mum was paying for it in the restaurant.
You ungrateful little! We welcomed you with open arms and look how you pay us back! Aunt Annabelle shouted, purple with rage. I could be your mother! And you begrudge me a crumb of bread? Keep your money, choke on it!
Its not about money! Its your shamelessness! My anger burst free. Youve leeched off Mum for yearsone man, then another, this child then that crisis. She works herself raw to pay for your seaside holiday and you turn around and call us names behind her back! Your Sophie swears like a navvy and wipes her boots on you, and you want to lecture me? Alfie throws a tantrum and you call it sensitive. Hes a manipulator and you cant say no to him!
Annabelle just stared, speechless.
Grace! Mum squeaked, leaping up. Stop it, right this second! Go to your room!
No, Mum, I wont, I said quietly but with a hard tremor. You sit here and let these women pour filth on me and you say nothing? You just let them?
Sharon drew herself up, fists balled. Now listen, you little bratsomeones got to show you some manners! she thundered, swinging her hand toward me.
Before I could flinch, Alex grabbed her arm in mid-air. Try it, he said quietly. I dare you. Aunt Annabelle, pack up. Were leaving.
Whos we? Annabelle shrieked, sensing her grip slipping. Im not going anywhere! Weve still got two days left, paid in advance! Olivia! Get your children under controltheyre attacking us!
And at last, Mum found her voice. She turned on me, shaking me by the shoulder. Why did you have to start this? Why couldnt you just stay in your room? Youve ruined everything! Were familyhow dare you make a scene like this?
I gently but firmly took her hands away. Something inside me snapped, cold and final.
Im not ashamed, Mum, I said quietly. You should be. For letting them treat us all like this.
I turned and left, Alex following silently. Back in our boxy room we packed up. From the other side of the wall came Annabelles full-throated sobs, moans of her persecution, with Sharon backing her up, calling Alex and me little monsters. Sophie, woken by all the racket, screeched that her sleep was more important.
We cant leave now, Alex muttered as he zipped his bag. Coach doesnt come til morning. Well have to wait out the night at the station.
I dont care, I replied, stuffing lipstick and shampoo into a carrier bag. I wont spend another minute in this hole. Let them have it.
And Mum? he asked.
I paused, Tshirt in hand.
Mum made her choice. Shes in there, comforting her sister.
***
Ive not spoken to Mum since, and neither has Alexshe never earned forgiveness from us. Mum did ring a few times, saying shed forgive us if we apologised to Annabelle, but Alex and I both agreedher forgiveness wasnt worth it.
Wed had enough.
If Mum wanted to spend her life doting on her sister, so be it. As for us, we found life was perfectly tolerableno, happierwithout our shameless relatives.
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The Key in His Hand Rain drummed against the window of the flat with the bleak consistency of a metronome, each beat ticking out the time left. Michael sat hunched on the edge of his sagging bed, as if by shrinking he could disappear altogether from the notice of fate. His large hands—once strong, shaped by years on the factory floor—now lay powerless in his lap. His fingers curled and uncurled in vain, desperate for something solid to hold on to. He wasn’t looking at the wall; he was seeing a map traced on the faded wallpaper—a map of hopeless journeys: trips from the NHS surgery to the private diagnostic clinic. His gaze, like an old film stuck on a single frame, was dulled and washed out. Another doctor, another kind but weary “Well, you have to understand—you’re not as young as you once were.” He couldn’t muster any anger. Anger took energy, and he had none left. Only fatigue remained. The pain in his back had become more than a symptom—it was the backdrop to every thought and action, a white noise of helplessness drowning everything else out. He did everything he was told: swallowed pills, slathered on gels, lay on the chilly table in the physio clinic, feeling like discarded machinery on the scrapheap. And all that time—he waited. Passive, almost devout, for the lifeline he hoped someone—perhaps the government, or a brilliant doctor, or clever professor—would throw out to him as he sank slowly into the muck. He stared into the horizon of his life and saw only rain-soaked greyness beyond the glass. His own will, once so sharp and practical on the job and at home, was reduced to a single function: to endure and hope for a miracle from somewhere else. Family… There had been family, but it had slipped away, vanishing quickly and with a strange clarity. His daughter Katie was first to go—clever Katie, off to London in search of something more. He’d never begrudged her ambition; if anything, he’d encouraged her to chase it. “Dad, I’ll help you as soon as I’m settled,” she’d said over the phone. He’d known even then that it wasn’t important. Then his wife left—Raia. Not to the shops, but forever. Cancer took her so fast. It was as if her absence magnified the weight in his spine, leaving him, halfway between the chair and the bed, still breathing, but blaming himself for it. She, the wellspring of his strength, faded in three months. He’d nursed her until the end, until her cough turned desperate and her eyes dulled to a distant shine. Her last words, gripping his hand in the hospital: “Hang on, Mike…” He wasn’t able to. He broke. Katie called, begged him to stay with her in her tiny rented flat, but what use was he to her there? In a stranger’s home, a burden. She wouldn’t be coming back. Now only Raia’s younger sister, Val, visited, once a week by the clock—bringing soup in Tupperware, pasta with a lukewarm cutlet and a fresh pack of painkillers. “How are you, Mike?” Val would ask, peeling off her coat. He’d nod, “Alright.” They’d sit in silence, her bustling around, tidying his little room, as if the order of things could somehow restore the order of his life. Eventually, she’d leave behind the scent of another woman’s perfume, and the soft, near-tangible weight of a duty performed. He was grateful. Yet also, crushingly alone. It wasn’t just physical loneliness—it was a prison built from helplessness, grief, and a subdued rage at unfairness. One melancholy night, his wandering gaze fell on a key lying on the tattered rug. He must have dropped it the last time he shuffled in from the surgery. Just a key. Nothing special. A bit of metal. He stared at it as though seeing it for the first time. He remembered his grandfather—brightly, as if someone had turned on a light in a dark corner of memory. Grandad Peter—one sleeve empty and pinned—would sit on the stool and tie his laces with a lone hand and a broken fork. Patient, focused, quirkily triumphant when he managed it. “Look, Mikey,” Grandad would say with a gleam of victory in his eye, “A tool is always close by. Sometimes a tool looks like junk. The trick is spotting the friend in the rubbish.” As a boy, Michael had thought this was just old man talk—a comforting fable. Grandad was a hero, and heroes could always manage. Michael, he decided, was ordinary; his battles with pain and loneliness weren’t fit for brave stories. But now, staring at the key, the old scene rang not like consolation, but as a quiet rebuke. His grandfather never waited for help. He used what he had—a bent fork—and beat back helplessness itself. So what had Michael chosen? Only waiting, bitter and passive, sitting by the door of someone else’s charity. The thought jarred him. Suddenly, the key—the chunk of metal, echoing his grandad’s words—became a silent command. Michael stood, groaning as his body objected, almost shame-faced in the empty flat. He took two shuffling steps, picked up the key. His attempt to straighten was met with the familiar knife of pain. He froze, waiting for it to pass, but this time, instead of collapsing back onto the bed, he pressed on. Moving slowly, he went to the wall. He turned his back to it, pressed the blunt bit of the key to the wallpaper right where the pain sat, and gently, gingerly leant in, applying pressure. There was no plan to ‘massage’ or ‘treat’—just the act of pushing back. Pressure against pain, reality against reality. He found a spot where, miraculously, this struggle brought not agony, but the slightest, dull relief—something inside relented, softened a fraction. He moved the key, tried again, higher then lower, with the same careful experiment. Each movement was slow, full of listening to his own body. It wasn’t treatment—it was negotiation. The key, not some medical gadget, was his tool. It seemed foolish. A key was no miracle. But the next evening, when pain returned, he tried again. And again. He discovered places where pressure brought not more pain, but relief—a sense of opening a vice by fractions. He began leaning against the doorframe to stretch. Drank a glass of water when the empty cup reminded him—something free, at least. Michael had stopped waiting, hands idle. He started using whatever was at hand: the key, the doorframe, the floor for simple stretches, his own resolve. He kept a notebook—not a pain diary, but a list of ‘key victories’: “Today managed five minutes by the cooker.” On the sill, he placed three old baked bean tins—planned for the bin. He filled them with earth from the front garden and planted a few onion bulbs. Not a vegetable plot, but a tiny patch of life that he was now responsible for. A month passed. At the next appointment, the doctor’s eyebrows went up at what he saw in the new scans. “There’s some improvement. Have you been doing the exercises?” “Yes,” Michael said. “I’ve been using what I’ve got.” He didn’t mention the key—the doctor wouldn’t have understood. But Michael knew. Salvation hadn’t come by ship. It had simply lain on the floor, ignored while he watched the wall, waiting for someone else to turn on the light. One Wednesday, when Val appeared with soup, she stopped in the doorway. On the windowsill, in those tin cans, green shoots of spring onion pointed skywards. The room no longer reeked of medicine and defeat, but of something almost hopeful. “You… what’s this?” she managed, seeing him standing confidently at the window. “Kitchen garden,” he replied. After a moment, he added, “Want some for your soup? Home-grown, fresh.” That evening, she stayed longer than usual. Over tea, without discussing his aches and pains, he told her about the stairs—the single extra flight he now climbed each day. His rescue didn’t come from Doctor Dolittle with a magic potion. It had hidden itself as a key, a doorframe, an empty can, and a concrete staircase. It hadn’t removed pain, loss, or age. But it put tools in his hands—not to win a war all at once, but to fight his small daily battles. And it turns out, if you stop waiting for a golden ladder from heaven and see the plain, concrete one at your feet, you might find the climb itself is already a life. Slowly, carefully, step by step—but always upward. And on the windowsill, in those three battered cans, grew the finest green onions in the world.
The rain was tapping against the flat window, steady as a grandfather clock, counting down the hours to something you...