The Intruder

I was the head of a rather unruly household, and the verdict on how things should run came from my eldest daughter, Blythe. Shed never married her temperament was sharp and her expectations of suitors were skyhigh and by the time she hit her thirties shed become a bitter, outright misandrist, a sort of ulcer in the familys stomach, a living nightmare for any man.

Troublemaker, she declared, as if it were a verdict stamped in stone. My younger daughter, Molly, a plump girl with a ready laugh, snorted in agreement. My wife kept silent, but the sour set of her face told me she wasnt thrilled either. And why would she be? Our only son, Tom, our rock and hope, had gone off to the Army and come back with a wife. She was a stranger with no family, no money, nothing at all. Nobody knew whether shed grown up in an orphanage or been handed over by a distant relative. Tom pretended not to see the point, joking that wed earn our own fortune yet. Hed brought a complete stranger into the family, and we all wondered what sort of mischief she might cause a thief, a conartist you never know whats possible nowadays.

Since Agnes Whitaker arrived, the house has never known a night of quiet. She dozes in halfopen eyes, always waiting for some snag from the new relative, for when she starts rummaging through the cupboards. The girls keep urging her to hide away any valuables coats, jewellery just in case. One bright morning we might wake to find everything gone.

Toms outburst over the past month has been relentless: Who did you bring into our home? Where were you looking? Hes never once softened his tone.

Theres no point crying about it; we have to live. So weve learned to make room for Agnes.

Our estate is modest but comfortable a thirtyacre farm, three piglets in the sty, a flock of chickens, a garden that could feed a family. You could work there till the sun set and still have chores left. Agnes never complained. She tended the pigs, cooked, cleaned, and tried desperately to please her motherinlaw. Yet if Margarets heart wasnt in it, no amount of gold could smooth things over everything would feel wrong.

On her very first day, the unwelcome daughterinlaw, seething with resentment, snapped at Margaret:

Call me by my proper name, Agnes. Itll be better that way. I already have my own daughters; youll never be as dear as they are.

From then on, we all called her Agnes Whitaker. Margaret never addressed her by any other name. She kept saying, Something has to be done, and that was that. No one indulged her. But the sisters never let any disfavoured relative slip away. Every petty grievance was nailed down in a row. Once, Margaret even had to curb the spending of her daughters, not out of pity for Agnes but to keep order in the house. After all, the girl was hardworking, not lazy, and she took on everything. Slowly, Margarets icy stance began to thaw.

Perhaps things would have settled, if Tom hadnt started wandering.

What man can stand it when his mother nags him from sunrise to sunset, Who did you marry? Who did you marry? And then Blythe, ever the meddler, introduced him to a friend, and the whole thing spun out of control. The sisters celebrated a victory: finally the hateful Agnes would be swept away. Margaret stayed quiet, while Agnes pretended nothing had happened, her eyes dull and vacant.

Then, out of the blue, two shocks hit us: Agnes was expecting a child, and Tom announced he was divorcing her.

Never mind that, Margaret told Tom. I never set you up with her in the first place.

But once youre married, you stick it out. Youll be a father soon, so stop your whining. If you break the family, Ill throw you out and I wont even want to know you. And Ethel will stay here.

For the first time Margaret actually called Agnes by her name. The sisters fell silent. Tom blew up, Im a man, I decide my own fate. Margaret crossed her arms and laughed, What man? Youre still in trousers. When youve actually fathered a child, raised him, given him a mind, then you can call yourself a man.

Margaret never minced words. In the end Tom stormed out, leaving Ethel behind. A while later she gave birth to a little girl and named her Violet. When Margaret learned of the name, she said nothing, but the smile on her face said it all.

Outside nothing changed, but Tom lost his way home and felt bitter. Margaret, too, was worried but never showed it. She adored the granddaughter, spoiling her with gifts and sweets. As for Ethel, it seemed she never forgave the fact that her son had slipped away through her.

Ten years passed. The sisters married, and the big house was left to three: Margaret, Ethel, and Violet. Tom enlisted again and moved north with his new wife. A retired soldier, a solid, older man, began courting Ethel. Hed been divorced, left her his flat, and lived himself in a council house. He drew a pension, was respectable, and Ethel liked him, though she wondered where hed take her to Margarets house?

She explained everything, asked for forgiveness, and set him straight. The fool didnt listen; he turned up at Margarets door, declaring, Agnes Whitaker, I love Ethel, I cant live without her.

Margarets face didnt twitch a muscle.

Love him, then, she said, go ahead and live together.

She paused, then added, I wont let you bring Violet into my flat. Stay here, in my house.

So they all lived together. The neighbours talked endlessly, chewing over how the mad Agnes had driven her own son out and how the family had taken in the troublesome girl. No one bothered to argue with Agnes; she ignored idle gossip, never chatted with the neighbours, kept her pride intact. Ethel later gave birth to Catherine, and Margaret could not help but beam at her beloved grandchildren, even if she didnt quite call her a proper granddaughter.

Then disaster struck, as it always does. Ethel fell gravely ill. Her husband broke down, even turned to drink. Margaret, without a word, emptied every penny from the family ledger and hurried Ethel to London for treatment, paying for every medicine and seeing every specialist, to no avail.

One morning Ethel felt a little better and asked Margaret for a bowl of chicken broth. Margaret, delighted, slaughtered a chicken, plucked it, boiled it. When she brought the broth, Ethel couldnt eat it and, for the first time ever, broke down in tears. Margaret, who had never been seen crying, wept with her:

Whats wrong, my dear? Youre leaving me after Ive loved you so much? What are you doing?

She steadied herself, wiped her eyes and said, Dont worry about the children; theyll be fine. From then on she never shed another tear, staying by Ethels side, holding her hand, gently stroking it as if asking forgiveness for everything that had passed between them.

Another ten years slipped by. Violet was to be married. Blythe and Molly, now older and reconciled, returned. Neither had children. A small gathering of relatives assembled. Tom showed up, his marriage long dissolved, drinking heavily. When he saw how beautiful Violet had become, he was thrilled, thinking, I never imagined such a splendid daughter. But when he heard his daughter called the man who raised her father, his mood darkened and he blamed Margaret, Youre the one who let a stranger into this house. He should be the one cleaning up. Im the father here.

Margaret answered, No, son. Youre not a father. Youve been wearing trousers since you were a lad and never grew into a man. She said it as shed stamped it on the door.

Tom couldnt bear the insult, gathered his belongings and set off again. Violet married, had a son, and named him Alexander in honour of her stepfather. Last year they laid Margaret to rest beside Ethel.

Now they lie together in a row: daughterinlaw and motherinlaw. Between them, a birch tree sprouted this spring, its origin unknown no one planted it. It seemed to appear out of nowhere, perhaps a final farewell from Ethel, perhaps the last sorry from Margaret.