We were away on our friends wedding in Bath, leaving the cottage on the outskirts of Surrey in the care of my motherinlaw, Mrs. Agnes Whitmore. When we returned, the garden we had painstakingly built over two years looked as if a bulldozer had swept through it. The neat lawn of emerald green that had been our pride the morning before was now a series of freshly turned furrows, the beds wed sowed with tomatoes and cucumbers reduced to a tangle of broken roots and wilted pansies.
Dont you know what you want, love! she snapped, arms flailing in the middle of what had been our front yard. Just a fortnight ago you said you wanted your own little tomatoes and cucumbers. Ive arranged everything for you, so why are you now making a fuss?
I had never actually said such a thing. I may have mentioned in passing that the neighbours allotment was tidy, but Mrs. Whitmore took that as a command.
She stood there, gesturing wildly. The greenhouse is already paid for! Itll be delivered tomorrow and erected right here, where those useless pansies were growing, she announced. Ive temporarily moved them to the fence, dont worry. Well replant them later. The roots are a bit damaged, but theyll survive pansies are tough, like weeds.
I could do nothing but stare at Michael, my husband, his face pale with horror. He had always been the steady one, but even he looked shaken.
Our cottage, bought with hardearned savings after years of scrimping on holidays and a new car, had turned into a chaotic plot in three short days. The pride Michael had taken in his cityslick ways clashed with Agness lifelong experience of digging in the soil. She spoke as if she were delivering a sales pitch in a conference hall.
Just wait until autumn, she boasted. Well have a harvest that will make the neighbours jealous potatoes, beetroot, carrots. That lawn you grew? Its nothing but daisygrass. It may look nice, but it wont feed anyone.
Her confidence left me breathless. We had only been away for three days, but in that time Mrs. Whitmore had watched over the house and, in her mind, improved it.
I tried to keep my voice calm. Mrs. Whitmore, this is our cottage, not yours. We never asked you to plough the garden or to rebuild it.
She rolled her eyes. Oh, Lucy, dont be so ungrateful! Im helping you. Youre young and inexperienced, and Ive spent my whole life in the garden. In the north we grew tomatoes the size of watermelons! What have you done? Youve scattered flowers, sowed grass its frivolous.
Michael stepped forward, and I placed a hand on his shoulder, fearing he might say something hed later regret.
Mother, he said firmly, please cancel the greenhouse order at once.
His voice trembled slightly, but he held himself together. Agnes stared at him, offended and indignant.
Ill not cancel it! she declared. Never!
My mother who asked you to do this? Michael muttered, fists clenched.
Michaels relationship with his mother had always been strained. Shed raised him alone, but he was never the type to cling to a mothers apron strings. From his teenage years hed asserted his independence; at eighteen he left for university in Manchester, found work, and later married me. We returned to our cottage together, and she tried to find a place in our lives, but Michael kept her at arms length, sometimes sharply.
I even contributed a part of my pension to the deposit! Agnes huffed, shaking her head. Ungrateful lot! I wish you well, and you
At that moment my patience shattered. For years I had swallowed her endless I know best, her constant you young folk are foolish. But the sight of our oncelovely garden, the broken pansies lying forlorn by the fence with dry roots, was the final straw.
Leave, I whispered.
What? Agnes gasped, eyes wide.
Leave now. Pack your things and go, I repeated, a little louder. Today.
Lucy, youve got to be mad, she cried, stepping forward. Im Michaels mother!
And so what? I shot back. This is our home, our plot. You have no right to run the place as you wish.
She tried to protest, but I cut her off.
Youve ruined what we built over two years. Michael spent every weekend tending that lawn; I grew flowers from seed, fussed over them like children. In three days you turned it all to dust. My voice trembled, but I steadied myself. Take it all with you, Agnes. Take the greenhouse when it arrives, and leave the key.
She stared at me, then at her son.
Mick! she whispered. Mick, you cant let this this lady
Go home, mother, Michael said wearily, with the greenhouse if you must. Well sort it out ourselves.
What are you going to do with my greenhouse? she shrieked.
My greenhouse? I echoed, incredulous. Thats news to me.
Yes, my greenhouse! I ordered it with my own money!
Then you can take it with you when its delivered, I snapped. We never asked you to tend the garden or feed the cat. Thats all we needed. Youve overstepped.
You ungrateful wretches! she wailed. I came with a clean heart, to help! You have no conscience!
She fumed a moment longer, then left, still shouting about ingratitude and how we would regret it.
The next day the delivery truck arrived with the greenhouse. Since Agnes Whitmore was the purchaser, we simply sent it back, no charge. We returned to the garden, laid fresh rolls of lawn seed in neat strips, replanted pansies and asters along the pathways. Within weeks the cottage grounds were green again.
When Agnes heard of it, she called in a panic.
What have you done? All cottages have proper gardens, and yours is just grass! No cucumbers, no tomatoes! she screamed into the telephone.
We did what we thought best, Michael replied flatly.
Woe be upon you! she snarled. Never ask me for anything again! Ill never help you!
