13April
Dear Diary,
Ive been wrestling with mothers harsh words for weeks now. She told me flatout that I should never marry that country girl. What can a provincial lass without proper breeding offer you? she snapped. I tried to defend her, saying, Mum, Evelyn is a brilliant girl, wellbroughtup, studying at the Royal College of Surgeons and now training to be a cardiac surgeon.
Mother scoffed, insisting that Evelyns parents must have sold every cow they owned just to pay her tuition. You never finished university yourself, Mum, I retorted, and youve never held a job. Your own parents live in Bristol, not London.
She shot back, How dare you! I left university after my third year because I gave birth to you, and your father forbade me to work, saying he would support us. I devoted my whole life to raising you!
I thanked her for her sacrifices, but told her I am now a grown man and will decide my own fate. She huffed, Do as you wish; I wont attend the wedding, and walked away, cheeks flushed with indignation.
Given her attitude, Evelyn and I decided to forgo a lavish ceremony and simply register our marriage at the local registry office, then celebrate with a few witnesses in the tea room down the high street. When mother heard this, she turned sour again, whining that Evelyns family hadnt sold all their dairy cows and therefore couldnt raise the funds for a proper wedding.
Evelyn and I werent overly upset by mothers disdain; we figured she would get used to it. Evelyn already has a flat of her own, which well share, though well need a modest relayout to merge her mothers and grandparents rooms into one unit. Nothing that scares usjust the start of a life together, and were happy as can be.
We met as if straight from a novel, strolling separately on the Chiltern Hills, when a sudden gust snatched Evelyns sheer silk scarf from her shoulders. I lunged, caught it, collided with her, and we stared into each others eyes, forgetting the scarf entirely. From then on, it was flowers, chocolates, cinema, and six months later we decided to marry proper.
After the registry ceremony we visited my mothers house. We warned her of our arrival, bought a beautiful bouquet and a box of her favourite chocolates, and set off. I had already warned Evelyn that Mum tends to think of her as a simple country bumpkin.
Good afternoon, Mum said, her voice heavy with pretence, so this is the wife youve chosen, son.
Good afternoon. Alberts right, we met at the hills and she caught my eye instantly, Evelyn replied.
What hills? mother asked, puzzled.
The very ones where I chose my bride, Evelyn said, looking earnestly at my mother.
Might I show you to the table? the lady invited.
With pleasure, Evelyn answered, while I tried not to grin.
The table was laid out with the kind of elegance one might see in a museum. There were separate knives and forks for meat, fish and dessert, alongside silver spoons, and glasses for both red and white wine. It was clear the spread was meant to expose any lack of upbringing in a bride.
Your setting is magnificent, almost museumlike, Evelyn remarked. Albert and I, however, never set a table like this.
Evelyn, please stop calling my son Albert, hes Albert, my mother muttered.
I apologise, as you wish.
She began serving us: Heres some sturgeon jelly, and now Ill bring the chicken fricassee, which must be eaten hot.
I adore fricassee. Its a signature dish at the Prague restaurant, Evelyn said, then added, Albert has invited me there before.
Evelyn handled the cutlery with confidence. Mother tried to direct her which fork to use, but Evelyn cut her off: Thank you, Mrs.Mason, Ive been taught all morning by Albert how to eat properly.
Albert coughed, leaving Mother at a loss for a reply.
We left by taxi. Why did you tease mother all evening? Albert asked with a smile.
I wasnt teasing, I was just letting her think Ive just stepped out of a dairy barn with a pail of milk, I replied.
Soon after, we set out to meet Evelyns parents. Mother grudgingly agreed to accompany us in my Land Rover, despite complaining that a trip to the countryside was unseemly. The village was only about 120miles away, so we arrived quickly. Their house was a sturdy, threeroom ground floor with two rooms in the attic, beautifully paneled with carved oak. The scent of fresh pies filled the air.
A young, wellkept woman answered the door. Tom, come quick, the guests have arrived, she called, then greeted us warmly, Welcome, dear. Im Evelyns mother, Catherine Petrovna. And you must be Mrs.Mason?
Mother gave a thin smile, surprised to see a village lady so polished, almost as if shed stepped out of a royal portrait. She took on a queenlike pose, eyes flickering to a goat statue in the garden.
Evelyns father, a tall, silverhaired gentleman with an athletic build, appeared soon after. He lifted Evelyn into his arms, greeted Albert, then turned to my mother, who stared at him with vague curiosity.
Mrs.Mason, is that you? he asked.
Im sorry, I dont recall you, she answered, puzzled.
Im Konstantin Greaves, a former classmate of your husband Anatoly at the Foreign Service College. We met at a reception in Buckingham Palace and later at the institutes anniversary, I explained.
Its all coming back now, Mother said, a hint of embarrassment in her voice.
The memory of that palace reception flooded back: the whole diplomatic corps, a lady in a seagreen gown, jewellery of museum value. The woman was Catherine, and Mother had felt a pang of jealousy, thinking herself a worldclass lady among peasants.
Lunchtime passed merrily. We talked about weather, countryside, and even Evelyns grandmother, who, despite her frailty, sat upright in her chair, laughing with everyone. Mother seemed to relax, as if shed returned to the home of her own parents.
After the meal we walked to the nearby lake. A local boy, sevenyearold Anto, tugged at Mothers hand, leading her to the waters edge and spilling his childish secrets. They all swam, and Mother watched from the bank, smiling.
Auntie Zoe, lets go in! Anto shouted.
Im afraid of water, and Ive no swimsuit, Mother replied. Ill just watch.
Dont worry, Auntie, the boy said in a surprisingly mature tone, you act like a queen, looking down on everyone. Here were all neighbours, we love each other, and if you push people away youll end up alone, old and friendless. Queens dont have friends.
Anto darted off to splash, while Mother stared at the scene, a flush of shame on her cheeks. She thought, Its not too late; Im no longer a queen. I do love these people.
Looking back, I realise that my mothers pride blinded her, but love can soften even the hardest of hearts. Ive learned that the trappings of status matter little when genuine kindness is offered. As I close this entry, I remind myself to keep love at the centre of every decision, and to never let vanity dictate the way I treat those I hold dear.
Albert.
