On his sixteenth birthday, my nephew, Oliver, declared he would never, ever get married. There was no point, he insisted. Women, according to him, were the root of all evil and misery in the world, and he had no intention of wasting his youth on spoiled, high-maintenance girls. Maybe in his old agesay, thirtyhe might reconsider, but certainly not now. Life was wonderful and exciting without all that. And then there were children to considersnotty, screaming brats. Hed had enough of that already, looking after his little brother since he was fourteen. No, thank you. My sister, Emily, and I had a good laugh at his expense and made a beta case of champagne said Oliver would marry right after his military service (country lads all did their time, it was tradition here).
We saw him off to the armyMum cried, as expectedand before we knew it, the year was over. A phone call. “Hello, hello, how are you, everyone alive and well? Ollies back”
“Em, whats wrong with your voice?”
“Olivers getting marriedaaaaa Waaaah”
A wail down the line, like someone had died.
“Stop being dramatic. Explain properly. What, is he marrying your clubs manager?” (She was a battle-hardened relic, no one knew her ageyou could only guess by her medals.)
“Noooo, shes from Maidenhead Mertons her surname. Come, please come! I cant handle this on my own!”
The fact that Emilya woman of steel, not one for hystericswas summoning me from halfway across the country to deal with marital drama gave me pause. Five minutes of stunned silence, then ten minutes later, I was scouring flight deals for London to Inverness. No questions asked. Because if women like Emily started crying, things were *bad*.
I found a ticket quickly, and the next afternoon, the “sky horse” (as I jokingly called the plane) delivered me to the ancestral homeland. No one expected me so soonI hadnt called aheadso there was no one to meet me. A quick taxi ride through the frosty, deserted Highlands later, I was home.
I sprinted past the bakery, the church, and barged into the house. Silence. No one. Emily was at school, Oliver at work. Still in my coat, I flopped into an armchair, stretching my legs. Silence. Outside, pines and cedars swayed; snow-capped mountains propped up a bright winter sky. Silence.
“Whos there?!” A sharp bark from the hallway.
In walked an unkempt woman in her mid-fortiesdoughy, with a face like a frying pan and beady little eyes glinting with malice. (Ah, the mother-in-law, I thought. The relatives have already moved in.)
“Hello. Im Evelyn, Emilys sister.”
“What are you doing here unannounced? No one told me about you!” the disheveled harridan snapped.
“And you are Auntie, since when do I need *your* permission?”
“Im Rebecca. Olivers *wife*!”
“His *what*?!”
“His *wife*! And who are *you*, sitting here in boots like you own the place?!”
At that moment, I understood why Emily had been wailing like a wounded puppy. *Good Lord. How?* How had the village heartthrob, the despair of every local girl, ended up with this lump of dough? And now the lump was puffing up, stomping toward me like some enraged colossus, demanding answers.
The front door slammed. Emily sidled in, oddly timid.
“Becs, Becs, calm down,” she stammered. “This is my sister. Shes on holiday, just visiting.”
“Why wasnt I *warned*?” The tank barrel swiveled toward Emily.
I sat frozen, like Zacharias struck dumb. *Holy saints, what is happening?* My sister, the formidable headmistress, fluttered around this grenadier in a fleece robe like a sparrow, making excuses for my presence in *her own house*. My gaze drifted to the womans swollen belly, and a dreadful realization crept into my twisting mind.
(*Ah. The grenadiers in a delicate condition. Judging by the size, six or seven months. Good Lord, when did this happen? Olivers only been back a month Did she visit him on base? Did they not put enough bromide in his porridge?*)
Meanwhile, “Auntie Wife” herded Emily into the hallway, and from the clattering sounds, was interrogating her with a poker.
“*What* guests?! My mothers arriving today, my father tomorrow! We have *family* matters to discuss! Who invited her?! You?! Tell her to go home! We need to sort this out as a *family*!”
(*Heh. Looks like Ive rattled old Doughface. Good.*)
I marched into the hallway, rescued Emily from the poker, plastered on a diplomatic smile, and suggested we all have a nice cup of tea.
“There *is* no tea!” the delightful “daughter-in-law” snapped, storming off to the bedroom.
“Em, have they *evicted* you yet? Lets take a walk. Weve got family business to discuss.”
We trudged to the bluffs, blind with fury. I was too angry to speak.
“Start talking. Where did this marvel come from?”
“Ev, she came back with him from the base. Met him at the train station in Maidenhead, suitcase in hand. Id prepared a welcome partyhis friends, the girls The whole village had been waiting for him. We decorated the house like it was a wedding, got Danny with his accordion, brought out the guitar I made two sacks of dumplings, bought a pig for the barbecue, pickled everything he lovedI was *waiting*. They walk in. He says, ‘Mum, meet Rebecca.’ I took one look at her, and my heart *stopped*. Then I remembered how my mother-in-law hated me all her life, pulled myself together*face isnt everything, maybe shes kind*bit my tongue, cried in the pantry for five minutes. What else could I do? Hes grown, made his choice without asking meI didnt ask anyone when I married Steve. I walk back inno guests. Just Oliver and Rebecca at the table. *Gone*. Like the wind had swept them away. I ask, ‘Wheres everyone?’ She says, ‘Partys over. Olivers a family man now. No time for guests.’ Sent them all home. I looked at my sonhe was sitting there like hed been hit with a oar. So I left. Took the dumplings and the pig to Kate the paramedic. We had our own welcome party. And since then its been like this. He walks around like a ghost. No friends, no matesGod forbid a classmate calls, even a married one. Screaming, fighting, almost knives out. They sit at home like owls. She doesnt go *anywhere*. Eats. Sleeps. Doesnt brush her hair, doesnt dress up. A *young* woman I asked him’Do you love her?’ He just hangs his head. I dont understand *anything* anymore.”
“Mother Have you lost your *mind*? Has this doughball drugged you? Did she drop a vat of batter on your head? Let him worship her on an altar if he wantswhats it to *you*? Whats *wrong* with you? Or do you *love* her too, in some twisted way? Look at yourself! Living like a lodger in your own home! And tell meis she *pregnant*?”
“I dont know.”
“Who are her parents?”
“I dont know.”
“Youve all lost your minds, starting with *you*! Whats she *drugged* you with?”
Emily started trembling like a leaf, crying. I hugged her, and five minutes later, found myself shaking and weeping too.
Crying on a blustery cliff wasnt my idea of fun. I preferred family reunions with hearty food and strong drinks, not freezing on a wind-lashed crag.
“Enough wailing, Em. Lets go home. Im dissecting this Jane Eyre like Beowulf gutting Grendels mother. No more of this *reign*.”
“Evie, dont provoke her, please. What if he *does* love her?” Emily whimpered.
“Let him love a mange-ridden stray for all I care. Just not in *your* house, not at *your* expense. Lets go. Im freezing and starving. Are we sleeping out here?”
“Alright, lets go but go easy, okay?”
“Well see.”
And like Jonah into the whales belly, we trudged homereluctant, but hopeful for deliverance.
By the time we got
