Ned - Happy Families

I love my wife. Really, I do. To cherish, honour and obey – I made that promise all those years ago and can honestly say that I have never regretted it for an instant. But I stand fast by my assertion that there was nothing in those vows about extending the same courtesy to your Mother in Law.

I knew something was wrong the minute I got home that night. The house was quiet for one thing – unnaturally so for a family that boasted three junior members, a dog and a half-witted parrot. And as if that weren’t enough to arouse my suspicions, there were more warning signs awaiting me as I left the safety of the hallway to search for my wife in the hope that she would be able to offer some kind of explanation as to why I suddenly felt like I had stepped into the Twilight Zone. My newspaper, unopened and with the crossword still fully intact; dinner on the table a full half an hour before I was even expected to arrive; and the thing that really clinched it, the thing that would have made me suspect something was up even if all else had been fine and dandy – a pack of Marlboros sitting beside my chair just waiting for me. I only smoke when completely drunk or under huge amounts of stress and Angie knows it. Whatever she was planning to spring on me had to be really bad….

“How was your day?” she asked, appearing suddenly from the kitchen as if in answer to my thoughts. I studied her closely for any sign of what could have occurred to make her suspect I would be in need of a hefty nicotine intake in order to get me through it, but she looked the same as always– slightly flustered perhaps, but nothing that couldn’t be explained by the fact that she had obviously been busy cooking for most of the afternoon. Maybe you’re being paranoid, I told myself hopefully, willing more than anything for that to be the case. I almost managed it too – kissing her cheek and taking an appreciative sniff at the delicious smells coming from what could only be my dinner. And then she helped me out of my coat. She never does that. Never. Not even the time when she was trying to decide how to tell me that Ben had been sick all over the antique patchwork quilt that had been in my family for twelve generations. No, there was no doubt in my mind that this was damage control at an unprecedented level. It was at that point that I began to think those cigarettes were probably going to be a good idea – I had a funny feeling that I was going to need them.

“My day has been as normal..” I told her, trying not to give any hint that I suspected anything was amiss. “Far too many half-brained ***s who don’t know their arse from their elbow much less the sail from the screws who are wasting my time and everyone else’s by trying to become qualified enough to get their brains blown out on a sub. I would throw my hands up in despair and suggest we emigrate to the Outer Hebrides in order to escape from this eternal torment, but fortunately for the US Navy in general and my sanity in particular, there are a few, a very small few granted, but the fact that they exist nonetheless gives me hope, who seem to display what could passably be classed as potential.” Having unburdened myself of the annoyances that were an occupational hazard of my stint of teaching at the academy, I glanced around, hoping to discover the reason for her less than normal behaviour. The far too carefully laid table caught my attention again, doing nothing to reassure me. “I see that your day on the other hand has been rather more productive….” I added, shooting her a suspicious look before sitting down and allowing her to fill my plate. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy a good meal as much as the next man, but somehow I couldn’t quite shake the feeling that I was taking the lead part in the Pellew Family version of The Last Supper.

“Oh, just a little something I threw together…” she told me brightly, hovering behind my chair. A little something? I thought, shaking my head. There was enough there to feed the five thousand. Well, if I had to face bad news, at least I could do so with a full stomach. I told myself, resigned somewhat to the inevitable and starting to eat. I had hardly taken a few mouthfuls when she was refilling my plate, but I let it pass, determined to enjoy it while it lasted. And who knows, I told myself unable to suppress a smirk at the though that had just occurred to me, maybe this good mood will last until bed time…

“Where are the kids?” I asked suddenly, finally managing to put my finger on the reason for the silence that was, in our house at least, all too infrequent.

“They’re round at Maggie and Dave’s….” she informed me, suddenly far too interested in the bottle of wine she was trying – rather unsuccessfully I might add – to open. And she still hadn’t started eating. I knew when someone was planning to make a quick get away – and this definitely counted as one of those times. Alarm bells? I could hear bloody sirens. The last time Angie sat me down like this was…

“You’re not pregnant are you?” I burst out suddenly. The very thought made me shudder. I mean I adore the kids we have and wouldn’t part with them for the world, but another one? Good God, I was too old for all that. Not to mention the space factor – where on earth was she planning to put it? A moment later though and I found myself wishing that a new addition to the family was all I had to worry about.

“My Mother is coming to stay.” She mumbled, somehow managing to meet my eye despite knowing exactly what my reaction would be. I did not disappoint her.

“She’s what?!” I exclaimed, any appetite for food or otherwise deserting me quicker than William at the mention of a bath. “Bloody hell Angie…” Her Mother. The Iron Maiden herself. Could it get any worse?

“For a month,” she added, promptly answering my unasked question. I couldn’t even find a response for that. A month. Four sodding weeks with Derbyshire’s answer to the Wicked Witch of the West in my house. I’d really offended someone up there to be punished with this one.

“Right. I’ll pack my bags.” I informed her, taking a somewhat larger than strictly necessary gulp from the conveniently placed glass of wine that she had set before me. If she thought I was going to stay and play happy families she was very much mistaken. I’d rather bury myself alive with a tarantula.

“Ned…” she protested, clearly unhappy at my response. I felt slightly guilty at that, but what else did she expect?

“Angie – your Mother hates me.” I tried to reason with her. “It’s you and the kids she wants to see, and you know full well that after twenty-four hours in each other’s company it’ll be knitting needles at dawn in the back yard - I’ll be dead before you know it and then what will you do? You’ll have to sell yourself just to support the kids and they’ll end up as alcoholic drug addicts with a grudge against the world and you in particular because you let their father be stabbed to death by a homicidal pensioner… Not to mention what the neighbours will say. You’ll have to emigrate and change your name and…”

“Ned… darling… please…” she begged, cutting me off mid-rant. Oh no, I groaned inwardly, not The Voice. You must know what I mean – any man who has had to deal with that inexplicable creature called his wife cannot fail to have encountered The Voice. It’s the “I’ve just totalled the car,” voice, the one they use when they’re more than aware that under normal circumstances their actions would have you reaching for the divorce papers, but which somehow renders you powerless to utter more than “That’s all right dear…” and offer them your credit card so that they can go shopping. I could never argue when faced with it, and what’s more, she bloody well knows it.

So she came. Oh God, she came all right. Complete with eight piece luggage set on wheels, enough complaining to make me want to gag her within the first five seconds of her stepping off the plane, and a year’s supply of toilet paper.

“Anyone would think we didn’t have the stuff over here!” I couldn’t help commenting as I watched with amazement as 36 rolls of Andrex’ Finest was loaded into the back of our car.

“Not the proper kind you don’t…” was the rather scathing reply. Well that put me in my place didn’t it?

“Not the proper kind you don’t…” I mimicked under my breath, earning a dirty look from my wife in the process. I tried to care, but really couldn’t manage it. Hell, the old bat was getting to me already and we hadn’t even left the airport. It was going to be a long four weeks…

It didn’t get any better when we arrived home either. Oh no, it got worse. A lot worse. After informing Angie that her room was too small, the stairs too wide and that I was just generally unacceptable, she really got going.

“So… when are you coming home dear?” the nefarious witch asked my wife that evening as we sat down to dinner. Home? We’ve been married for ten years and living in the States for nine and three quarters of them, and the blasted woman still thinks that Angie is going to up and leave me at the drop of a hat? She wouldn’t even let the thought cross her mind. She bloody well better not anyway, I added as I chanced a glance at the woman in question to see how she would respond.

“Mother, I’ve told you before…this is my home…” she replied after a one of those awkward silences that always seem to occur whenever unwanted relatives are around. I couldn’t hide a smile. Ha. I thought to myself with satisfaction. That told you, didn’t it? My victory was short lived though, and by the end of the evening I was ready to shut myself in the garage with the exhaust running. Sophie looked too pale, Ben was in danger of becoming an illiterate vagabond, and all three kids would be well on their way to ruin and destitution before they reached puberty. I wouldn’t have minded so much, but apparently it was all my fault! And did Angie say a word in my defence? Like heck did she! The most I got was a sympathetic grimace from time to time which was more likely to be attributed to embarrassment rather than any feeling of remorse for what she was putting me through.

“Right - I’m going to bed.” I informed the Judas formerly known as my wife before storming upstairs to nurse my wounds in private. One of us would have to go, that much was painfully clear. I would have put the motion to my wife, but I had a funny feeling I knew who would be doing the walking…

We made up. Eventually. I only sulked for three days, so nowhere near as bad as the time she ran over my golf clubs. She apologised, I grudgingly accepted, and we survived. The miracle was, so did Connie.

“You’ll miss her really…” Angie told me as we drove home from the airport four weeks later.

“Not bloody likely…” I replied, comforting myself with the knowledge that it would, with any luck, be another three years before I had to set eyes on the old dragon again and could therefore put her out of my mind until then. Or so I thought.

“Well, just in case you do…” she told me sounding as if she was trying not to laugh. I found out why a moment later as she added - “She’s invited us for Christmas…”

posted at 9:17 p.m. on 08-04-02