Writing for Fun
April 2020
Termination - Anne Wilson
‘What a good job I was staying with you both when the country went into meltdown,’ she declared.
‘Yes,’ her son-in-law agreed, gritting his teeth. ‘Excellent timing. I count my blessings daily. Just think: we might not have been able to see you for months.’
His wife frowned at him reprovingly.
‘It’s our pleasure to have you here,’ she reassured her mother. ‘There was no point in driving you back home just for you to be on your own when the lock-down started.’
‘I don’t want to be a burden,’ the old lady said. ‘That’s the last thing I want. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s people who take advantage.’
‘No-one could ever accuse you of that,’ her son-in-law said with some irony. ‘We’d hardly know you were here.’
She smiled a honeyed smile. ‘Could I trouble you for the newspaper, Michael? You have finished it, haven’t you? Oh, and do you think I could have a boiled egg and bread and butter for breakfast, dear – not too hard; not too runny?’
Her daughter nodded and started to boil the water.
He hadn’t finished with his paper but handed it over anyway with a deep sigh, surrendering it in much the same way that his whole life had been surrendered to his mother-in-law over for the past few weeks – the first part for what was supposed to have been a fleeting visit and then for the lock-down period thus far. He felt ashamed of being so selfish with all that was going on in the world but he just couldn’t help it. The woman was infuriating. She was the most demanding person he had ever met, clinging to them with the vice-like grip of a boa constrictor.
The enforced confinement had been rendered even more fraught by her continual presence. They had two living rooms and in his eyes a guest staying for that duration should have made themselves scarce every now and again by sitting in a different one to them, to allow some breathing space.
He conceded that it was understandable she would want to eat her main meals with them but if he and his wife de-camped to one room for some respite, she followed them. If they wanted to go for a short stroll, she wanted to come too – so that, in order to conform to Government regulations of a maximum of two people at one time, it ended up with one of them remaining behind at home whilst she crawled along at a snail’s pace on the arm of the other. If they suggested an early night to her whilst they stayed up, she resolutely sat on the sofa with her eyes drooping until they eventually closed, which then resulted in either her mouth hanging open or the emission of strange snorting noises.
‘I’m not asleep,’ she would say. ‘I’m just resting my eyes.’
Even the television had become her province. They had suggested buying one for her to put in her bedroom, even before the lock-down but, of course, she wouldn’t hear a word of it.
‘I always say that it’s so much nicer to watch something in company,’ she declared.
She was not particularly interested in world events, except when they impinged on her lifestyle – barely acknowledging the fact that there was a pandemic and resenting the understandable prominence it was given in the schedules.
‘I’ve seen this before,’ she would grumble. ‘It’s a repeat.’
‘Mother,’ her daughter would tell her gently. ‘It’s the Downing Street daily briefing.’
‘That Tony Hancock was on yesterday,’ the old lady would argue. ‘And the day before that.’
‘It’s Matt Hancock,’ explained her ever-patient daughter. ‘Tony Hancock is the comedian who wears a homburg hat and lives at Railway Cuttings, East Cheam.’
‘I don’t care where he lives,’ she shrugged, ‘I just get fed up with seeing him day in and day out at tea-time.’
It was more than flesh and blood could stand. Sometimes he dreamed the sleep of the just, in which a tousle-haired Prime Minister stood outside 10, Downing Street and insisted that all elderly relatives staying with their offspring should return home immediately. It calmed him. Then he would wake up.
Contact with the outside world was, of course, limited and those who (literally) crossed their path – either moved to one side (as in encounters in the street) or walked furtively up the front path to leave letters and packages outside their front door (the postman and Amazon), bolting away as if the occupants had leprosy.
For many, the lock-down had been responsible for promoting mundane events into ones of importance – a trip to the supermarket being the equivalent of an around the world cruise – and it was thus with some excitement one morning that they viewed the postman from their living room, coming up the path carrying a bundle of letters.
His mother-in-law possessed yet another irritating habit of going to the door and gathering up the day’s post, sifting through it as if it might contain letters addressed to her and that morning was no exception.
‘I didn’t realise you’d left a forwarding address for your mail,’ he commented in sarcastic tones.
‘I haven’t’, she replied. ‘What makes you say that?’ She was shameless.
He took the proffered white envelope. It was Private and Confidential but definitely not a circular, nor a Credit Card Statement. He ripped it open, with a gut instinct that it would not be good news. It wasn’t. In his distracted state he momentarily forgot his mother-in-law’s presence and went pale.
‘Oh, no!’ he cried.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked his wife anxiously.
‘They’ve terminated my employment’, he said in a dejected fashion. He re-read the letter slowly, in the vain hope it would reveal some tiny glimmer of hope – but there was none. ‘They don’t see the travel industry recovering in the foreseeable future and they’re downsizing. They say there may be further numbers laid off in the future but regret there’s no way they can continue to pay my salary once furlough is over.’
He sat down slowly, trying to take it in.
‘We’ve got ten years to wait for our State Pensions,’ his wife wailed. ‘And very little in the way of savings. This house was bought on the back of your salary. How do we pay the balance of the mortgage?’
‘You should have put some away for a rainy day,’ the old lady chided. ‘Mark my words, you always need your umbrella at the ready.’
‘I can do without your little homilies, thank you,’ he exploded and, for once, his wife didn’t take him to task. ‘I don’t anticipate much in the way of a redundancy package. They’re not the only ones who need to downsize. We’ll have to sell.’
‘Think about it, for goodness sake,’ his wife dabbed her eyes. ‘No-one will be able to come and view the house until goodness only knows when and, even if they do show any interest, we’re likely to be offered a much lower asking price than the house is worth.’ She blew her nose noisily. ‘Anyway, I love it here. I don’t want to move to some pokey little flat somewhere.’
‘The two aren’t necessarily synonymous,’ her husband argued – gaining his composure. ‘I’ll get another job, eventually. We can sell the house at a profit and buy a perfectly acceptable flat. We may not have the money we’re used to but we’ll survive.’
‘Eventually,’ is the operative word, sniffed his wife. ‘You’re fifty-five. Even in different times it would be difficult. It’ll be downright impossible once the lock-down ends.’
‘You’ve forgotten something,’ piped up a voice. ‘I have a house.’
He had a terrible sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
‘It’s not a fancy one like this one,’ the voice continued. ‘No on-sweets, or whatever they call them. But it’ll sell quicker. People want bungalows. Particularly in my area.’
‘I don’t understand’, said her daughter. She was an innocent in the ways of the world.
‘I can sell it,’ came the triumphant reply. ‘Then I can move in with you and pay part of the mortgage. You’ll never get a better offer and you know it.’
Her daughter’s eyes brimmed with tears as she hugged her mother.
‘Oh mother, we’re so grateful. Aren’t we Michael? Are you sure?’
‘Of course she’s sure,’ he said, with some bitterness.
‘That’s all arranged, then,’ she said with a smug grin. ‘It’s going to be so much easier to arrange because I’m living here with you anyway. I’ve got all the things I want here in that nice bedroom you’ve given me. I don’t want any of my old furniture: just a few knick knacks and Michael can arrange to have those sent here. I’m going to like living here with you all the time. I almost don’t mind looking at Tony Hancock tonight.’