The Marriage Bed by Constance Beresford-Howe

A sort of trade-off on both sides. Nothing soppy and romantic about it at all. I get security and companionship. He gets … well.” She pushed away her tea without finishing it.
    “Of course, you realize he’s marrying both of us,” she went on. “He thinks the world of you – admiration, respect – the lot. Me he will keep as a pet.”
    “Billie!” I said, shocked by what I recognized as the naked truth. It alarmed me considerably, because I thought no one having such thoughts could possibly marry in spite of them. In this, as in so many other things, I was, of course, wrong.
    The timer buzzed, jerking me back to the present, where my own bed was made – i.e., my cake baked, my silver polished, and my bloody mother-in-law due for tea. How queer that Ross’s stable past and my rootless one had twisted together like this to produce today, with all its possessions, its ironies, its insoluble problems. With a great sigh I stooped and lifted the cake from the oven as Martha called to me from upstairs. Christ, it was nearly four o’clock and I still had the kids to dress and the house to tidy.…
    P romptly on schedule, Mother emerged from her taxi and minced daintily up the path, crocodile handbag in one hand, bulging plastic carrier in the other. A face flashed at Junie’s bay window. Intermittent gusts of dry snow spat at Mother’s mink. “Why does she walk as if her sodding
legs
were nailed together?” I wondered as I went to the door.
    We exchanged the light ritual kiss she had taught me to receive and give. The kids watched with large, surprised eyes while the fur coat was taken off and hung up. Most of our callers wore duffle coats, so I think as she first approached they’d seen Mother as some kind of fur-bearing animal, a bison for instance, which God knows wasn’t far from the truth. For various reasons (flu, Florida), she hadn’t paid us her usual monthly visit since Ross left, and they had forgotten her.
    “Well, and here are the dear little … 
children
!” she said, exposing for their benefit the full expanse of her newly mended bridge. They both backed off, looking hunted.
    “Haven’t you got a kiss for your old Granny, then?” she asked.
    “No,” returned Martha bleakly.
    “At least say hello, can’t you?” I urged, mortified.
    Just the same, as they stood shoulder to shoulder looking up at us, I was proud of them. Hugh was balanced firmly on widespread legs. His Ogilvy tartan shorts and white shirt hadn’t been on long enough to be more than slightly crumpled. And although his nose was running, he took his favourite three fingers out of his mouth long enough to give Edwina a wide, wet smile.
    Martha’s black hair was brushed smooth and pinned back with a silver clasp, and she was smugly conscious of her pink smocked dress (kindly ironed the week before by Ross). She had actually stood still willingly while I forced little silk loops over twelve small buttons down her back. I just hoped she wouldn’trepeat to Mother any of the words I’d mentioned at the time.
    “Do come in and sit down, Mother, and I’ll get us some tea.”
    “Is there presents in that bag?” demanded Martha.
    “There might be, for a good girl,” declared Mother coyly. “Come and let’s see. My, how they’ve grown, Anne. Hugh has changed so I’d hardly know him. He’s the perfect image of my father. How has he … 
been
lately?” she added rather less cordially when he toddled over to lay a wet hand on her knee.
    “Well, this winter he’s had one long cold, or about sixteen short ones. Still, that bad go of croup he had in December was the last – he hasn’t been to hospital since, thank God.”
    “What does Dr. Marshall say about all these colds?”
    “Mother, we left Dr. Marshall years ago. The kids’ doctor now is Jeff Reilly, an old pal of Ross’s. He’s young but awfully good.”
    “And why do I say ‘but,’ ” I thought crossly. Why did I ever endure the austere régime of her