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    Notes to my Mother-in-Law
    Notes to my Mother-in-Law
    Notes to my Mother-in-Law
    Ebook70 pages1 hour

    Notes to my Mother-in-Law

    By Phyllida Law

    5/5

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    About this ebook

    ‘My mother-in-law Annie lived with us for 17 years and was picture-book perfect.’

    It took a while before the family realised that Annie was increasingly (as she would put it) 'Mutt and Jeff'. So Phyllida began to write out the day's gossip at the kitchen table, putting her notes by Annie's bed before going to hers. One night as heer husband wandered off to bed he muttering darkly that she spent so much time each evening writing to Annie she could have written a book. 'And illustrated it!' Here it is.

    It is a book full of the delights of a warm and loving household. Of Boot the Cat being sick after over-indulging in spiders; the hunt for cleaning products from the dawn of time; persistently and mysteriously malfunctioning hearing aids; an unusual and potentially hilarious use for a clove of garlic; and the sad disappearance of coconut logs from the local sweetshop.

    It's about the special place at the heart of a home held by a woman born in another age. Who polished the brass when it was 'looking red at her'. Who still bore a scar on her hands from being hit by her employer when, as a young woman, she was in service. Who could turn the heel of a sock and the collar of a shirt, and make rock-cakes, bread pudding and breast of lamb with barley.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins UK
    Release dateNov 12, 2009
    ISBN9780007351657
    Notes to my Mother-in-Law
    Author

    Phyllida Law

    Phyllida Law has appeared in numerous plays, television series and films, including Peter's Friends, Much Ado about Nothing, Foyle's War and Kingdom. She was married to Eric Thompson, the writer and narrator of the English version of The Magic Roundabout, until his death in 1982. She has two daughters, Emma and Sophie.

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    • 4/5
      A delightful and touching family memoir from the fine actress Phyllida Law. The book is based on the daily notes she would leave for her mother-in-law who came to live with Law and her husband Eric Thompson and her two young daughters, the future actresses Emma and Sophie Thompson in Hampstead.The notes trace her mother-in-law's failing health and growing dependance on the family but is told with great warmth and a healthily wry look at life. One soon gets the impression of a slightly madcap but deeply loving family.There are also gently loving codas from Emma and Sophie Thompson.A memorable look at the pleasures in life, big and small.
    • 5/5
      A sweet & short memoir of sorts, written in the titular notes by the author to her mother-in-law, who was hard of hearing and yet wanted the day’s news and arrangements. Both women sound like people I’d like to know, and Phyllida’s respect and affection for her mother-in-law are evident.I found this a quick, charming read. 4½ stars

    Book preview

    Notes to my Mother-in-Law - Phyllida Law

    PROLOGUE

    Annie, my mother-in-law, lived with us for seventeen years and was picture-book perfect.

    She washed on Monday, ironed on Tuesday. Wednesday was bedrooms, Thursday baking, Friday fish and floors, Saturday polishing, particularly the brass if it was ‘looking red’ at her. Sunday was God and sewing. She had a framed print of The Light of the World on her bedroom wall and her drawers were full of crochet hooks and knitting needles. She could turn the heel of a sock and the collar of a shirt. She made rock cakes, bread pudding and breast of lamb with barley, and she would open a tin of condensed milk and hide it at the back of the fridge with a spoon in it if things were going badly in our world. She came to us when things had stopped going well in hers.

    The rented cottage she left had the rose ‘New Dawn’ curling over and around a front door she never used. All of life flowed towards the back door and led into the kitchen and her cupboards full of jams and bottled fruit. Her little parlour was all table and dresser, with a fireplace full of wild flowers in a cracked china soup tureen. She wall-papered the front room every spring. Three walls with one pattern and the fourth to contrast. But what she loved most was her wood pile and her long, narrow garden where the hedges were full of old toys and rusty tricycles. Here, my children used to hide on fine summer nights, sitting straight-backed in their flannel pyjamas between rows of beans to eat furry red and gold gooseberries, rasps that weren’t ripe and rhubarb dipped into an egg cup of sugar.

    All she managed to bring with her to London were two white china oven dishes, half a dozen pocket editions of Shakespeare, her button box, her silver thimble, a wooden darning mushroom, a large bundle of knitting needles tied with tape and a tiny pewter pepper pot, which became a vital prop at our midday planning meetings.

    LUNCH.

    I have never been able to take lunch seriously, but for Gran it was crucial. She never took anything more than two Rich Tea biscuits and one mug of tea for breakfast, so around noon, depending on her chores, she would say her stomach thought her throat had been cut and come downstairs. When I heard the tap of her wide wedding ring on the banister rail I would strain the potatoes.

    The menu was a challenge. I’d learnt from her son that lettuce was ‘rabbit food’. (Gran could skin a rabbit as if she was removing its cardigan.) Favourites were fried cheese, Yorkshire pudding, onion gravy, dumplings, stuffed heart and kidneys cooked pink—don’t make the plates too hot.

    I was nervous. I had discovered garlic. I called baby marrows ‘courgettes’ and pea pods ‘mangetout’. I ate salad with French dressing, spread marmalade on toasted cheese, and there was no Bisto in the house. I often feel that food can be as big a stumbler as politics and thought Gran and I might be incompatible in the kitchen—but when lunch was up to scratch her appreciation was so utterly delightful that the meal became a game I loved to win. I planned sudden treats of stale cake—kept cake was more digestible—winkles eaten with a pin or fresh-boiled crab.

    Curious about the pretty little pewter pepper pot, I discovered it had come from the Blue Coat School where her father had been a cobbler. Gran had been one of four children, and life couldn’t have been easy for she learnt when she was very young how to pawn the candlesticks and bring her mother jugs of beer from the pub.

    Her country life began when there was an epidemic of scarlet fever and the Blue Coat School moved out of London. There wasn’t enough work so her father was made redundant and Gran went into service at the age of fourteen. She had a scar on one hand from when an irate employer had biffed her with the handle of a broom she had left standing on its bristles. I loved her stories of cruel cooks and horrid housekeepers. It was like having lunch with Catherine Cookson.

    Between the juicy bits we organized our days, and it was some while before I realized she was just a bit, as she would say, ‘Mutt and Jeff’. It was quite a few years before we all grasped that shouting wasn’t enough. After some hilarious misunderstandings, and to avoid confusion, I stuck comprehensive lists on the fridge door beside a large calendar marked with coloured crayons. It still wasn’t enough. Gran always said she’d rather be blind than deaf, and aware at last that she was becoming increasingly isolated, I began to write out the day’s gossip at the kitchen table, putting my notes by her bed before I went to mine.

    One night my husband wandered off to his, muttering darkly that I spent so much time each evening writing to Gran that I could have written a book—‘And illustrated it!’ he shouted from the stairs.

    Here it is.

    Your suspenders were 50p. John Barnes only had pink ones. Got these up Post Office. Change on kitchen table.

    The chiropodist is calling at 1.30 p.m. tomorrow (Tuesday). Inconvenient creature. We

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