*”Not that ruddy cottage again!”* groaned Natasha, rolling her eyes when she heard her in-laws had roped her husband, Oliver, into helping out—*”Honestly, everything’s in Tesco these days, and they insist on wrecking their backs over it!”*
*”What can I do?”* Oliver sighed, throwing his hands up. *”I’ve told them a hundred times to sell the place, but they won’t listen. The fence is barely holding on, and Dad begged me to patch it up.”* After a brief exchange, he trudged off to his parents’ and then straight to the cottage.
While he was gone, Natasha took the kids, Alfie and Millie, to the local funfair. They spun on the teacups, shrieked on the rollercoasters, and devoured ice cream cones. Back home, Natasha started on supper. Oliver returned by evening, knackered, his clothes splattered with mud. In the hall, he handed her a tote bag. *”From Mum.”* She peeked inside—several jars of homemade preserves. *”What’s in them?”* she asked, intrigued. *”Dunno, didn’t look,”* Oliver muttered, already heading for the shower.
Natasha lined the jars on the kitchen table. Rusty lids, dusty glass, ominous discolouration—they looked like they’d been lurking in a cellar since the Blitz. Her stomach knotted. When Oliver emerged, she thrust a jar at him. *”This is what your mum gave us? Have you seen the state of them?”*
*”Blimey!”* Oliver squinted at the jars. *”Why’d I even take these? Should’ve checked.”* *”You think she didn’t notice what she was packing?”* Natasha arched a brow. Oliver just shrugged. *”Bin them. We’re not eating that.”*
She reached for the rubbish bin—then paused. Something about those jars niggled at her. Stashing them in the cupboard, out of Oliver’s sight, she resolved to wait for her mother-in-law, Margaret, to visit. *”Let her explain this ‘gift’ herself,”* Natasha thought, irritation simmering.
A week later, Margaret swept in. Natasha plastered on a smile, ushering her to the table with saccharine hospitality. *”Fancy a bite, Margaret? Pickled beetroot? Or maybe these suspiciously ancient chutneys? Both?”* she asked, plonking down the rusty jars. Margaret adjusted her spectacles, peered at them, and gasped. *”What in heaven’s name is this? Trying to poison me, are you?”*
Their relationship wasn’t terrible. Margaret had tried bossing Natasha around a few times, but after gentle pushback, she’d backed off. So her outrage seemed genuine. *”These are your preserves,”* Natasha said sweetly. *”Rubbish!”* Margaret scoffed. *”Mine have pristine lids! I’d never hand over such muck!”*
*”Oliver brought them back from your cottage,”* Natasha pressed. Margaret folded her arms. *”You’re having me on! These aren’t mine. If they’re in your house, that’s on you!”*
*”Shops have expiry dates. These look like they expired under Queen Victoria,”* Natasha shot back, irritation rising. Margaret’s blame-shifting was infuriating. *”Why on earth would you serve me these?”* Margaret huffed.
*”So you’d see what you gave us,”* Natasha said coolly. Just then, Oliver walked in. *”Oh, love!”* Margaret wailed. *”Your wife’s trying to off me with rancid jam!”*
*”Mum, they’re yours,”* Oliver said, baffled. *”You handed them to me last week.”* *”Me?”* Margaret paled. *”I’d never!”* *”Mum, they’ve got your little blue cross on the bottom,”* Oliver added, grinning.
Natasha flipped a jar—*”Ta-da!”* Margaret’s face flushed scarlet. She looked ready to vanish into the floorboards. *”Oh. Well. Must’ve mixed up the bags,”* she mumbled. *”Or you stored them wrong! Or—or stuck that cross on to frame me!”*
*”Why would we bother?”* Oliver groaned. Margaret, desperate to escape, grabbed her handbag. *”Must dash!”*
After she fled, Natasha and Oliver had a long chat. *”No more ‘gifts’ from your parents,”* Natasha declared. *”I refuse to play pantry detective again.”* Oliver nodded. *”Fair. We’ll buy our own bloomin’ jam.”*
The ordeal taught them a lesson: even innocent-looking preserves could harbour drama. Oliver vowed to inspect parental handovers like a customs officer. And the jars? They stayed in the cupboard—a dusty reminder that family ties required both love and a healthy dose of scepticism.
