Tomorrow Im off to meet my future motherinlaw. My married friends try to calm me, practically terrifying me with their warnings:
Remember, keep your head high they didnt find you on a junkyard.
Dont let anyone step on you; dot all the is right away.
Good mothersinlaw are a myth.
Its you whos making them happy, not the other way round.
I lie awake all night, and by morning I look as if Ive been polished for a funeral. We meet on the platform and board the train a twohour ride. The train threads through a tiny market town after a stretch of pine woods. The air is biting, scented with the promise of Christmas. Snow glitters under the weak sun, crunching beneath our boots, while the pine tops sway and whisper. I start to shiver, but a little village appears on the horizon, just in time to save me.
A frail, wiry old woman in a patched wool coat, threadbare boots and a clean, holey scarf stands at the gate. If she hadnt called out, I would have walked right past her.
Emily, love, Im Margaret Hargreaves, Jamess mother. Pleased to meet you, she says, pulling a knitted mitten from her wrinkled palm and extending a firm hand. Her eyes, half hidden by the scarf, are sharp and inquisitive. We trudge along a snowcovered path to a cottage built of dark, weathered logs, the hearth glowing a fierce red.
It feels like stepping back into the Middle Ages, eighty miles north of Leeds. The well provides water, the toilet is a hole in the garden wall, a radio sits in the corner of only a few houses, and the cottage is dimly lit.
Darling, shall we switch on the light? James suggests. His mother gives a disapproving look.
What, you think we shouldnt sit in the dark, or youll choke on your own spoon? she retorts, her gaze landing on me. Of course, love, I was just about to turn it on. She twists the old bulb over the kitchen table. A weak glow spreads a metre around.
Hungry, are you? Ive boiled some noodles help yourself to a bowl of hot soup.
We sit and eat, exchanging glances while she whispers gentle, roundabout words, her eyes wary yet kind. I feel as if shes dissecting my soul. She bustles about, chopping bread, shovelling logs into the fire, and mutters, Ill set the kettle; lets have tea. She lifts a tiny teapot with a lidded top, a little pineshaped knob, a tiny hole from which steam sighs. The tea is no ordinary brew; its a berry infusion, the sort that could chase away any chill. Here, dear guests, help yourselves this is homecooked, not bought.
A cinematic feeling settles over me, as if a director were about to call, Cut! Thanks, everyone. The warmth, the food, the raspberryflavoured tea makes me want to curl up for hours, but the next order comes quickly.
Alright, you lot, head to the shop in the next town and buy a couple of kilos of flour. Well need it for pies tonight when Eleanor and George arrive with their families, and Lucy from Manchester will be here to meet the future daughterinlaw. Ill start on the cabbage filling, boil the mash, and you can help later.
While we dress, Margaret rolls a cabbage from under the bed, chops it, and says, This heads going to a proper slice.
We walk through the village; every passerby stops, greets us, men tip their hats, bow their heads, and watch us go.
The shop is in the neighbouring town, a short trek through a forest of firs and snowcapped stumps. Sunlight dances on the frosted trunks as we head out, and on the way back a yellowish glow settles over the landscape. Winter days are short.
Back at the cottage, Margaret says, Make yourself useful, Emily. Im going to pack the garden in snow so the mice wont nibble the bark off the trees. James, you help toss the snow under the branches.
If I hadnt known what to bake, I wouldnt have bought so much flour, but Margaret nudges me on, No matter how big the job, once you start youll finish it. The beginning is hard, the end is sweet.
Alone with the dough, I fumble, shaping round pies and long ones, some the size of a palm, others a bit larger. Some are brimming with filling, others barely have any. One is a deep brown, the other a pale gold. Im exhausted. Later James confides, Mum organised this as a test to see if Im ready to bring a proper wife into the family.
Guests pour in like a bounty from a cornucopia all fairhaired, blueeyed, smiling. I hide behind James, shy and nervous.
A round table dominates the room, and Im placed on a makeshift throne a sturdy wooden bed surrounded by children who bounce, nearly giving me seasick feelings. James brings a large wooden chest, covers it with a blanket, and I sit like a queen, on display for all.
I refuse the cabbage and fried onions, but I manage to eat everything else while laughing with the crowd.
Night falls. The future motherinlaws narrow bed sits by the fireplace; the rest of us stretch out on the floor with mattresses pulled from the attic. The cottage may be cramped, but its better together, Margaret says as she smooths a freshly laundered set of sheets from an old carved chest for me. Come on, make yourself at home.
I slip out to the privy, feeling the cold floor under my feet, careful not to step on anyone. In the hallway, a dark shape brushes my ankle. I jump, thinking its a rat, but the others burst out laughing. Its just a kitten that roamed around all day and came back at night.
I join James at the splitlevel washroom; theres no door, just a curtain. He lights a match to see where Im going, making sure I dont slip.
Back in the bedroom, I collapse onto the mattress, the fresh country air drifting in, the distant hum of traffic nowhere in sight. The village is quiet, and I finally drift off.
