Tomorrow Im off to meet my future motherinlaw. My married friends tried to soothe me, but their warnings were almost terrifying:
Stand tall, you didnt end up on a dump, they said.
Dont let them get a foot on your throatset every i straight away.
Good mothersinlaw are a myth, you know.
Its you wholl make them happy, not the other way round.
I lay awake all night, and by morning I felt as if Id been polished for a funeral. We met on the platform and hopped on the local train a twohour ride. The line skirts a tiny market town after passing the old coal pits. The air is crisp, carrying the scent of Christmas. Snow glitters in the weak sun, crunching underfoot, while the tops of the pine trees whisper. I began to shiver, but relief came when a little village appeared.
A wiry, stooping old lady in a patched quilted coat, threadbare boots and a clean, though tattered, headscarf welcomed us at the gate. If she hadnt called out, I would have walked right past her:
Ethel, dear, Im Hattie Brown, Toms mother. Lets be proper acquaintances.
She tugged a woolen mitten from her wrinkled hand and offered a firm shake. Her gaze, hidden beneath the scarf, was sharp and unyielding. We trudged along a path between drifts to a cottage built of darkened logs. Inside, the hearth glowed redhot, spilling warmth through the modest rooms.
Eighty miles north of London, it felt like stepping back into the Middle Ages. The water came from a well, the toilet was a hole in the back garden, not every house owned a radio, and the cottage was dim as a candles last flicker.
Mother, shall we light a lamp? Tom suggested.
His mother gave a disapproving look:
Dont sit in the dark, lovefear the spoon falling off your hand, eh? She turned to me, softened, and added, Of course, dearlets get this bulb up. She twisted the old kitchen light; a feeble glow lit about a metre around.
Hungry, are you? she asked, ladling out a pot of thin noodles. Come on, have a bowl of hot soup. We ate, glancing at each other, while she whispered in a voice both gentle and calculating, as if she were dissecting my very soul. Her eyes never left mine as she bustledcutting bread, tossing a few sticks onto the fire, muttering, Ill put the kettle on. Time for tea.
She fetched a little teapot with a tiny lid, then a tiny pinecone stopper. Steam hissed from a hole in the cone. Not just any teathis is berryinfused, with a spoonful of raspberry jam. Itll warm you through and chase any chill away. No sickness will ever touch you here, so it seems.
I felt as if I were on a periodfilm set, waiting for the director to call, Thats a wrap, everyonethanks! The heat, the food, the tea made me drowsy; I imagined pressing my cheek against a pillow for a few hundred minutes, but the day had more in store.
Alright, dears, lets dash to the village shop and buy a couple of kilos of flour. Well need it for piesVarney and Grace will be visiting with their families this evening, and Lucy from London will come to meet her future daughterinlaw. Hattie added, Ill fry some cabbage for the filling and boil some mash while youre at it.
As we changed into our coats, Hattie pulled a cabbage head from under the bed, began chopping, and chanted, A cabbage for the pot, a slice for the stew.
We walked through the village; everyone stopped to greet us, men tipped their caps, bowed slightly, and watched us pass. The bakery was in the next hamlet, reachable by a short trek through a birch forest. Snowladen stumps wore fluffy white caps, and the sun played cheerfully on the icy boulders as we headed out, then turned a buttery yellow on the return. Winter days are brief, after all.
Back at the cottage, Hattie said, Get cooking, Ethel. Ill compact the snow outside so the mice wont gnaw at the bark of the trees. Tom, youll help me fling the snow onto the hedges.
If Id known how much flour wed needhalf a stoneI might have bought less, but Hattie urged, No matter how heavy the work, once you start youll finish. The start is hard, the end sweet.
Left alone with the dough, I fumbled, shaping one round bun, another long loaf; one the size of my palm, another as long as a fiddle. Some were packed with stuffing, others barely filled. One turned a deep brown, the other a pale gold. I was exhausted. Later Tom confessed: his mother had set this whole test to see if I was worthy of her son.
The house soon filled with guests, a tide of strangersfairhaired, blueeyed, smiling folk. I hid behind Tom, embarrassed. A round table dominated the room, and I was ushered to a seat on a low bed with a few children. The bed was sturdy, its rails almost touching the ceiling; the little ones leapt about, making me feel a bit seasick. Tom fetched a large wooden chest, covered it with a blanket, and placed it beside me like a throne for all to see.
I refused both cabbage and fried onions, yet I ate heartily with everyone; my ears rang from the chatter.
Night fell. The future motherinlaws narrow bed lay near the fire, the others took the sitting room. The cottage may be cramped, but its better together, Hattie remarked, arranging a fresh set of stiff linen from an old carved chestmade by Toms fatheronto the bed assigned to me. It felt strange to lie on such a proper mattress.
Hurry up, Hattie, the fires roaring and the mistress has nowhere to rest! she called, as the prospective relatives sprawled on straw mats pulled from the loft.
I needed the lavatory. I slipped out of the heavy blankets, feeling my way across the floor so as not to step on anyone, and made my way to the back of the house. In the dimness, a furry creature brushed my ankle. My heart leaptI thought it was a rat and was about to screamonly to hear a laugh: Its just a kitten, roamed out by day, returned home at night.
I went to the privy with Tom; the door was a simple partition. Tom stood with his back to me, lighting a match to keep the darkness at bay.
Back in the room, I collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep. The air was fresh, the distant hum of traffic absentjust the quiet of the English countryside.
