Tomorrow I head to meet my future motherinlaw. My married friends, trying to calm me, nearly frighten me to the point of collapse:
Remember, keep your chin up; they didnt pull you out of a dump
Dont let her get on your neck; set all the dots over the is straight away.
Know this: good mothersinlaw are a myth
Its you wholl make them happy, not the other way round.
I lie awake all night, and by morning I look prettier than a freshlaid coffin.
We meet on the platform and hop on the commuter train. Its a twohour ride. The train rolls through a tiny market town after a stretch of pine woods. The air is crisp, smelling faintly of New Years fireworks. Snow glitters under the weak sun and crunches beneath our boots. The pine tops rustle and whisper. I start to feel the cold bite, but, just in time, a little village appears.
A tiny, wiry old woman in a patched coat, wellworn felt boots and a threadbare but clean kerchief greets us at the gate. If she hadnt called out, I would have walked past:
Little lass, Im Edith Hargreaves, Toms mother. Lets be acquainted. She pulls a furry mitten from her creased palm and offers a firm handshake. Her eyes, half hidden beneath the kerchief, stare sharp and steady. We stroll along a path littered with drifts to a cottage built of dark, weathered logs. Inside, the redglowing stove spreads heat through the room.
It feels like stepping back to the Middle Ages, eighty miles north of Sheffield. Water comes from a well, the toilet is a hole in the yard, theres no radio in every house, and the cottage is dimly lit.
Tom suggests turning on a light. Mother gives a disapproving glance:
Dont sit in the light, or will you drop a spoon on your mouth? She looks at me, then sighs, Of course, dear, I was about to turn it on myself. She unscrews the bulb hanging over the kitchen table. A weak glow lights a metre around it. Hungry, are we? Ive boiled some noodlescome, have a bowl of hot soup. We eat, exchanging glances, while she murmurs soft, round words, her gaze wary yet sharp. It feels as if shes dissecting my soul. She keeps bustlingslicing bread, tossing logs into the stove, muttering, Ill put the kettle on. Lets have tea. The kettle whistles, steam curls from a tiny hole. The tea isnt ordinary; its a berry brew, thick with raspberry jam, promised to chase away any chill. No illness here, and none shall come, she adds, offering the steaming cup.
I feel like Im acting in a period drama, waiting for the director to shout, Cut! Thats a wrap, thanks, everyone. The warmth, the food, the tea lift my spirits. I could stay curled up for hours, but the old lady interrupts:
Come on, you lot, run to the bakery, buy a few kilos of flour. We need to bake pasties for tonightTom and his brother will bring their families, a lad from Sheffield will arrive, and Ill fry some cabbage for the filling. While we change into coats, Edith pulls a cabbage from under the bed, slices it, and jokes, This cabbage will get a haircut and turn into a little stump.
Villagers stop as we pass, men tip their caps, bow a little, and stare after us. The bakery lies in the next hamlet, across the woods. We trek there and back, the trees wearing snow caps like little hats. The sun plays on the frosted trunks as we go, and on the return it casts a yellowish glow. Winter days are short.
Back at the cottage, Edith says, Get cooking, dear. Ill pack the garden snow so the mice dont gnaw the bark on the trees. Ill take Tom with me to toss the snow under the pine branches. Id never have bought a ton of flour if Id known Id have to knead it all, but Edith nudges me on: No matter how big the job, start and youll finish. The start is hard, the end is sweet.
Im left alone with the dough, unsure if I can manage. One pasty is round, another long; one is palmsize, another the length of my forearm. One is packed with stuffing, the other barely anything. One is brown and dense, the other light and flaky. Im exhausted. Later Tom reveals the truth: his mother set this test to see if Im worthy of her son.
A flood of guests arrivesblondhaired, blueeyed, smiling folk. I hide behind Tom, feeling shy. A round table dominates the centre of the room, and Im placed on a makeshift bed with a couple of toddlers. The bed is a sturdy wooden frame; the children bounce, and I nearly feel seasick. Tom brings a large crate, covers it with a blanket, and I sit atop it like a queen on a throne, exposed for all to see.
I refuse the cabbage and fried onions, yet I keep up with everyone, laughing until my ears ache. Darkness falls. The future motherinlaws narrow bed sits by the stove in the kitchen, the others on benches in the hall. Its cramped, but better together, she says, moving me to a guest bed made from an old carved chest her father built. She spreads stiff, starched sheets, and a chill runs down my spine. Edith whispers, The house creaks, the fire crackles, but theres nowhere for the lady to lie! The other relatives settle on straw mattresses pulled down from the loft.
I need to use the toilet. I slip out of the wooden cage, feel the floor with my foot, careful not to step on anyone. I reach the hallway, dim as a cave. A scurrying creature brushes my ankleI jump, thinking its a rat, and shout. Everyone laughs, Its just a kitten, out all day, back home at night. I head to the privy with Tom. The door is missing; a halfwall separates us. Tom stands with his back to me, lighting a match so the nightpot doesnt tip over.
I return, collapse onto the bed and fall asleep. Fresh country air fills the room, no car horns, just the quiet of the village.
