Tomorrow Im bound for the house of my future motherinlaw. My married friends, trying to steady my nerves, nearly scared me to death:
Remember, hold yourself with prideyou werent found in a rubbish dump
Dont let anyone step on your throat; set every dot over the i straight away.
Know this: good mothersinlaw are a myth
Its you wholl make them happy, not the other way round
That night I couldnt close my eyes; by morning I looked as though Id been polished up for a funeral. We met on the platform, boarded the commuter train, and set off on a twohour ride.
The train pushed through a tiny market town after a stretch of open fields. The air was biting, tinged with the scent of New Years fireworks. Snow glittered in the weak sun, crunching beneath our boots. The pine tops swayed and whispered. I was starting to shiver when, like a blessing, a small village appeared.
A wiry old woman in a patched wool coat, wornout Wellington boots and a threadbare, but clean, kerchief greeted us at the gate. If she hadnt called out, Id have walked right past:
Emily, love, Im Margaret Hargreaves, Toms mother. Lets be friends. She yanked a stiff woolen mitten from her wrinkled palm and offered a firm, clasping handshake. Her eyes, peeking from beneath the kerchief, were sharp and earnest. We trudged down a path between drifts to a cottage built of dark, weathered logs. Inside, a redhot stove cast a warm glow.
A miracle! Eighty miles from Sheffield and suddenly we were in the Middle Ages. The water came from a well, the toilet was a hole in the yard, the radio was a luxury, and the cottage lived in halflight.
Mother, shall we light a lamp? Tom suggested. His mother gave a disapproving glance.
Dont be daft, dont sit in the dark, or will you let a spoon slip past your mouth? She glanced at me, then softened, Of course, dear, of course, I was just about to turn it on. She twisted the old bulb over the kitchen table. A dim halo lit a metre around it.
Hungry, are ya? Ive boiled some noodle soup. Come, pull up a chair and have a bowl. We ate, exchanging glances as she whispered, her words round and gentle, her gaze wary, keen. It felt as if she were dissecting my very soul. She kept popping up: cutting bread, tossing logs onto the fire, muttering, Ill set the kettle on, then well have tea. A tiny kettle with a lid, a lid with a pinecone, the cone with a hole, steam sighing through it. The tea was no ordinary brew; it was berryinfused, raspberry jam swirling in the pot, promising to chase away any chill. Theres no sickness here, and there never will be. Help yourselves, dear guests, its on the house I felt like an extra in a period drama, waiting for the director to call, Wrap it up, everyone, thank you.
The heat, the food, the raspberry tea made me drowsy; I could have spent two hundred minutes on a pillow, but there was no time for that.
Alright, you lot, off to the shop for a couple of kilos of flour. We need to bake pasties for the evening when Varick and Gracie come with their families, and Lottie from Sheffield arrives to meet the future bride. Margaret tossed a cabbage from under the bed, began chopping, and sang, This cabbage will be turned into a garnish, a little snip here, a little snip there.
We walked through the village; everyone stopped, greeted us, men tipped their caps, bowed, and watched us pass.
The bakery was in the next hamlet, a short trek through the woods. Spruces wore snow caps, stumps bore white blankets. The sun, as we headed to the shop, played cheerfully on the snowcovered boulders; on the return it cast a soft golden glow. Winter days are brief.
Back at the cottage, Margaret said, Get busy, Emily. Ill crush the snow in the garden so the mice wont gnaw at the bark. Ill take Tom with me to toss snow onto the trees.
If Id known how much dough wed need, Id never have bought so much, but Margaret encouraged, No matter how great the task, once you start, youll finish. The beginning is hard, the end is sweet.
Alone with the dough, I wrestled with itone pasty round, another long; one the size of a palm, another as big as a fist. Some were stuffed thick, others barely filled. One was brown as a biscuit, another pale as a scone. I was exhausted. Later Tom revealed the truth: his mother was testing whether I was worthy of her precious son.
Guests poured in like a cornucopiablond, blueeyed, smiling folk. I hid behind Tom, embarrassed.
A round table took over the centre of the room; a seat of honour was set for me on a sturdy wooden cot with children piled around. The cot seemed a fortress, my knees scraping the ceiling, the kids leapt, and I felt a wave of seasick nausea. Tom brought a large chest, covered it with a blanket, and I perched on it like a queen upon a throne, exposed for all to see.
I ate nothing of the cabbage or fried onions, yet I ate everything else, my ears ringing with the chatter.
Night fell. The future motherinlaws narrow bed stood near the stove; the others slept in the hall. The cottage is cramped, but better together, she muttered. A special bedcarved from oak by Toms fatherwas set out for me, fresh, stiff linen laid upon it. Margaret smoothed it and said, The house roams, the fire burns, but the mistress has nowhere to lie! The prospective relatives sprawled on the floor on rickety mattresses pulled from the attic.
I needed the toilet. I slipped from the wooden cage, felt the floor with my foot, careful not to step on anyone, and made my way to the back landing. Darkness greeted me. A tailcovered creature brushed my ankle; I panicked, thinking it a rat, and let out a scream. Laughter erupted: Its just a kitten, roamed by day, came home by night.
I entered the little privy with Tom; the door was missing, only a partition. Tom stood behind me, lighting a match to keep the gloom at bay, ensuring I didnt tumble into the night.
I returned, collapsed onto the cot and fell asleep. Fresh country air drifted in, no car horns, just the silence of the village.
