Tomorrow I must set off to meet my future motherinlaw. My married friends, trying to soothe me, nearly frightened me to the brink of death:
Remember, hold yourself proud they didnt find you in a junkyard
Dont let anyone step on your throat; put a full stop on every i right away.
Know that good mothersinlaw are a myth
And its you who make them happy, not the other way round.
I lay awake all night; by dawn I looked as if a fresh corpse were being laid in a coffin.
We met on the platform and boarded the commuter train two hours to the village.
The train slipped through a tiny hamlet after a thin strip of woodland. The air was icy, scented of New Years fireworks. Snow glittered under the weak winter sun, crunching beneath our boots. Pines whispered high above, their tops shivering. I began to feel the chill bite, but my luck turned when a little settlement appeared.
A wiry old woman in a patched wool coat, handstitched slippers and a threadbare, yet clean scarf, stood at the gate. Had she not called to me, I would have walked past.
Rosie dear, Im Agnes Whitby, Toms mother. Lets be acquainted, she said, pulling a knitted mitten from a wrinkled palm and offering a firm, gripping handshake. Her eyes, hidden under the scarf, were sharp and lingering. We shuffled along a path between drifts to a cottage built of blackened logs, its hearth redhot from a newly stoked fire.
It felt as though Id stepped eighty miles north of Sheffield into the Middle Ages. Water came from a well, the toilet was a hole in the yard, radios were a luxury, and the cottage was dim as dusk.
Mother, shall we light a lamp? suggested Tom. Mum gave a disapproving glance:
Dont sit in the dark, or will you let the spoon slip past your mouth? Her gaze fell on me. Of course, love, of course, she murmured, turning a bulb that hung over the kitchen table. A feeble glow bathed a metre of space.
Are you hungry? Ive boiled some noodles. Come, sit at our little table and eat, she cooed, eyes soft, voice round, yet watchful. I felt as if my soul were being examined under a microscope. She busied herself, chopping bread, tossing logs into the fire, and muttering, Ill set the kettle. Well have tea. A little kettle with a lid, a lid with a pinecone, a cone with a hole, steam from that hole. Not ordinary tea, but berryinfused. A spoonful of raspberry jam will melt the chill No illness will ever find you here. Help yourselves, dear guests, the ones that cannot be bought.
A strange sensation settled over me, as if I were an actor in a film from a bygone era. In the dream a director would stride in and announce, Thats a wrap. Thank you all.
The warmth, the hot food, the tea with jam made me feel drowsy, as if I could press my head into a pillow for two hundred minutes. But then someone shouted, Come on, you lot, fetch a sack of flour. We need to bake pasties for tonight when Victor and Grace with their families arrive, and when Lucy from Sheffield comes to meet her future daughterinlaw. Ill fry some cabbage for the filling, mash some potatoes.
As we dressed, Agnes whisked a head of cabbage from beneath the bed, shredded it, and proclaimed, This cabbage will be trimmed, the trim will become kindling.
We walked through the village; everyone paused, greeted us, men tipped their hats and bowed, eyes following our trail.
The flour was in the next town, over a forest of snowcapped pines and stubby trunks wearing white caps. The sun, as we walked to the mill, played merrily on the icy boulders; on the way back it shone a yellowish glow. Winter days are short.
Back at the cottage, Agnes said, Mind the stew, Rosie. Ill flatten the snow in the garden so the mice wont gnaw the bark off the trees. Ill take Tom with me to fling snow onto the branches.
If Id known the amount of dough Id need, I might not have bought so much, but Agnes nudged me: No matter how great the task, once you start youll finish. The beginning is hard, the end is sweet.
Alone with the dough, I fumbled, shaping one round pasty, another long one; some the size of a palm, others the size of a fist. One was stuffed heavily, the other nearly empty. One browned like a toasted biscuit, the other pale as a cloud. I was exhausted. Later Tom whispered the secret: his mothers test was whether I was worthy to become his wife.
Guests poured in like an overflowing cornucopiafairhaired, blueeyed, smiling. I hid behind Tom, shy and nervous.
A round table dominated the centre of the room, and I was placed on a makeshift thronea sturdy bed surrounded by chattering children. Their knees seemed to scrape the ceiling; they hopped so wildly I nearly felt seasick. Tom brought in a large wooden chest, covered it with a blanket, and I sat upon it like a queen, exposed for all to see.
I ate neither cabbage nor fried onion, yet I partook in everything, my ears ringing with laughter.
Night fell. The future motherinlaws narrow bed lay by the hearth, the others on the floor. The cottage is cramped, but better together, she said, pulling a embroidered sheet from an old chest made by Toms father. Come, rest.
Agnes spread the linens and muttered, The cottage creaks, the fire crackles, yet the mistress has nowhere to lie! The future relatives sprawled on straw pallets taken from the attic.
I needed the privy. I slipped from the wooden cage, feeling the floor with my foot, careful not to step on anyone, and made my way to the back room. Darkness greeted me; a taillike creature brushed my ankle. I startled, thinking it a rat, ready to scream, but the others chuckled: Its just a kitten, out all day, back home at night.
I entered the privy with Tom; there was no door, only a partition. He stood with his back to me, striking a match to keep the gloom from spilling in.
Returning, I collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep: fresh air, no car hornsjust the hush of the village.
