Tomorrow Im off to see my future motherinlaw. My married mates tried to calm my nerves, practically scaring me half to death:
Remember, stand tall; they didnt find you in a dump
Dont let anyone get on your throat, set the record straight at once.
Good mothersinlaw are a myth, you know
Youre the one who made them happy, not the other way round.
I lay awake all night, and by dawn I looked as though Id been dragged out of a coffin.
We met at the railway platform and hopped on a regional train about a twohour ride. The line threaded through a little market town, then slipped into a frosty, pinescented countryside that smelled of NewYears fireworks. Snow glittered under the weak winter sun, crunching beneath our boots while the spruce tops whispered in the wind. I was beginning to feel the chill bite when, thank heavens, a hamlet appeared on the horizon.
A wiry old woman in a patched woolen coat, threadbare sheepskin boots and a clean, holey headscarf stood at the gate. If she hadn’t called out, Id have walked straight past her.
Rosie, love, Im Ethel Mary, Vickys mother. Nice to meet you, she said, pulling a thick, furlined glove off a knobby hand and extending it. Her grip was firm, her eyes, barely visible under the scarf, pierced right through me. We trudged along a narrow path between drifts to a cramped cottage built of weatherworn logs. Inside, a redhot stove gave the room a cozy glow.
It felt like stepping back eight decades, eighty miles from Sheffield, straight into the Middle Ages. A well supplied the water, the latrine was a hole in the yard, a radio was a luxury, and the cottage was dim as dusk.
Darling, lets get a light on, suggested Vickys brother, Peter. Their mother shot a disapproving glance:
Dont be sitting in the dark, love, or youll choke on your own breath. She turned toward me, Of course, dear, I was about to fix a bulb. She twisted the little lamp hanging over the kitchen table; a weak glow lit about a yards worth of space.
Hungry, arent you? Ive boiled some noodle soup. Come on over, have a bowl, she coaxed. We ate, exchanged glances, and she whispered sweet, cautious words, her eyes flicking like a cats. I felt as if my very soul were being examined. She bustled about, chopping bread, shovelling logs into the fire, and chirped, Ill put the kettle on. Time for tea. She brought out a tiny teapot with a little lid, a pinecone handle, and a single hole for steam. The tea was no ordinary brewit was berryinfused, raspberry jam swirling in, promising to chase away any chill.
I felt like an actor in a period film, waiting for the director to shout, Thats a wrap, everyone, thanks. The warmth of the fire, the hot soup, the raspberry tea made me think of sinking into a cushion for a few hundred minutes, but before I could relax, she piped up:
Alright, you lot, off to the bakery shop in Marketford. We need a couple of kilos of flour for the pies. Vicky and her sister will be coming over tonight with their families, and Lucy from Sheffield will be meeting the new bridetobe. Ill get the cabbage ready for the filling, and boil some mash.
While we were dressing, Ethel Mary pulled a cabbage head from under the bed, sliced it, and muttered, This cabbages going to a proper mash.
We walked through the village, everyone stopping to greet us, men tipping their caps, bowing their heads. The bakery lay in the next village, a short trek through a birch forest. Snow clung to low branches like tiny hats. The sun played merrily on the frosted logs as we went, and on the way back it cast a golden glow. Winter days are short, after all.
Back at the cottage, Ethel Mary said:
Get cooking, Rosie. Ill stomp the snow in the garden so the mice dont gnaw the tree bark. Vickyll help me toss the snow onto the trees.
If Id known how much dough wed need, Id never have bought so much, but she urged on, No matter how big the job, once you start youll finish it. The start is hard, the finish sweet.
Left alone with the flour, I tried to work it into doughone round bun, another long one; some the size of a palm, others as big as a fist. Some were packed with filling, others barely any. One turned a deep brown, another stayed pale. I was exhausted. Later, Peter revealed the reason for the fuss: his mother wanted to see if I was worthy of her sons hand.
Guests arrived in drovesfairhaired, blueeyed folk, all smiling. I hid behind Peter, embarrassed. A round table took up the centre of the room, and I was ushered to a special seat on a sturdy wooden bed with the children clambering all around. The bed was so high the ceiling seemed to press down. The kids bounced, and I almost felt seasick. Peter brought in a large crate, covered it with a blanket, and I perched on it like a queen on her throne, on full display.
I refused the cabbage and fried onions, but ate everything else, my ears ringing from the chatter.
Night fell. The future motherinlaws narrow bed sat by the stove, the rest of us on makeshift mattresses in the hall. Its cramped, but better together, Ethel Mary announced, pulling an embroidered sheet from an old chest, laying it over the bed. She muttered, The house may be old, the fire may sputter, but theres nowhere for the lady to lie! The guests sprawled on the floor on strawfilled pallets theyd hauled down from the loft.
I needed the privy. I slipped from my prison of blankets, felt my way across the floor to avoid stepping on anyone, and made it to the back room where darkness loomed. Something with a tail brushed my foot. I jumped, thinking it was a rat, and let out a scream. Everyone burst out laughing: Its just a kitten, out roaming by day, home by night.
I went to the privy with Peter; there was no door, only a thin partition. He stood with his back to me, lighting a match to keep the gloom at bay.
Back in the main room I collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep instantly. The air was fresh, no car horns, just the quiet hush of a English village night.
