Tomorrow Im to visit my future motherinlaw. My married friends, soothing me, frighten me almost to death:
Remember, keep your chin up; you werent found in a dump
Dont let her step on your throat; set every i straight away.
Know that good mothersinlaw rarely exist
Its you who will make them happy, not the other way round.
That night I could not close my eyes; by morning I looked as if Id been polished up for a funeral.
We met on the platform and boarded the commuter train. Two hours to go.
The train wound through a modest town after a frozen river. The air was sharp, scented of Christmas. Snow glittered beneath the sun, crackling beneath our boots. Pine tops whispered and rustled. I began to shiver, but, to my relief, a hamlet appeared.
A tiny, wiry old woman in a patched woollen coat, scuffed boots and a threadbare but clean kerchief greeted us at the gate. Had she not called out, I would have walked past:
Blythe, dear, Im Ethel Whitcomb, Toms mother. Lets be acquainted, she said, pulling a fur mitten from her wrinkled palm and offering it. Her handshake was firm, her glance from beneath the kerchief sharp as a needle. We trod a path between drifts to a cottage built of darkened logs. Inside, heat rose from a redglowing fireplace.
Miracles! Eighty miles north of Sheffield, and suddenly I was in the Middle Ages. Water from a well, a privy that was merely a hole in the yard, a radio that belonged in no house, halfdarkness inside the cottage.
Mother, lets light a lamp, suggested Tom. Mother gave a disapproving look:
Dont sit in the dark, or will you fear the spoon slipping past your mouth? Her eyes fell on me, Of course, my boy, of course, dear, I was just about to turn it on, she said, twisting the bulb hanging over the kitchen table. A dim glow lit a metre around us.
Hungry, arent you? Ive boiled some noodles, do sit at our little table and eat hot broth. We ate, exchanged glances, and she murmured in round, tender words, her eyes wary, keen. I felt as if my soul were being examined. She met my gaze and bustled about: slicing bread, tossing firewood into the stove, then declaring, Ill set the kettle. Lets have tea. A tiny kettle with a lid, a lid with a pine cone, a cone with a hole, steam from the hole. The tea was not ordinary but berryinfused. She added a spoonful of raspberry jam, promising it would warm me, chase away any ailment. There are no illnesses here, and there never will be. Help yourselves, dear guests, take what you like
A feeling settled that I was acting in a film set in a prePetroera world. Soon the director would appear and announce:
Thats a wrap, thank you all.
I was lulled by the warmth, the hot food, the berry tea, and thought of pressing a pillow for a couple of hundred minutes, yet it was not to be:
Come on, dears, run to the bakery, buy a few kilos of flour. We must bake pies; tonight Harry and Lily with their families will visit, and Lucy from Sheffield will come to meet my future daughterinlaw.
Meanwhile I would fry cabbage for a filling, boil mash. While we dressed, Ethel Whitcomb rolled a cabbage from under the bed, chopped it and said:
Off goes the head, now its a little slice.
We walked through the village; everyone stopped, greeted us, men tipped their hats, bowed, and watched us go.
The bakery lay in the neighbouring town, a short trek through a forest. Little firs and stumps wore snowy caps. The sun, as we walked to the bakery, played merrily on the snowcovered boulders; on the way back it shone a mellow yellow. A winter day is short indeed.
Back at the cottage, Ethel Whitcomb said:
Get busy, Blythe. Ill compact the snow in the garden so the mice wont gnaw the bark off the trees. Ill take Tom with me to toss snow onto the branches.
A tonne of flour, if Id known what to do, I wouldnt have bought so much, but Ethel prodded me: No matter how great the task, once you start youll finish. The start is hard, the end sweet.
Alone with the dough, I fumbled, yet I had to bake. One pie round, another long; one the size of a palm, another the size of a fist. One packed with plenty of filling, the other barely a taste. One brown as a chestnut, the other pale as butter. Oh, how I struggled! Later Tom revealed the secret: his mother had set an exam to see if I was worthy of her precious sons hand.
Guests poured in like an overfull horn. All fairhaired, blueeyed, smiling. I hid behind Tom, shy.
A round table took the centre of the room, and I was placed on an honourable spot a bed with the children. The bed was like a shell, knees higher than my head, children leapt, I almost felt seasick. Tom brought a chest, covered it with a blanket. The chest was large; I sat like a queen upon a throne for all to see.
I ate neither cabbage nor fried onion, yet I ate with everyone, my ears ringing!
Night fell. The future motherinlaws narrow bed stood in the kitchen by the stove, the others in the hall. The cottage is cramped, but better together. A special bed for me was taken from a carved chest that Toms father had made, its linens stiff with starch, lying there was terrifying. Ethel Whitcomb spread them and said:
Go on, the cottage moves, the fire burns, yet the mistress has nowhere to lie!
Future relatives sprawled on the floor on blankets scavenged from the loft.
I needed the loo. I broke free from the shelllike restraint, feeling the floor with my foot so as not to step on anyone. I made it to the hallway safely. Darkness there. A tailwielding creature brushed my legs. I startled, thinking it a rat, and let out a scream! Everyone chuckled, Its just a kitten, wandered by day, back home by night.
I went to the loo with Tom; there was no door, only a partition. Tom stood with his back to me, lighting a match so I wouldnt fall into the privy.
I returned, slipped into the bed and fell asleep: fresh air, no car noises just the quiet of the village.
