Im on my way to meet my future motherinlaw tomorrow. My married friends try to steady my nerves, practically scaring me into submission:
Remember, hold yourself with pride; they didnt find you in a junkyard
Dont let anyone step on your throat; set every dot over the i right away.
Good mothersinlaw are a myth
Youre the one whos made them happy, not the other way round.
I lie awake all night, and by dawn I feel as if Ive been polished brighter than a freshpainted coffin.
We meet on the platform and hop on a regional train. The journey lasts two hours. The train pulls into a tiny market town after a short stretch of countryside. The air is crisp, scented with the promise of Christmas. Snow glitters under the low winter sun, crunching beneath my boots, while the tops of pine trees whisper and rustle. I start to shiver, but a little hamlet appears just in time.
A wiry old lady in a patched wool coat, threadbare sheepskin boots and a clean, holeriddled scarf greets us at the gate. If she hadnt called out to me, I would have walked right past:
Rosie dear, Im Ethel Hargreaves, Toms mother. Lets get acquainted, she says, pulling a beaded mitten from her wrinkled palm and extending a firm, steady hand. Her eyes, hidden beneath the scarf, hold a sharp, lingering look. We trudge down a snowladen path to a cottage built of darkened logs, its hearth already glowing redhot.
It feels like stepping back eight decades from Sheffield, right into the middle ages. The water comes from a well, the toilet is a hole in the yard, not every house owns a radio, and the cottage is dim.
Mother, shall we light a lamp? Tom suggests. His mother eyes him disapprovingly:
Dont sit in the dark and risk a spoon hitting your mouth, she mutters, then turns to me, Of course, love, I was just about to twist the bulb, and she screws the small lamp above the kitchen table. A weak glow spreads a metre around.
Hungry, are we? Ive boiled some noodles, feel free to join us for a hot bowl. We eat, glance at each other, while she whispers soft, round words, her gaze wary yet keen. I get the impression shes dissecting my soul. She watches me, then busies herselfcutting bread, tossing kindling onto the fire, and declaring, Ill put the kettle on. Lets have tea. She produces a tiny teapot with a lid, a pineconeshaped knob, a tiny hole, and steam rising from it. The tea is not ordinary; its berryinfused, bright red with raspberry jam, promising to chase away any chill.
I sense Im on a set of a period film; the director will soon shout, Thats a wrap, thank you all. The warmth, the food, the tea make me feel languid, as if I could lie down for two hundred minutes, but duty calls:
Alright, folks, head to the village shop, buy a couple of kilos of flour. We need to bake pies; later Varick and Gracie with their families will stop by, and Lucy from Sheffield will arrive to meet her future daughterinlaw. Ill start on the cabbage filling and mash the potatoes.
While we change into our coats, Ethel pulls a cabbage from under the bed, chops it, and jokes, This cabbage will be a haircut for the fire.
We walk through the village, people pause, greet us, men tip their hats, bow, and stare after us.
The bakery is a mile away, across a forest of bare trees. Small firs wear snow caps like hats. The sun, as we head to the bakery, dances on the snowy boulders; on the return it casts a yellowish glow. Winter days are short.
Back at the cottage, Ethel says, Get busy, Rosie. Im going to flatten the snow in the garden so the mice wont gnaw the bark off the trees. Ill take Tom with me to toss the snow onto the branches.
If I hadnt known Id need all that flour, we wouldnt have bought so much, but Ethel urges, No matter how big the task, start and youll finish. The start is hard, the end sweet.
Im left alone with the dough, unsure whether Im a good baker, but I must press on. One pastry is round, another long; one fits a palm, another is as big as a fist. One is stuffed abundantly, the other barely filled. One looks brown as a biscuit, the other pale as a biscuit. Im exhausted. Later Tom reveals the truth: his mother is testing whether Im suitable for her precious son.
Guests pour in like a cornucopiafairhaired, blueeyed, smiling folk. I hide behind Tom, feeling shy.
A round table sits in the centre of the room; Im placed on a makeshift thronea sturdy wooden bed surrounded by children. The bed feels like a shell; my knees press toward the ceiling as the kids jump, and I nearly get seasick. Tom brings in a large chest, blankets it, and I sit atop it like a queen for all to see.
I refuse the cabbage and fried onions, yet I manage to eat everything else, my ears ringing from the chatter.
Night falls. The future motherinlaws narrow bed is by the stove; the rest are on mats in the hall. The cottage is cramped, but better together. She sets a special embroidered sheet, made years ago by Toms father, on the bed for me. Ethel spreads it, muttering, The house may be full, the fire burns, but theres nowhere for the lady to lie! The soontobe relatives stretch out on the floor on straw bundles pulled down from the loft.
I need the privy. I slip out of the shell, feeling the floor with my foot so I dont step on anyone, and make it to the hallway. Darkness surrounds me, and a taillike creature brushes my ankle. I jump, assuming its a rat, and scream. Everyone laughs, Its just a kitten; it roamed by day, came home at night.
I head to the privy with Tom; theres no door, just a partition. Tom stands with his back to me, flicking a match to keep the light from spilling into the outhouse.
Back in the bedroom, I collapse onto the bed and fall asleep. Fresh country air drifts in, the distant hum of cars is gonethe village is quiet.
