Tomorrow Im heading to my future motherinlaws house. My married friends try to calm me, but they nearly scare me to death:
Remember, hold your head high they didnt find you on a junkyard
Dont let her step on your throat, set the record straight right away.
Know that good mothersinlaw are a myth
Its you who will make her happy, not the other way round.
I cant close my eyes that night; by morning I look prettier than a freshlaid wreath.
We meet on the platform and hop on a regional rail. The journey is two hours.
The train rolls through a little market town after a frosty stretch. The air is sharp, smelling of New Years fireworks. Snow glitters under the weak sun and crunches under my boots. The pine tops whisper and sigh. I start to shiver, but then a tiny hamlet appears.
A wiry old lady in a patched woollen coat, sewnup felt slippers and a threadbare, clean kerchief greets us at the gate. If she hadnt called out, I would have walked past:
Little Blythe, dear, Im Ethel Harrington, mother of young Vernon. Pleased to meet you. She pulls a knitted mitten from her wrinkled palm and offers a firm handshake. Her eyes, half hidden by the kerchief, stare straight through me. We walk along a path between drifts to a cottage built of darkened logs. Inside the hearth glows redhot, warming the room.
It feels like stepping back eightten miles from Sheffield into the Middle Ages. A well provides water, the toilet is a hole in the garden, a radio is a rarity, and the cottage sits in halfdarkness.
Mother, shall we light a lamp? Vernon suggests. His mother glances disapprovingly:
Dont sit in the dark, you fool, or youll bite your tongue off. She looks at me, then smiles, Of course, dear, I was about to. She twists a bulb hanging over the kitchen table. A weak glow lights a metre around us. Hungry, are you? Ive boiled some noodles, come sit at our table and eat while its hot.
We tuck in, exchanging glances, while she murmurs soft, rounded words, her gaze sharp and watchful. It feels as if shes dissecting my soul. She darts about, cutting bread, tossing kindling onto the fire, and declares, Ill put the kettle on. Lets have tea. The little kettle has a lid shaped like a pine cone, a cone with a tiny hole from which steam rises. The tea is not ordinary its berryinfused, with a spoonful of raspberry jam that will chase any chill away. No sickness will find you here. Help yourselves, dear guests, eat what you like.
For a moment I think Im on a film set from a bygone era, waiting for the director to shout, Cut! Thanks, everyone. The warmth, the hot food, the berry tea make me feel sleepy, as if I could lie down for a couple of hundred minutes. But then a voice interrupts:
Come on, lads, head to the bakery, buy a couple of kilos of flour. We need to bake pasties for the evening when Varley and Gracie arrive with their families, and Lydia from Sheffield will be there to meet the future bride.
Ethel drags a cabbage head out from under the bed, chops it, and jokes, This cabbages getting a haircut, turning into a little stalk.
We walk through the village; everyone stops, greets us, men tip their caps and bow, eyes following us as we pass.
The bakery is in the next village, across a forest of spruce. Snowcapped logs wear little white hats. The sun, as we walk to the bakery, plays merrily on the frosted trunks, and on the return it casts a yellowish glow. The winter day is short.
Back at the cottage, Ethel says, Get to work, Blythe. Ill crush the snow in the garden so the mice wont gnaw the bark off the trees. Ill take Vernon with me to fling snow over the branches.
If I hadnt known what to bake, I wouldnt have bought so much flour, but Ethel pushes, No matter how big the task, you start it and youll finish it. The start is hard, the end is sweet.
Im left alone with the dough, unsure if I can manage, but I must bake. One pasty is round, another long; one fits a palm, another the size of a fist. One is stuffed generous, the other bare. One is a dark, hearty brown, the other a light, buttery gold. Im exhausted. Later Vernon reveals the secret: his mother set this as a test to see if Im worthy of her precious son.
Guests pour in like an endless stream, all fairhaired, blueeyed, smiling. I hide behind Vernon, embarrassed.
A round table sits in the centre of the room; Im placed on a makeshift thronea sturdy chest covered with a blanketsurrounded by children. The chest is so high my knees are level with the ceiling; the kids bounce, and I feel a bit like I might get seasick. Vernon brings a large crate, covers it with a blanket, and I sit like a queen for everyone to see.
I refuse the cabbage and fried onions, but I laugh with everyone, my ears ringing with chatter.
Night falls. The future motherinlaws narrow bed is by the hearth, the others in the sitting room. The cottage is cramped, but better together, she declares. She pulls a set of embroidered sheets from an old wooden chest, made by Vernons father, and spreads them on a narrow bed for me. Ethel sighs, The cottage moves, the fire burns, but theres nowhere for the lady to lie down! The future relatives spread straw mats on the floor, pulling them down from the loft.
I need the loo. I slip out of the chests grip, feeling the floor with my feet so I dont step on anyone, and make it to the pantry. Its dark. A scurrying creature brushes my ankles; I jump, thinking its a rat, shouting, Oh, you little thing! Everyone laughs; its just a kitten that roamed by day and returned at night.
I head to the privy with Vernon; theres no door, only a wooden screen. Vernon turns his back, lights a match, and steadies the bucket so it doesnt tip.
Back in the cottage I collapse onto the chest and fall asleep. The air is fresh, the hum of cars is gonejust the quiet of the countryside.
