Tomorrow Im off to meet my future motherinlaw. My married friends, trying to calm my nerves, nearly frightened me to death:
Keep your chin up, love, you werent rescued from a skip
Dont let anyone sit on your throat; set all the dots over the i straight away.
Remember, good mothersinlaw are a myth
Its you wholl make them happy, not the other way round.
I lay awake all night, and by dawn I looked like a corpse freshoutofthecoffin.
We met on the platform and boarded the commuter train. Two hours to the countryside.
The train chugged through a sleepy market town after the nightshift. The air was crisp, smelling of Christmas markets. Snow glittered under the weak winter sun, cracking under our boots. Pine tops whispered and shivered. I was beginning to feel the cold bite, but then, just in time, a tiny village appeared.
A wiry old lady in a patched woollen coat, mended felt boots and a threadbare but clean kerchief greeted us at the gate. If she hadnt called out, I would have walked right past:
Ellie, dear, Im Agnes Whitmore, Toms mother. Nice to meet you. She stretched out a mitten from a wrinkled hand and shook mine with a grip as firm as a barn door. Her eyes, hidden beneath the kerchief, were sharp and piercing. We trudged along a path between drifts to a crooked cottage built of darkened logs. Inside, the old castiron stove glowed a healthy red.
Miracles! Eighty miles north of Sheffield and it felt like stepping into the Middle Ages. Water came from a well, the loo was a hole in the wall, radios werent a staple, and the cottage lived in a perpetual halflight.
Mother, shall we switch the light on? Harry suggested. His mum gave a disapproving look:
Dont be fiddling with the candle when youre supposed to be keeping the fire alive, or youll scorch your tongue. Her gaze fell on me, softened, Of course, love, Ill sort it. She twisted the bulb hanging over the kitchen table. A dim glow bathed the room for a metre around.
Hungry, are you? Ive boiled some noodles. Come over, have a bite of hot broth. We tucked in, glancing at each other while she whispered sweet, round words, her stare wary, her tone sharp. It felt as if she were dissecting my soul. She darted about: chopping bread, tossing firewood into the stove, muttering, Ill set the kettle; lets have tea. The kettle had a tiny lid, a pine cone as a knob, a tiny hole letting out steam. Not ordinary tea berryinfused, with a spoonful of raspberry jam that promised to chase any chill away. No illness will find you here, dear guests, stay as long as you like, she cooed.
I kept feeling like I was filming a period drama. In my mind the director shouted, Thats a wrap, thank you all.
The warmth, the hot food, the jamladen tea made me drowsy. I was ready to sink into a pillow for ages, but the old lady snapped:
Alright, lads, run to the village shop, buy a couple of kilos of flour. We need to bake pasties; tonight Varma and Gracie will bring their families, and Lottie from Sheffield will arrive to meet the future bride. Ill fry some cabbage for the filling, boil the mash.
While we were dressing, Agnes hauled a cabbage head from under her bed, started chopping, and declared:
This cabbage will be a proper shave for the pot.
We strolled through the village; everyone stopped, greeted us, men tipped their hats, bowed, and watched us pass.
The shop was in the next hamlet, a short trek through the woods. Little fir trees wore snow caps like tiny hats. The sun, when we walked to the shop, played merrily on the sparkling boulders; on the way back it cast a yellowish glow. Winter days are brief indeed.
Back at the cottage, Agnes said:
Get cooking, Ellie. Ill stomp the snow in the garden so the mice dont gnaw the bark off the trees. Ill bring Tom along to fling snow onto the branches.
If Id known the amount of flour Id need, I wouldnt have bought so much, but Agnes urged, No matter how big the job, once you start youll finish it. The start is hard, the end is sweet.
Left alone with the flour, I tried my hand at pastry. One pasty was round, another long; one fit in a palm, another was the size of a small fist. One was packed with filling, the other barely had any. One looked dark as a stout, the other pale as a scone. I was exhausted! Later Harry revealed the truth: his mother was testing whether I was fit to become his sons wife.
Guests poured in like a cornucopia: fairhaired, blueeyed, smiling folk. I hid behind Harry, blushing.
A round table took up the centre of the room, and I was set a place of honour on a low bed with the children. The bed was like a wooden chest, the ceiling seemed to stare down at my knees. The kids hopped about, and I almost got a case of seasickness. Harry brought a big crate, covered it with a blanket, and I perched on it like a queen on her throne, on full display.
I refused to eat the cabbage or fried onions, yet I made a mess with everyone, my ears ringing with laughter.
Night fell. The future motherinlaws narrow bed sat by the stove; the others slept in the sitting room. The cottage is cramped, but its nicer together, she muttered. A special embroidered set, carved by Harrys father years ago, was laid out for me. It looked intimidating. Agnes smoothed the linen and said:
The house may creak, the fire may roar, but theres no room for the lady of the house to rest! The soontobe relatives sprawled on the floor on old straw pallets theyd hauled up from the loft.
I needed the loo. I slipped from the wooden shackles, feeling the floor with my foot, careful not to step on anyone. I made it to the pantry, dim as a cellar. Something furry brushed my ankle. I gasped, thinking it was a rat, Help! Everyone hopped up, laughing: Its just a kitten, roamed around by day, came home at night.
I headed to the loo with Harry; there was no door, only a halfwall. Harry stood with his back to me, lighting a match so nothing would tumble into the bucket.
I returned, collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep: fresh air, no car hornsjust the quiet of the village.
