Tomorrow Im off to meet my future motherinlaw. My married friends tried to calm me down, practically scaring the life out of me:
Stand tall, love, they didnt find you in a junkyard
Dont let her step on your throat, dot all the is straight away.
Good mothersinlaw are a myth
Youre the one whos made them happy, not the other way round.
I lay awake all night, and by morning I looked like Id been plucked straight out of a funeral home. We met at the station and hopped on the train two hours to the countryside.
The rail line wends through a tiny market town after the last farm, the air is crisp and smells of Christmas. Snow sparkles under the winter sun, crunching beneath our boots, and the pine tops whisper in the breeze. I was starting to feel the chill bite, but thank heavens a little village appeared.
A wiry old lady in a patched woollen coat, patched-up felt boots and a threadbare yet clean kerchief greeted us at the gate. If she hadnt called out, Id have walked right past:
Ellie, love, Im Martha, Toms mother. Nice to meet you. She pulled a woolen mitten from her wrinkled hand and held it out. The shake was firm, her eyes under the kerchief sharp as a needle. We shuffled down a path between drifts to a cottage made of dark, weatherworn logs. Inside the hearth glowed a bright red fire.
It felt like stepping back eight decades from somewhere in Yorkshire, right out of the Middle Ages. A well for water, a loo thats just a hole in the yard, radio nowhere to be seen, and the whole place halflit.
Mum, lets get a light on, Tom suggested. His mother gave a disapproving look:
Dont be fiddling with the lights at night, or youll smash the bulb on your cheek, she said, eyes flicking to me, Of course, dear, I was about to turn it on. She twisted the old bulb hanging over the kitchen table. A dim glow lit a metre around us.
Hungry, are you? Ive boiled some noodles, come over to the little kitchen and have a bowl. We all sat, glanced at each other, and she murmured sweet, round words, her gaze wary yet soft. It felt like she was dissecting my soul. Shed switch from slicing bread to shoving logs into the fire, always muttering something like:
Ill put the kettle on, lets have tea. Little kettle with a lid, lid with a pinecone, pinecone with a hole steam from the hole. Not any ordinary tea, love, berryinfused. A spoonful of raspberry jam will warm you up, chase any chill away. No sickness will touch you here. Help yourselves, dear guests, homecooked, no storebought
I kept thinking I was in a period drama, waiting for the director to call cut. The warmth, the hot food, the raspberry tea made me feel drowsy enough to collapse onto a pillow for hours, but no:
Alright, loves, off to the shop for flour. We need a couple of kilos for pies. Varney and Grace will be here this evening with their families, and Lydia from Sheffield is coming to meet her future daughterinlaw. Ill get the cabbage ready for the filling, mash the potatoes.
While we changed into our coats, Martha hauled a head of cabbage from under the bed, started chopping and said:
This cabbages getting a haircut, turning into a little sprig.
We walked through the village; everyone stopped, waved, the men tipped their hats and bowed. The bakery was in the next hamlet, a quick trek through the woods. Little fir trees wore white caps, the sun played on the snowcovered boulders as we went, then gave a golden glow on the way back. Winter days are short, after all.
Back at the cottage, Martha said:
Get a move on, Ellie. Ill smash the snow in the garden so the mice dont nibble the bark off the trees. Tom, you help me toss the snow onto the hedges.
If Id known how much dough wed need, I wouldnt have bought so much, but Martha kept pushing:
No matter how big the job looks, once you start it, youll finish it. The start is hard, the end is sweet.
I was left alone with a mountain of dough, halfknowing how to bake, half not. One pastry round, another long; one the size of a palm, another the size of a fist. One packed with filling, the other almost empty. One brown as a loaf, the other pale as a biscuit. I was exhausted! Later Tom whispered the truth: his mother was testing me, seeing if I was fit to become his wife.
Guests poured in like a river after rain fairhaired, blueeyed, all smiling. I hid behind Tom, mortified.
A long table took up the centre of the room, and they placed me on a makeshift throne a sturdy bed with the little children climbing all over. The bed felt like a ships deck, my knees almost touching the ceiling, the kids hopping about, and I felt a slight seasick wobble. Tom brought a big wooden chest, covered it with a blanket, and I perched on it like a queen for everyone to see.
I barely touched the cabbage or fried onions; I kept up with everyone, my ears ringing with chatter.
Night fell. The future motherinlaws narrow bed was by the stove, the rest of us on the floor. Its cramped, but better together, she said. Theyd set up a special spot for me on a carved wardrobe made by Toms father, laying stiff, starched sheets. It felt scary to lie there. Martha spread the bedding and muttered:
The cottage keeps on creaking, the fire keeps on burning, but theres no proper place for the lady to rest!
Future relatives sprawled on the floor on straw mattresses theyd hauled up from the loft.
I needed the loo. I wriggled out of the wooden shack, feeling my way across the floor so I wouldnt step on anyone, and made it to the back hall. It was dark, and some furry thing brushed my ankles. I jumped, thinking it was a rat, but everyone burst out laughing:
Its just the kitten, roamed about all day, came home at night.
I went to the bathroom with Tom; there was no door, just a wooden partition. Tom stood with his back to me, lighting a match so the candle wouldnt blow out.
I came back, collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep. Fresh air, no car horns just the quiet of the village.
