I remember the day I was to travel to meet my future motherinlaw. My married friends, trying to calm my nerves, threatened me almost to death:
Remember, hold yourself with pride; they didnt find you in a rubbish heap
Dont let anyone get too close; set every dot over its i straight away.
Know that good mothersinlaw are a rarity
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 for a funeral. We met on the platform and boarded the steam railway, a twohour ride. As the train wound through a modest hamlet after a brief stop, the air was crisp, carrying the scent of New Years fireworks. Snow glittered under the sun, cracking beneath our boots, while the tops of the pines whispered and rustled. I began to feel the cold bite, but providence sent a little village into view.
A wiry, stooped old woman in a patched woolen coat, threadbare slippers, and a clean but tattered kerchief stood at the gate. Had she not called out to me, I would have walked past:
Little Miss Emily, dear, Im Agnes Pritchard, mother of Thomas. Lets be acquainted. She slipped a woolen mitten from her wrinkled palm, offered a firm handshake, and a gaze that pierced through the kerchief. We trudged along a path between drifts to a cottage built of darkened logs, its hearth blazing red in the hearthstone stove.
A miracle, I thoughteighty miles from Leeds and it felt as though Id stepped back into the Middle Ages. Water came from a well, the latrine was a hole in the yard, not every house owned a radio, and the cottage was dim.
Mother, shall we light a lamp? suggested Thomas. His mother glanced disapprovingly:
Dont sit in the dark, lest a spoon slip past your mouth. Her eyes fell on me. Of course, dear, of course, I was about to turn the bulb, she said, twisting the single lamp hanging above the kitchen table. A weak glow lit a metre around us.
Hungry, arent you? Ive boiled some broth; come and warm yourselves at our little table. We ate, exchanged glances, and she murmured gentle, round words, her eyes wary yet sharp. I felt as if she were dissecting my soul. She flitted aboutcutting bread, tossing logs onto the stove, and announcing:
Ill set the kettle. Let us have tea. A little lid with a pinecone, a pinecone with a hole, steam from the hole. Not ordinary tea, but berryinfused. A spoonful of raspberry jam will warm you, chase away any chill. No illness will linger. Please, dear guests, take what you like, its all homemade
It seemed I was acting in a film set in a preVictorian era. I could hear the directors voice: Thats a wrap. Thank you all. The warmth, the hot broth, the tea with jam made me feel sleepy; I imagined pressing my head against a pillow for two hundred minutes. Yet before I could do so, the old woman called out:
Come on, dears, head to the bakery and buy a couple of pounds of flour. We need to bake pies for the evening when the Whitfields and the Grays will arrive, and Lottie from Sheffield will come to meet the future bride. Ill meanwhile fry cabbage for the filling and boil some mash.
While we dressed, Agnes rummaged beneath the bed and produced a cabbage, chopping it with a sigh:
This cabbage will be trimmed, and the trimmings will go into the fire.
We walked through the village; everyone stopped, greeted us, men tipped their hats, bowed, and watched us pass.
The bakery lay in the next town, a short trip through a forest. Little fir trees, stumps wearing snow caps, the sun playing merrily on the white boulders as we went, and a golden glow guiding us back. The winter day was brief.
When we returned to the cottage, Agnes announced:
Make yourself hungry, Emily. Ill stomp the snow in the garden so the mice wont gnaw the bark off the trees. Thomas will help me fling the snow onto the trunks.
A ton of flour would have been unnecessary had I known what to bake, but Agnes nudged me onward: No matter how great the task, begin and you shall finish. The start is hard, the end sweet.
Alone with the dough, I fumbled, shaping one round bun and another long stick, one the size of a palm, the other a fingers length. One was packed with filling, the other scarcely so. One turned a deep brown, the other pale. I was exhausted. Later Thomas whispered the truth: his mother had set this as a testwhether I was fit to become his wife.
Guests arrived in a flood, all fairhaired and blueeyed, smiling. I hid behind Thomas, shy. A round table occupied the centre of the room, and I was placed on a low bed with the children. The bed, a sturdy wooden frame, seemed to press my knees toward the ceiling as the children leapt about; I felt a touch of seasickness. Thomas brought a large chest, covered it with a blanket, and I sat upon it like a queen upon a throne for all to see.
I ate neither cabbage nor fried onions, but I partook with everyone, my ears ringing with chatter.
Night fell. The future motherinlaws narrow bed lay in the kitchen by the stove, the others in the hall. The cottage is cramped, but better together, she said, offering me a spot on a carved chestofdrawers made by Thomass father, draped with stiffened linensterrifying to lie upon. Agnes smoothed the sheets and muttered:
Go on, the cottage will creak, the fire will crack, yet the mistress has nowhere to lay! The prospective relatives sprawled on the floor on straw mattresses hauled down from the attic.
I needed the privy. I slipped from the wooden confines, feeling the floor with my foot so as not to step on anyone, and reached the back hall. Darkness greeted me. A furry creature brushed my ankles; I startled, thinking it a rat, and let out a scream. Laughter erupted; it was merely a kitten that had roamed by day and returned home at night.
I entered the privy with Thomas; there was no door, only a partition. Thomas stood with his back to me, flicking a match to keep the flame from falling into the waste. I returned, collapsed onto the bed, and drifted to sleep: fresh country air, no engine roarjust the quiet of the village.
