Tomorrow I am bound for my future motherinlaws place. My married friends, trying to reassure me, nearly frightened me to death:
Keep your chin up, loveno one found you down in a dump.
Dont let her get on your nerves; set the record straight from the start.
Good mothers-inlaw are a myth, you know.
Its you wholl make them happy, not the other way round.
That night I lay awake, and by dawn I looked as if Id been laid out in a coffinpaler than ever.
We met on the platform, boarded the twohour rail to the little market town of WhitbyonHill. The carriage snaked through a frosty village after the pine woods, the air sharp with the scent of Christmas. Snow glittered in the weak winter sun, crunching beneath our boots, and the tops of the spruce whispered secrets. My teeth chattered, but a tiny hamlet appeared on the horizon, a blessing in my cold.
A slight, wiry old woman in a patched woolen coat, threadbare slippers and a battered but clean kerchief stood at the gate. If she hadnt called out, I would have walked past her.
Poppy, dear, she shouted, Im Ethel May, Vickys mother. Lets be acquainted. She tugged a thick, furred glove from her knotted hand and thrust it toward me. Her grip was firm, her eyes, hidden beneath the kerchief, cut like a needle. We shuffled along a path sloping through drifts to a cottage built of dark, weatherworn logs. Inside, the stove glowed a fierce red, warming the room.
Eighty miles from Leeds and it felt as if wed stepped into the Middle Ages. Water from a well, a privy hole out on the lane, a radio that never seemed to work, and the dim halflight of the cottage.
Darling, lets get a light on, suggested Tom, my fiancé. His mother glanced disapprovingly.
Dont sit in the dark like a mouse, or youll bite your own tongue, she warned, eyes flicking to me. Of course, love, I was about to turn it on myself. She twisted the bulb hanging above the kitchen table. A feeble glow spread a metre around.
Hungry, are we? she asked. Ive boiled some noodlescome, have a bowl of hot broth. We ate, exchanging nervous glances, while she murmured soft, round words, her gaze sharp, as if she were dissecting my soul. She moved about, cutting bread, tossing a few logs onto the fire, and then declared, Ill put the kettle on. Time for tea. A tiny kettle with a little lid, a lid with a twig, a twig with a hole, steam sighing from that hole. The tea was not ordinaryit was berryinfused, raspberry jam swirled in, promising to chase any chill from my bones. Theres no sickness here, and there never will be. Eat, dear guests, eat what you cant buy elsewhere.
I felt as though I were in a period drama, waiting for the director to call, Cut! Thanks, everyone.
Warmth, food, and that raspberry tea made me drowsy, and I thought I could lie on a pillow for hours. But the old woman snapped, Alright, you lot, head to the bakery. Buy a couple of pounds of flour. We need to bake pies; later Varun and Grace will arrive with their families, and Lucy from Leeds will turn up with her future soninlaw. Ill fry some cabbage for the filling, and make mashed potatoes.
As we dressed, Ethel May hauled a cabbage from under the bed, chopping it as she said, That cabbages going to be the star of the show.
We walked through the village; everyone stopped to greet us, men tipped their hats, bowed their heads, and watched us go.
The bakery lay in the next hamlet, a short trek through the woods. Spruce saplings wore snow caps, the sun played merrily on frosted boulders as we went, and a golden glow followed us back. Winter days are brief.
Back at the cottage, Ethel May instructed, Get cooking, Poppy. Ill smash the snow so the mice dont gnaw at the tree bark. Ill take Vicky with me to toss the snow onto the branches.
A ton of flour lay on the table; had I known what was expected, I might not have bought so much. Ethel nudged, No matter how big the job, once you start, youll finish. The start is hard, the end sweet.
Alone with the dough, I fumbled, shaping one round pie, another long, one the size of a palm, another absurdly large. Some filled to the brim, others barely enough. One crust brown as a beetle, the other pale as a cloud. I was exhausted. Later Tom whispered the truth: his mother was testing whether I was worthy of her golden son.
Guests poured in like a bounty from a hornblonde, blueeyed, smiling folk. I hid behind Tom, embarrassed.
A round table dominated the centre of the room; they placed me on a makeshift thronean old cot with children clambering around, knees almost touching the ceiling, the little ones bouncing so hard I felt seasick. Tom hauled in a large chest, covered it with a blanket, and set it beside me as if I were queen.
I ate nothing of the cabbage or fried onions, yet I chatted away, my ears ringing with chatter.
Night fell. The future motherinlaws narrow bed lay by the hearth, the others in the hall. Its cramped, but better together, someone muttered. They prepared a special set of sheets for me, handstitched from a carved oak chest that Toms father had once owned. The fabric was stiff, the thought of lying on it daunting. Ethel May spread it and said, The cottage may creak, the fire may roar, but theres nowhere for the lady to rest! Relatives collapsed onto the floor on straw mattresses hauled down from the attic.
I needed the washroom. I slipped from the cramped cot, feeling the floor with my foot, careful not to step on anyone, and made my way to the pantry. Darkness swallowed me. A whiskered creature brushed against my ankle; I gasped, thinking it a rat, but the others laughed, Its a kittenwandered out by day, back home by night.
I entered the washroom with Tom; there was no door, just a partition. Tom stood with his back to me, flicking a match to keep the gloom at bay, lest I trip.
I emerged, collapsed onto the cot, and fell asleep to the fresh country air, the distant hum of no trafficjust the quiet of the English countryside.
