12December 2025 Diary
Tomorrow I am to visit the motherinlaw I have yet to meet. My married friends, trying to steady my nerves, warned me with all the vigor of a village gossip:
Remember, keep your head high youre not being rescued from a junkyard.
Dont let anyone step on your throat; set your house in order from the start.
Good mothersinlaw are a myth.
Its you who will make her happy, not the other way round.
I lay awake all night, and by dawn I felt as if I were polished for a funeral.
We met at the railway station and boarded a regional train. Two hours later we would be in the countryside. The train wound its way through a small market town, then out into the open fields. The air was crisp, scented with the promise of Christmas; snow glittered under the weak winter sun, crunching beneath our boots while the pine tops whispered in the wind. I was beginning to feel the cold seep in when a little hamlet appeared on the horizon.
A frail, wiry old woman in a patched coat, roughhewn slippers and a threadbare but clean headscarf stood at the gate. If she had not called out, I would have walked past her.
Hey there, love, Im Agnes Thompson, Toms mother. Nice to meet ye, she said, pulling a woollen mitten from her wrinkled palm and thrusting it toward me. Her handshake was firm, her eyes sharp beneath the scarf. We followed a narrow track between drifts to a cottage built from darkened timber. Inside, the hearth glowed a fierce red, throwing warmth into the room.
It felt as if Id stepped back eight decades from Leeds, right into the Middle Ages. A well supplied the water; the toilet was merely a hole in the wall outside, and not a single radio hummed in the house.
Mother, shall we light a lamp? Tom suggested. His mother gave a disapproving glance:
Dont be prying about in the dark, boy, lest you lose your spoon, she muttered, then turned her gaze to me. Of course, dear, I was about to turn it on myself. She twisted the bulb hanging over the kitchen table. A dim glow lit a metre around us.
Hungry, are you? she asked. Ive boiled some noodles help yourself to a bowl of hot broth. We ate, eyeing each other, while she whispered soothing words, her stare both tender and wary, as if she were dissecting my soul. She bustled about, cutting bread, shovelling logs into the fire, and then announced:
Ill put the kettle on. Lets have tea, love. A little pot with a lid, a lid with a pinecone, a pinecone with a hole, and steam from that hole. Not ordinary tea berryinfused, with a dollop of raspberry jam. Itll warm you through and chase any chill away. No sickness here, none will ever reach you. Eat, my guests, eat your fill.
For a moment I fancied myself in a period drama, waiting for the director to call cut.
The heat, the food, the jamsweet tea made me feel sleepy; I imagined sinking onto a cushion for a good two hours. Yet the old woman was already on the move.
Alright, you lot, head to the bakery and fetch a couple of kilos of flour. Well need it for the pies. Vera and Grace will be joining us later with their families, and Lucy from Sheffield will be coming to meet the future bride. Ill start on the cabbage filling and mash the potatoes.
While we dressed, Mrs. Thompson hauled a cabbage from beneath the bed, began chopping, and declared:
This cabbages going to be trimmed down to a little shreds.
We walked through the village, and every passerby stopped to greet us, men tipping their caps, women nodding politely. The bakery lay in the next village, a short trek through the woods. Spruce trees wore caps of fresh snow, and the sun played on the frosty trunks as we went, then cast a yellowed light on the way back. Winter days are brief.
Back at the cottage, Mrs. Thompson said:
Get a move on, love. Ill stomp the snow in the garden so the mice dont gnaw at the bark. Tom, you bring the snow under the trees with you.
If I had known how much dough Id have to knead, I might not have bought so much, but the old lady encouraged me: No matter how big the task, once you start youll finish it. The start is hard, the end is sweet.
Alone with my flour, I tried my best, shaping one round bun, one long roll; some the size of a palm, others as small as a thimble. Some were packed with filling, others barely enough to notice. One was a deep brown, the other a pale gold. I was exhausted. Later Tom revealed the hidden motive: his mother wanted to see if I was worthy of becoming the husband of her beloved son.
The house soon overflowed with guests, all fairhaired, blueeyed, smiling. I hid behind Tom, embarrassed.
A long table took up the centre of the room, and I was placed on a bench with the children, as if I were a honoured guest. The bench was sturdy, knees nearly touching the ceiling as the youngsters hopped about, making me feel a bit seasick. Tom brought a large wooden chest, covered it with a blanket, and set it beside me like a throne. I sat there, king of the cottage, for all to see.
I ate neither cabbage nor fried onion, but I tucked into everything else, and my ears rang with merriment.
Night fell. The future motherinlaws narrow bed lay near the hearth, the other beds in the sitting room. The cottage is cramped, but its better together, she said, pointing to a carved chestofdrawers that had once belonged to Toms father. She spread a stiff, starched sheet over a bed made for me; it felt daunting.
Mrs. Thompson smoothed the blankets and muttered:
Come on, the cottage, the fire, but theres no room for the lady of the house to lie down!
The other relatives sprawled on the floor on straw mattresses, which they had hauled down from the loft.
I needed the lavatory. I slipped from the bench, feeling my way across the floor to avoid stepping on anyone, and made it to the back hall. In the dimness, a furry creature brushed my legs. I gasped, thinking it was a rat, but the others laughed: Its just a kitten; it roamed about by day, returned home at night.
I went to the little privy with Tom; there was no door, only a partition. Tom stood with his back to me, lighting a match to keep the space from filling with smoke.
When I returned, I collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep instantly. The air was fresh, the distant hum of traffic absent only the quiet of the village night.
Looking back, I realised that the nervousness I felt was a natural part of stepping into a new family, and that hospitality, no matter how rustic, can bridge even the widest gaps. The lesson I take with me is that pride and patience, tempered with a willingness to help, turn strangers into kin.
