Tomorrow Im bound for my future motherinlaws cottage. My married friends, trying to steady my nerves, practically terrified me with their warnings:
Keep your chin up, love, they didnt pull you out of a rubbish heap
Dont let anyone step on your throat; set your house in order right now.
Remember, good mothersinlaw are a myth
Youre the one whos lucky to have them, not the other way round.
I lay awake all night, and by dawn my face was as pale as a coffin lid.
We met on the platform, boarded the commuter train, and rode for two hours. The line cut through a sleepy market town after the forest. The air was biting, scented with the promise of Christmas. Snow glittered under the weak winter sun, crunching beneath our boots, while the tops of the pines whispered and shivered. I was beginning to feel the cold bite, when, as if summoned by fate, a tiny village appeared on the horizon.
A wiry old woman in a patched woolen coat, wellworn boots, and a tattered but clean kerchief stood at the gate. If she hadnt called out, I would have walked right past her.
Little Rose, darling, Im Agnes Whitaker, Toms mother. Lets be proper acquaintances, she said, pulling a furlined glove from her wrinkled palm and extending a firm, gripping hand. Her eyes, barely visible beneath the kerchief, were sharp and unyielding. We trudged along a snowladen path to a low cottage built from darkened logs. Inside, a redhot stove threw a comforting glow.
It felt like stepping back eight decades from Manchester, straight into the Middle Ages. A well supplied the water, the toilet was a hole in the yard, a radio was a luxury, and the cottage was dim as a cellar.
Mum, shall we light a lamp? suggested Tom.
His mother frowned.
Dont go fiddling with fire unless you fancy a blister on your tongue, she murmured, then turned to me. Of course, dear, I was about to do it myself, she added, twisting the bulb over the kitchen table. A weak amber light flooded a metre around us.
Hungry, are you? Ive boiled a pot of noodles. Come, have a bowl of hot broth, she cooed, her voice sweet but her gaze wary. It felt as if she were dissecting my very soul. She flitted about, chopping bread, shoving logs into the stove, and announcing, Ill set the kettle. Lets have tea. The kettle whistled, steam rising from its tiny lid. The tea was no ordinary brew a berry infusion with raspberry jam that would chase away any chill. Enjoy, dear guests, this isnt bought for profit
A strange sensation washed over me, as if I were a character in a period drama, waiting for the director to call cut.
The warmth, the food, the tea with jam made me want to sink into a pillow for hours, but the moment was stolen from me.
All right, you lot, head to the shop and fetch a few kilos of flour. We need to bake pies for the evening when Varick and Grace arrive with their families, and Lydia from Sheffield will come to meet the new bride.
While we were dressing, Agnes hauled a cabbage from beneath the bed, sliced it, and declared, This cabbage will be the star of the stuffing.
The villagers we passed stopped, tipped their hats, and bowed.
The shop lay in the next hamlet, a forested walk away. Pine saplings wore snow caps, stumps were crowned with white fluff. The sun played merrily on the snowy boulders on the way there, and a yellowish light fell on our return. A winter day had barely enough hours.
Back at the cottage, Agnes said,
Mind the fire, Rose. Ill stomp the snow in the garden so the mice dont gnaw the bark. Tom will help me fling the snow under the trees.
If she had known how much flour wed need, she wouldnt have bought so much, yet she urged, No matter how big the task, start it and youll finish. The beginning is hard, the end sweet.
Alone with the dough, I wrestled with it. Some pies were round, others long; some the size of a palm, others the size of a fist. One was packed with stuffing, the other almost empty. One crust was dark as mahogany, the other pale as butter. I was exhausted. Later, Tom whispered the truth: his mother was testing me, seeing if I was worthy of her precious son.
Guests poured in like a cornucopia of fairhaired, blueeyed strangers, all smiling. I hid behind Tom, shy and flushed.
A long table dominated the centre of the room, and I was placed on a low bed with the children. The bed, stiff as a board, forced my knees up toward the ceiling as the kids bounced, nearly giving me seasickness. Tom lugged in a large crate, covering it with a blanket; I perched on it like a queen upon her throne, all eyes upon me.
I ate nothing of cabbage or fried onions, yet I managed to gorge myself, my ears ringing with the clatter.
Night fell. The future motherinlaws narrow bed lay against the stove, the others in the sitting room. The cottage is cramped, but better together, someone remarked. A carved chest, made by Toms father, was opened to reveal stiff, starchfilled sheetsunsettling to lie upon. Agnes spread them and sighed,
The house moves, the fire crackles, yet theres nowhere for the lady to rest!
Relatives sprawled on the floor on straw mattresses that had been shuffled down from the loft.
I needed the loo. I slipped out of the stiff bed, feeling my way across the floor, careful not to step on anyone, and limped into the dark hall. Something with a tail brushed my ankle; I froze, thinking it was a rat, and let out a frightened scream. Laughter erupted: Its just a kitten, out wandering by day, home by night.
Into the privy I went with Tom, the door a flimsy partition. He stood with his back to me, striking a match to keep the darkness at bay.
Returning, I collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep to the fresh country air, the distant hum of traffic long gonejust the quiet of an English village holding its breath for the morning.
