Dear Diary,
Tomorrow Im off to meet my future motherinlaw. My married friends tried to calm my nerves, almost scaring me half to death:
Remember, hold your head high; they didnt pluck you from a rubbish dump
Dont let anyone step on your throat; set every dot over the i straight away.
Know this: good mothersinlaw are a myth
Its you who makes them happy, not the other way round.
That night I lay awake, and by dawn I felt as though Id been polished and placed in a coffin all the more beautiful, if that makes sense. We met on the platform and boarded the local train, a twohour ride.
The train cut through a sleepy market town after the fields. The air was crisp, tinged with the scent of Christmas. Snow glittered under the weak winter sun, crunching beneath our boots. The pine tops whispered and rustled in the cold. I was beginning to feel the chill bite, but luck sent a tiny hamlet our way.
A wiry old woman in a patched wool coat, patched-up felt boots and a threadbare but clean kerchief greeted us at the gate. If she hadnt called out, I would have walked past:
Lassie, dear, Im Mrs. Edith Hargreaves, mother of young Tom. Lets be acquainted. She tugged a woolen mitten from her wrinkled hand and extended it. The handshake was firm, the glance from beneath the kerchief sharp and lingering. We shuffled along a narrow track between snowdrifts to a cottage built of darkened logs, its hearth glowing red from a newly stoked fire.
What a step back in time! Eighty miles north of Birmingham, and suddenly Im in the Middle Ages. Water from a well, a privy thats just a hole in the ground, a radio thats a rarity, and a dimly lit interior.
Mother, shall we light a lamp? suggested Tom. Mother gave a disapproving look:
Dont be a scullion in the light, or will you choke on a spoon? Her eyes fell on me. Of course, love, I was just about to turn the bulb on, she said, twisting the small lamp that hung over the kitchen table. A feeble glow washed the room. Hungry, are you? Ive boiled some noodles; do come sit and warm yourself. We ate, exchanging glances while she whispered tender, rounded words, her eyes wary yet keen. I felt as if my spirit were being examined. She kept popping in and out: slicing bread, tossing a few logs onto the fire, then announcing, Ill set the kettle. Lets have tea.
The kettle was a quaint thing, a lid with a little pine cone, a cone with a hole, steam rising from that hole. The tea was no ordinary brew; it was berryinfused, with a spoonful of raspberry jam that would chase any chill away. She kept insisting, Enjoy, dear guests, youre all welcome, no need to pay. I could swear a director would soon appear and call, Thats a wrap. Thanks, everyone.
The warmth, the hot meal, the berry tea made me drowsy. I imagined pressing my head into a pillow for hours, but the chores didnt wait:
Come on, dears, we must head to the shop and buy a few kilos of flour. We need to bake pies for the evening when the Whitneys and the Greens arrive with their families, and Lottie from Sheffield will pop over to meet the future bride. Ill get the cabbage ready for the filling, and whip up some mash.
While we changed into our coats, Mrs. Hargreaves hauled a cabbage from under the bed, chopping it with a quick remark, This cabbage will be trimmed down to a little stem.
We walked through the village; everyone stopped, greeted us, the men tipped their hats, bowed their heads, and gave us lingering looks. The bakery was in the next hamlet, a short trek through the woods. Tiny fir trees wore snow caps like tiny hats. The sun, when we walked to the shop, played happily on the snowcovered stones; on the way back it cast a golden hue. A winter day never feels long enough.
Back at the cottage, Mrs. Hargreaves said, Mind the fire, dear. Ill smash the snow so the mice dont gnaw at the bark on the trees. Tom will help me fling the snow against the trunks.
If Id known how much flour wed need, I might not have bought so much, but she coaxed, No matter how big the task, once you start youll finish. The beginning is hard, the end is sweet.
Alone with the dough, I was both confident and clueless. One pie was round, another long; one the size of a palm, another as big as a fist. One was packed with filling, the other barely had any. One crust was a deep brown, the other a pale gold. I was exhausted! Later Tom revealed the truth: his mother had set a little test, deciding whether I was right for her beloved son.
Guests poured in like a cornucopiablonde, blueeyed, smiling faces. I hid behind Tom, feeling shy.
A round table sat in the centre of the room, and I was placed on the honourable spotthe bed with the children. The bed was a sturdy wooden frame, the ceiling seemed to press down, the kids bounced, and I felt a wave of nausea. Tom brought a large chest, covered it with a blanket, and I perched atop it like a queen on her throne, everyone watching.
I ate nothing of cabbage or fried onions; I gulped everything down, my ears ringing with the chatter.
Night fell. The future motherinlaws narrow bed was tucked by the hearth, the others in the sitting room. Its cramped, but better together, she said. They set a special place for me on a carved chest of drawers made by Toms father, laying out crisp, starched linensalmost frightening to lie on. Mrs. Hargreaves spread the bedding and muttered, The cottage creaks, the fire crackles, but the lady has nowhere to rest! The future relatives sprawled on the floor on old blankets stolen from the attic.
I needed the loo. I slipped out of the wooden shack, feeling the floor with my foot so as not to step on anyone. I made it to the pantry, darkness all around. Something with a tail brushed my ankles; I jumped, thinking it was a rat, and shouted. Everyone laughed, Its just a kitten; it roamed the day, came home at night.
I went to the bathroom with Tom; there was no door, just a partition. Tom turned his back to me, lighting a match to keep the gloom at bay.
Returning, I collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep: fresh air, no car hornsjust the quiet of the village.
