Tomorrow Im off to meet my future motherinlaw. My married friends tried to calm my nerves, nearly scaring me half to death:
Remember, hold yourself with prideyou werent found on a rubbish heap.
Dont let anyone step on your throat; set the record straight at once.
Good mothersinlaw are a myth.
Its you wholl make them happy, not the other way round.
I lay awake all night, and by dawn I felt as if Id been polished up for a funeral. We met at the railway platform and boarded a regional train, two hours to the countryside. The train wound its way through a tiny market town after Bridlington, the air crisp and smelling of Christmas. Snow glittered under the weak winter sun, crunching beneath our boots, while the pine tops whispered in the breeze. I was beginning to shiver when, thankfully, a little village appeared.
A tiny, wiry old woman in a patched quilted coat, threadbare boots and a clean, frayed scarf met us at the gate. Had she not called out to me, I would have walked right past:
Little Em, dear, Im Agnes Whitaker, Toms mother. Pleased to meet you. She tugged a furred mitten from her knotted palm and extended a firm, steady hand. Her gaze, hidden under the scarf, was sharp as a needle. We trudged along a snowdusted path to a cottage built of darkened logs. Inside, a redhot stove gave the room a welcoming glow.
It felt like stepping back into the Middle Ages, eighty miles from Manchester. The water came from a well, the toilet was a hole in the wall, and not every house had a radio. The cottage was halflit, halfshadowed.
Mother, lets light a lamp, suggested Tom. His mother frowned:
Dont be foolish and sit in the dark, or youll choke on a spoon, she said, then turned to me, Of course, dear, I was just about to twist the bulb, and she screwed the little lamp over the kitchen table. Its feeble light barely illuminated a metre around it.
Hungry, are we? Ive boiled some noodlesplease, come and warm yourselves at our little table. We ate, exchanged glances, and she murmured soft, round words, her eyes wary yet kind. It was as if she were dissecting my soul. She kept hopping from task to taskcutting bread, tossing a log onto the fire, then declaring, Ill set the kettle. Lets have tea. The kettle clanged, its lid topped with a tiny pine cone; steam rose through a hole, and the brew was no ordinary tea but a berry infusion with raspberry jam that promised to chase away any chill.
I felt like I were on a periodfilm set, waiting for the director to call cut. The warmth, the food, the tea with jam made me want to nestle into a pillow for hours, but duty called:
Come on, you lot, head to the village shop and buy a few kilos of flour. We need pies for tonight when the Hargreaves families arriveToms sister, Lucy, and their children, plus a guest from Manchester. Ill fry some cabbage for the filling, make mash for the side.
While we dressed, Agnes hauled a cabbage from under the bed, began chopping, and chattered, This cabbage will be the star of the stew. As we walked through the village, men tipped their hats, bowed their heads, and watched us pass.
The bakery was in the next hamlet, a short trek through a forest where bare trees wore white caps. Sunlight danced on the snowcovered trunks on the way there, and a yellowish glow followed us back. Winter days are brief.
Back at the cottage, Agnes said, Get busy, Em. Ill smash the snow in the garden so the mice cant gnaw at the bark. Tom will help me fling the snow onto the trees. If Id known how much flour wed need, I might not have bought so much, but Agnes urged me on, No matter how big the task, 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; one as big as my palm, another as small as a thumb. Some were packed with filling, others barely had any. One turned a brownish hue, the other stayed pale. I was exhausted. Later Tom whispered the truth: his mother was testing me, seeing if I was worthy of her son.
A flood of guests arrived, all blond, blueeyed, smiling. I hid behind Tom, feeling shy. The long table took up the centre of the room; I was placed on a makeshift bed with the children. The bed, a sturdy wooden frame, seemed to rise to the ceiling as the kids jumped, and I felt a little seasick. Tom brought a large chest, covered it with a blanket, and I sat on it like a queen on her throne. I ate neither cabbage nor fried onions, but I laughed and chatted, even as my ears rang from all the noise.
Night fell. The future motherinlaws narrow bed lay by the stove, the others in the hall. Its cramped in the cottage, but better together, she said, offering me a spot on a carved sideboard made by Toms father, with stiff, starched sheets that made me nervous to lie down. Agnes spread them and added, The cottage may be busy, the fire may roar, but theres no place for the lady to rest! The relatives sprawled on the floor on makeshift mats pulled from the attic.
I needed the loo. I slipped from the wooden confines, feeling my way across the floor to avoid stepping on anyone, and reached the dim corridor. A whiskered creature brushed my shoeI froze, thinking it was a rat, but everyone laughed, Its just a kitten that roamed all day and came home at night.
I went to the bathroom with Tom; there was no door, just a partition. Tom stood behind me, lighting a match to keep the darkness at bay.
Back in the cottage, I collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep to the fresh country air, the distant hum of cars far away, the quiet of the village wrapping around me.
