Tomorrow Im bound for my future motherinlaws cottage. My married friends, trying to calm my nerves, practically frightened me into a faint:
Keep your chin up, you didnt get plucked from a junkyard
Dont let her step on your throat; put a full stop after every i.
Remember, 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 looked fresh as a daisy in a coffin.
We met at the train station, catching the twohour service to the countryside. The line snakes through a tiny market town, then past a few farms. The air is biting, smelling faintly of mince pies and pine. Snow twinkles under the weak winter sun, crunching beneath our boots while the spruce tops whisper and rustle. I was turning blue, but salvation came in the form of a little hamlet.
A wiry old lady in a patched coat, scuffed slippers and a threadbare but clean kerchief greeted us at the gate. If she hadnt called out, Id have simply walked past:
Little Miss Blythe, youre welcome, Im Ethel Hargreaves, Toms mother. Lets be friends. She yanked a woolly mitten from her wrinkled palm and thrust it forward. The handshake was firm, the glance beneath the kerchief sharp as a thistle. We trudged along a path dotted with drifts to a log cabin built of darkened timber. Inside, the hearth glowed redhot.
Miracle! Eighty miles north of Leeds and weve stepped straight into the Middle Ages. Water comes from a well, the loo is a hole in the wall, radios are a luxury, and the cottage lives in halflight.
Mum, shall we switch the light on? suggested Tom. Mother gave a disapproving stare:
Dont be a night owl, love, or youll choke on your own spoon. She glanced at me, Of course, darling, I was about to fiddle with it myself, and turned the dim bulb hanging over the kitchen table. A feeble glow lit a metre around us.
Hungry, eh? Ive boiled some noodles; youre welcome to tuck into them. We ate, eyeing each other, while she murmured soft, round words, her gaze wary yet keen. It felt as if she were dissecting my soul. Shed pop a slice of bread, toss a log into the fire, then announce:
Ill set the kettle. Lets have tea. A tiny teapot with a lid, a little pine cone, a hole in the cone, steam sighing out. Not your ordinary tea berryinfused, with a dollop of raspberry jam that could chase any chill away. No ailments here, love, so just tuck in, dear guests, my homecooked fare, no pretensions.
I swear I was starring in a period drama; the director would soon shout, Cut! Thanks, everyone. Warmth, hot food, berry tea made me feel like I could lie on a pillow for two hundred minutes, but the day wasnt done:
Alright, you lot, off to the bakery. Grab a couple of kilos of flour. We need pies for the evening when Aunt Vera, Uncle Gordon and their families drop by, and Lottie from Leeds will come to meet her future daughterinlaw. Ill fry the cabbage for the filling, mash the potatoes.
While we were changing, Ethel wrested a cabbage from under the bed, sliced it, and declared:
This cabbages gone for a haircut, now its a little sliver.
We strolled through the village; everyone stopped, said hello, men tipped their hats, bowed, and kept their eyes on us. The bakery was in the next hamlet, a short trek through the woods. Little fir trees wore snow caps like tiny hats. The sun, when we walked to the bakery, played merrily on the snowy boulders; on the way back it cast a yellowish glow. A winter day is short indeed.
Back at the cottage, Ethel said:
Get cooking, Blythe. Ill stomp the snow in the garden so the mice dont gnaw the bark off the trees. Ill take Tom to hurl the snow under the branches.
If Id known how much dough wed need, I wouldnt have bought so much, but Ethel nudged me on, No matter how big the job, once you start it, youll finish. The beginning is tough, the end sweet.
Left alone with the mound of flour, I wrestled with the recipes. One pie was round, another long; one the size of a palm, another as big as a foot. Some were bursting with filling, others barely worth a glance. One was a brown, rustic sort, the other a pale, flaky thing. Oh, I was knackered! Later Tom revealed the truth: his mother was testing whether I was fit enough to become the sons wife.
Guests poured in like a river after a rainstorm all fairhaired, blueeyed, smiling. I hid behind Tom, feeling shy.
A round table took centre stage; they placed me on the bed with the children as an honour. The bed, sturdy as a chest, had the kids hopping so high it felt like seasickness. Tom hauled in a large chest, covered it with a blanket, and I perched like a queen upon a throne for all to see.
I skipped the cabbage and fried onions, but I managed to eat everything else, though my ears rang from all the chatter!
Night fell. The future motherinlaws narrow bed sat by the kitchen fire, the others in the sitting room. The cottage is cramped, but better together, she declared. A specially carved nightstand, made by Toms father, held stiff, starched sheets for me. Sleep, dear, Ethel said, the hearth is roaring, but theres no room for the lady of the house! The other relatives sprawled on the floor on old blankets theyd hauled down from the attic.
I needed the loo. I slipped out of the wooden cage, feeling the floor with my foot so as not to step on anyone, and made it to the pantry. It was dark. A furry creature brushed my ankle; I froze, thinking it was a rat, and let out a scream! Everyone laughed, Its just a kitten, out hunting by day, home by night.
I headed to the bathroom with Tom; there was no door, just a partition. Tom turned his back, flicked a match, and the light steadied just enough so I wouldnt tumble into the pot.
Back in the bedroom, I collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep; fresh country air wafted in, no car horns or city bustle just the quiet of a English village.
