Tomorrow Im bound for my future motherinlaws cottage. My married friends, trying to steady my nerves, almost frightened me half to death:
Remember, hold yourself with prideyou werent rescued from a dumpyard, they warned.
Dont let her step on your throat; set every dot over the i straight away.
Know that good mothersinlaw are a myth.
And youre the one whos brought her happiness, not the other way round.
That night I stared at the ceiling until dawn, and by morning I looked as though Id been polished for a funeral. We met on the platform, boarded a commuter train, and faced a twohour journey.
The rail cut through a sleepy market town after a small forest. The air was sharp, tinged with the scent of New Years fireworks. Snow glittered under the weak sun, crunching beneath our boots, while the pine tops swayed and whispered. I was beginning to feel the bite of the cold when, to my relief, a tiny village appeared on the horizon.
A wiry old woman in a patched wool coat, threadbare slippers and a clean, frayed scarf met us at the gate. If she hadnt called out, I would have passed her by.
Emily, love, Im Agnes Hodge, Toms mother. Nice to meet you. She tugged a lumpy, furred mitten from her knotted palm and extended a hand. The grip was firm, the glance from beneath her scarf sharp as a needle. We trudged along a lane littered with drifts, up to a thatched cottage built from dark, seasoned logs. Inside, a redbrick stove glowed, spilling heat through the thin walls.
Eighty miles north of Sheffield and Id stepped straight into the Middle Ages. The wellwater tasted of stone, the toilet was a hole in the yard, and a radio was a rarity. The room lay in a halfdark.
Mother, shall we light a lamp? Tom suggested. His mother gave a disapproving stare.
Dont sit in the dark, lad, or youll break a spoon on your cheek, she muttered, her eyes flicking to me. Of course, dear, I was about to twist the bulb. She turned a dim bulb hanging over the kitchen table. A weak glow bathed a metre of space.
Hungry? Ive boiled a pot of noodle soupcome and warm yourselves up. We ate, eyes shifting, while she murmured in low, coaxing tones, her gaze wary yet keen. It felt as if my soul were being examined under a microscope. She darted aboutslicing bread, tossing logs onto the fire, then announced, Ill set the kettle. Lets have tea. The kettle clicked, its lid a tiny pinecone, the spout a hole from which steam curled. The brew was no ordinary tea; it was a berry infusion, sweetened with raspberry jam, promising to chase away any chill.
I felt like an extra in a period drama, waiting for the director to call, Thats a wrap, everyone. Warmth, steaming soup, and that fragrant tea made me think of collapsing onto a pillow for two hundred minutes, but duty called.
Alright, you lot, head to the village bakery and buy a couple of pounds of flour. We need to bake pasties for tonight when the Whitaker family arrives, and for the visiting aunt from Manchester. Ill fry some cabbage for the filling and whirl up a mash.
While we changed into our coats, Agnes hauled a cabbage from under the bed, chopping it with a swift slice, chuckling, This cabbage is getting a haircut, shrinks down to a little leaf.
We walked through the village; every head turned, men tipped their caps, women bowed slightly, eyes lingering on us.
The bakery lay in the next hamlet, the route back winding through a snowladen forest. Little firs wore caps of fresh powder; the sun danced on the white boulders as we went, then cast a yellowish glow on the return. Winter days are brief.
Back at the cottage, Agnes said, Emily, Ill pack the garden in snow so the mice wont chew the bark off the trees. Tom, you help me sling the snow onto the trunks.
If I hadnt known the amount of dough Id need, Id never have bought so much, but Agnes urged, No matter how big the task, start and youll finish. The beginning is hard, the end sweet.
Alone with the dough, I wrestled with itsome pastries round, some long; some the size of a palm, others as long as a ruler. One batch was bursting with filling, the other barely held any. One crust was a deep, hearty brown, the other pale as a biscuit. I felt exhausted. Later Tom whispered the truth: his mother had set this test to see if I was worthy of her son.
Guests poured in like a cornucopiafairhaired, blueeyed, smiling faces. I hid behind Tom, cheeks flushed with shyness.
A long table dominated the room; I was placed at a special seaton a low bench with the children. The bench seemed to rise to my knees, the ceiling looming above as the kids hopped about, making me nauseous as if I were on a ships deck. Tom carried in a large crate, covered with a blanket. I perched on it like a queen on a throne, all eyes on me.
I refused to eat the cabbage or fried onions, yet I laughed with everyone, my ears ringing with the clatter of plates.
Night fell. The future motherinlaws narrow bed sat by the stove, the others in the hall. The cottage is cramped, but its better together, she said. A carved chest, made by Toms father, produced a stiff, starched set of linens for my bed. It felt daunting to lie down. Agnes spread the sheets and muttered, The house may creak and the fire may crack, but theres no room for the lady to rest! The soontobe relatives sprawled on the floor on cushions taken from the attic.
I needed the latrine. I slipped from the bench, feeling the cold floor beneath my feet, careful not to step on anyone. I made it to the back room, darkness swallowing me. A whiskered creature brushed my ankle; I jumped, thinking it was a rat, and shouted, Whos there? Laughter erupted: Its just a kitten, roamed about by day, shivered in at night.
I went to the latrine with Tom; there was no door, only a low partition. Tom stood with his back to me, lighting a match to keep the gloom from swallowing us.
Returning, I crashed onto the bench and fell asleep instantly. The air was fresh, the distant hum of cars absentjust the stillness of the village night.
