Tomorrow I have to ride out to my future motherinlaws cottage. My two married friends, trying to soothe my nerves, practically scared me into a panic:
Remember, hold your head highno ones found you down in a dump.
Dont let anyone step on your throat; set every dot over the i right away.
Good mothersinlaw are a myth, love.
And if anyones lucky, its you who makes them happy, not the other way round.
That night I lay awake, eyes wide, and by dawn I looked like a corpse fresh from a funeral parlour. We met on the platform, boarded the commuter train, and the journey stretched for two long hours.
The train clattered through a sleepy market town after the frosty fields. The air smelled of pine and freshly fallen snow, the sun glittered on the white blanket, crunching under each step. The pine tops whispered and shivered in the wind. I began to shiver, but luck turned when a little hamlet appeared on the horizon.
A tiny, wiry old woman in a patched-up wool coat, threadbare felt boots and a clean, though holey, shawl stood at the gate. If she hadnt called out, I would have walked past her.
LilyMae, dear, Im Agnes Whitfield, Toms mother. Pleased to meet you. She tugged a frayed mitten from her creased palm and thrust it toward me. Her handshake was firm, her eyes, barely visible beneath the shawl, cut like a winter wind. We trudged along a narrow track between drifting drifts to a low cottage built of dark, weatherworn timber. Inside, a redglowing stove chased away the chill.
Eighty miles from Manchester and it felt as if wed slipped back into the Middle Ages. The wellwater was cold, the bathroom was nothing more than a hole in the wall, a radio was a rarity, and the cottage lived in perpetual twilight.
Mother, shall we light a lamp? Tom suggested. His mother glanced disapprovingly.
Dont be sitting in the dark, lad, or youll bite your own tongue. Her gaze fell on me. Of course, my dear, I was about to turn it on. She twisted the old bulb hanging over the kitchen table. A dim glow washed a metre around us.
Hungry, are you? Ive boiled some noodlescome, have a bowl of piping hot soup. We ate in silence, eyes flickering, while she murmured soft, roundabout words, her stare sharp, dissecting my very soul. She darted about, cutting bread, tossing kindling into the fire, and then announced, Ill set the kettle; lets have tea. She lifted a tiny teapot, its lid a tiny pinecone. Steam rose from a hole in the lid, the tea itself a deep berry infusion, strawberry jam ready to melt into it, promising to chase away any chill of illness.
It felt as though I were starring in a period drama, waiting for the director to call, Cut! Thats a wrap, everyone. Thanks.
Warmth, food, and that raspberry tea made me ache for a soft pillow, but there was no time to linger.
Alright, you lot, head to the bakery and fetch a few kilos of flour. We need to bake pies for this evening when Varney and Grace and their families arrive, and Lottie from Manchester will come to meet the future bride. Agnes called, Ill sort the cabbage for the filling, and a mash for the side.
While we changed into our coats, Agnes rolled a cabbage from under the bed, began chopping, and said, This heads gone to the kitchen, lets turn it into a stew.
The whole village seemed to turn its head as we passedmen tipped their caps, bowed, and gave us a respectful nod.
The bakery lay in a neighbouring town, a short trek through the woods. Spruce trees wore snow caps like little hats. The sun played in the snowdraped boulders on the way there, and on the return it glowed a soft golden hue. Winter days are brief.
Back at the cottage, Agnes said, Mind the fire, LilyMae. Ill stomp the snow so the mice wont gnaw the bark on the trees. Tom will help me throw the snow onto the branches.
If Id known the amount of dough wed need, Id have bought less, but Agnes nudged me on, No matter how big the task, start and youll finish. The beginning is hard, the end sweet.
Alone with a mountain of dough, I fumbled, shaping one round bun, another long loaf; one the size of a palm, another as long as a finger. Some were brimming with filling, others barely any. One brown as a chestnut, another pale as a biscuit. I was exhausted. Later Tom whispered the truth: his mother was testing whether I was fit to become his wife.
Guests poured in like a tidefairhaired, blueeyed, smiling faces. I hid behind Tom, cheeks burning with shame.
A round table dominated the modest room, and I was placed on a makeshift thronea battered bed piled with blankets, childrens toys scattered about. The bed creaked under me, my stomach lurching as the kids bounced. Tom rolled a large crate and covered it with a quilt; I perched atop it like a queen on her throne, all eyes upon me.
I ate nothing of the cabbage or fried onions; I simply threw myself into the feast, my ears ringing with laughter.
Night fell. The future motherinlaws narrow bed stood by the stove, the others in the sitting room. Its cramped, but well be close, someone muttered. A special set of linensstiff as a boardwas laid out for me on a carved chest that Toms father had built. Agnes smoothed them, saying, The house may creak, the fire may crack, but theres nowhere for the lady to lie! Relatives spread out on the floor on old straw mattresses, the ones rescued from the attic.
I needed the latrine. I slipped from the bench, feeling the cold floor under my foot, careful not to step on anyone. I reached the pantry, darkness swallowing me. Something long and furry brushed my ankle; I froze, thinking it a rat, ready to shriek. Laughter burst from the othersIts just a kitten; it roamed by day and came home at night.
I followed Tom to the outhouse. The door was missing, just a wooden partition. Tom stood with his back to me, lighting a match to keep the darkness at bay.
I returned, collapsed onto the bed, and fell asleep to the fresh night air, the distant hum of cars far away, the quiet of the English countryside embracing me.
