Tomorrow Im traveling to meet my future motherinlaw. My married friends tried to calm my nerves, almost scaring me half to death:
Remember, hold yourself with pride you werent rescued from a junkyard
Dont let her step on your throat; set every dot over the i straight away.
Good mothersinlaw are a myth
Youre the lucky one, not the other way round.
I lay awake all night; by morning I looked as if Id been polished for a funeral. We met at the station and boarded the regional train. Its a twohour ride.
The train wound through a tiny village after the border. The air was sharp, tinged with the scent of Christmas. Snow glittered under the weak winter sun, crunching beneath our boots. The pine tops whispered in the breeze. I began to shiver, but luck turned when a little hamlet appeared.
A diminutive, wiry old woman in a patched woolen coat, mismatched felt boots and a threadbare, yet clean, kerchief greeted us at the gate. Had she not called out, I would have passed her by.
Little Rose, dear, Im Eleanor Whitaker, Toms mother. Lets be acquainted. She slipped a fur mitt from her wrinkled hand and extended it. The handshake was firm, the gaze from under her kerchief sharp and steady. We trudged along a narrow path between drifts to a cottage built of darkstained logs. Inside, the hearth glowed a deep red, its heat spilling into the cramped room.
A miracle, I thought eighty miles north of Sheffield and Ive stepped straight into the Middle Ages. A well supplied the water, the latrine was a hole in the yard, a radio was a luxury, and the cottage was dim.
Darling, shall we light a lamp? Tom suggested. His mother gave a disapproving look.
Dont sit in the dark, love, or youll hurt yourself with a spoon, she muttered, then turned to me, Of course, dear, I was about to, and twisted the bulb above the kitchen table into place. A feeble glow lit a metre around us. Hungry, are you? Ive boiled some noodles youre welcome to join me for a bowl.
We ate, exchanging glances, while she whispered soft, round words, her eyes wary yet bright. I felt as if my soul were being examined. She flitted about, slicing bread, tossing a few logs onto the fire, then announced, Ill put the kettle on. Lets have tea. She lifted a tiny teapot with a lid shaped like a pine cone, the cone pierced by a tiny hole from which steam rose. The tea was not ordinary it was berryinfused, a splash of raspberry jam, enough to warm the cold in my bones and chase away any ailment. I could have sworn a director stepped into the room and declared, Thats a wrap, thank you all.
The warmth, the food, the jamsweet tea made me drowsy; I could have lain on a pillow for hours. But the peace was broken.
Alright, lads, head to the shop and buy a couple of kilos of flour. We need to bake pasties for the evening when Varney and Gracie bring their families, and Ludgate from Sheffield will arrive to meet his future daughterinlaw. Ill fry the cabbage for the filling, and make some mash.
While we were dressing, Eleanor rummaged under the bed and produced a cabbage, chopping it with a clatter, This head will be trimmed and turned into a little pot.
As we walked through the village, everyone stopped to greet us. Men tipped their hats, bowed their heads, and watched us pass.
The bakery was in the next town, a short trek through the woods. Spruce trees wore white caps, the sun playing over the snowcovered trunks, then later casting a soft yellow glow on the return journey. Winter days are brief indeed.
Back at the cottage, Eleanor said, Get busy, Rose. Ill smash the snow in the garden so the mice wont chew the bark off the trees. Tom will help me fling the snow under the branches.
If Id known how much dough wed need, I might not have bought so much, but Eleanor nudged, No matter how great the task, once you start, youll finish. The beginning is hard; the end is sweet.
Left alone with the dough, I fumbled, shaping one pasty round, another long; one the size of a palm, another barely a finger. Some were stuffed heavily, others scarcely at all. One was a deep brown, the other a pale gold. I was exhausted. Later Tom whispered the truth: his mother was testing whether I was worthy of her precious son.
The house filled with guests, a flood of fairhaired, blueeyed folk all smiling. I hid behind Tom, shy and embarrassed.
A round table dominated the room, and I was ushered to a honourable spot a bed piled with blankets and children. The bed felt like a fortress; my knees brushed the ceiling, kids bounced around, and I nearly got seasick. Tom brought a large chest, covered it with a quilt, and I sat upon it like a queen on a throne, on full display.
I refused the cabbage and fried onions, but I ate everything else, my ears ringing from the chatter.
Night fell. My future motherinlaws narrow bed lay by the hearth, the others in the hall. The cottage is cramped, but better together, she said. A special set of linen, still crisp from the old oak chest that belonged to Toms father, was laid out for me. Eleanor spread it, muttering, The house may creak, the fire may roar, but the lady has nowhere to lie! The future relatives sprawled on the floor on straw mattresses that had been hauled down from the loft.
I needed the loo. I slipped out of my makeshift prison, feeling the floor with my foot so as not to step on anyone, and made my way to the back of the house. Darkness pressed in. A furry creature brushed my ankles; I shrieked, thinking it was a rat. Laughter burst out: Its just a kitten that roamed about by day and came home at night.
I went to the privy with Tom; the door was just a thin partition. He stood with his back to me, lighting a match to keep the darkness at bay.
Back in the bedroom, I collapsed onto the soft blankets and drifted off. The air was fresh, the distant hum of traffic absent only the quiet of the village night.
