Tomorrow Im off to my future motherinlaws place. My married friends, trying to calm me, nearly scared the life out of me:
Keep your head high, love, they didnt find you down in a dump
Dont let her get on your nerves; set the record straight from the start.
Remember, good mothersinlaw are a myth
Its you wholl make her happy, not the other way round.
I lay awake all night; by sunrise I looked as fresh as a daisy in a coffin.
We met on the station platform and caught the local train. Its a twohour ride.
The train chugged through a small market town, past a snowcapped ridge. The air was crisp, smelling of Christmas. Snow glittered under the weak sun, crunching beneath my boots. The pine tops rustled and whispered. I was getting cold, but then a little village appeared on the horizon.
A thin, wiry old lady in a patched quilted coat, wellstitched felt boots and a threadbare but clean scarf met us at the gate. If she hadnt called out, I would have walked right past her:
Oi, love, Im Agnes Whitaker, Vickys mother. Nice to meet you. She tugged a fur mitten from her wrinkled hand and offered it. The handshake was firm, the glance from beneath her scarf sharp. We shuffled along a path between drifts to a little cottage made of darkened logs. Inside, the fire in the redhot stove spread a welcoming warmth.
A miracle! Eighty miles north of Sheffield and it feels like the Middle Ages. A well for water, a privy thats just a hole in the yard, a radio in only half the houses, and a dimly lit room.
Mum, lets get a light on, suggested my brother Tom. Mother gave a disapproving look:
Dont sit in the dark, youll choke on your own breath, will you? She turned her eyes to me, Of course, dear, I was about to fix it. She twisted the bulb hanging over the kitchen table. A weak glow lit a metre around us.
Hungry, are we? Ive boiled some noodles, come have a bowl of hot broth. We ate, exchanging glances while she murmured soft, round words, her eyes cautious yet keen. I felt she was dissecting my soul. She kept eyecontact, bustling aboutcutting bread, tossing a few logs into the stoveand said:
Ill put the kettle on. Well have tea. A little kettle with a lid, a lid with a pine cone, a cone with a hole, steam from the hole. Not ordinary tea, but berryinfused. A spoonful of raspberry jam will warm you up and chase the chill away. No illness here, never will be. Help yourselves, dear guests, my own, no charge.
I couldnt shake the feeling I was starring in a period picture. Suddenly the director would shout, Thats a wrap. Thanks, everyone.
The heat, the food, the raspberry tea made me feel drowsy, as if I could press my head into a pillow for two hundred minutes. But the day wasnt over.
Alright, lads, off to the village shop. Grab a couple of kilos of flour. We need to bake pasties; Varma and Grayson will be over this evening with their families, Lottie from Sheffield will come to meet the future bridetobe. Ill fry the cabbage for the filling and boil some mash.
As we were dressing, Agnes hauled a cabbage from under the bed, sliced it and said:
This head of cabbages going to be trimmed, turned into a little bundle.
We walked through the village; everyone stopped, greeted us, men tipped their hats, bowed, and watched us go.
The bakery was in the next hamlet, a short trek through the woods. Spruce trunks wore white caps of snow. The sun, while we headed to the bakery, played merrily on the frosted boulders; on the way back it cast a yellowish glow. Winter days are short.
Back at the cottage, Agnes declared:
Get to work, love. Ill stomp the snow in the garden so the mice dont gnaw at the bark on the trees. Ill take Vicky with me to fling snow onto the branches.
If I hadnt known what to do, I wouldnt have bought so much flour, but Agnes kept urging, No matter how big the task, start and youll finish. The beginning is hard, the end sweet.
I was left alone with the dough, unsure if I could manage, but I had to bake. One pasty was round, another long; one the size of a hand, another the size of a foot. One was packed with filling, the other almost empty. One was a brown, rustic loaf, the other a pale, airy one. Oh, I was exhausted! Later Tom revealed the truth: Mother was testing whether I was worthy of her precious son.
The guests poured in like a cornucopia. All fairhaired, blueeyed, smiling. I hid behind Tom, embarrassed.
A round table took up the centre of the room; I was placed on an honourable seata bed with the children. The bed was a sturdy frame, knees almost touching the ceiling, the kids were hopping, and I felt a touch of seasickness. Tom brought a large box and covered it with a blanket. I perched like a queen on a throne for everyone to see.
I didnt touch the cabbage or fried onions; I ate with everyone, my ears ringing from the chatter.
Night fell. The future motherinlaws narrow bed was by the stove in the kitchen; the others slept in the hall. The cottage is cramped, but its nicer together. They set a guestbed for me on a carved chest that had belonged to Toms father, laying stiff, starched linensscary to lie on. Agnes smoothed them and said:
Come on, the cottage will keep warm, the fire will burn, but theres no place for the lady to rest! The future relatives sprawled on the floor on straw mattresses taken down from the loft.
I needed the loo. I slipped out of the wooden confines, feeling the floor with my foot so I wouldnt step on anyone, and made my way to the back passage. It was dark. Some shaggy creature brushed my ankles. I jumped, thinking it was a rat and let out a scream! Everyone laughed, Its just a kitten; it roamed by day, came home at night.
I went to the lavatory with Tom; the door was just a screen. Tom stood with his back to me, lighting a match so I wouldnt stumble into the waste.
I returned, collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep: fresh country air, no car hornsjust the quiet of the village.
