Tomorrow Im heading to meet my future motherinlaw. My married friends try to calm me, almost frightening me to the point of hysteria:
Remember, stand tall; you werent found at a junkyard.
Dont let her step on your throat; set every dot over the i right away.
Know that good mothersinlaw are a myth.
Youre the one who made them happy, not the other way round.
I toss and turn all night, and by morning I look as if Ive been polished for a funeral.
We meet on the platform and board the regional train. The journey is two hours.
The train rolls through a tiny market town after a frostbitten field. The air is crisp, smelling of New Years fireworks. Snow glitters under the weak sun, crunching beneath our boots. The tops of the pine trees whisper and rustle. I start to shiver, but relief comes when a little village appears.
A tiny, wiry old woman in a patched woolen coat, sewnup felt boots and a threadbare, yet clean, kerchief greets us at the gate. If she hadnt called out, I would have walked past:
Ellie, love, Im Ethel Mary Hargreaves, Toms mum. Pleased to meet you. She pulls a woolen mitten from her wrinkled hand and offers it. The handshake is firm, the gaze from beneath the kerchief sharp. We trudge along a path between drifts to a cottage built of darkened logs. Inside, a redhot stove spreads warmth.
It feels like stepping back eight decades from Birmingham into the Middle Ages. Water comes from a well, the toilet is just a hole in the yard, radios are a rarity, and the cottage is dim.
Tom suggests, Mum, lets light a lamp.
His mother glances disapprovingly:
Dont sit in the light like a showoff, or will you spill a spoon on your face? She looks at me, sighs, Of course, dear, I was about to turn it on myself. She twists the bulb hanging over the kitchen table. A weak glow lights a metre around.
Hungry, are you? Ive boiled some egg noodles. Come over to our little hut for a bowl. We eat, glance at each other, and she murmurs soft, round words, eyes wary yet keen. I feel like my soul is being examined. She looks at me, then darts about: slicing bread, tossing a few logs onto the fire, and declares, Ill set the kettle. Lets have tea. The kettle has a tiny lid with a pine cone attached. Steam whistles from a tiny hole. The tea is not ordinary; its berryinfused, with raspberry jam that will warm me and chase away any chill. No illness here, never will be, she says, Enjoy, dear guests, its on the house.
It feels as if Im in a periodpiece, waiting for the director to call, Wrap. Thanks, everyone.
The heat, the food, the tea with jam make me drowsy. I could lie on a cushion for ages, but a new command interrupts:
Alright, you lot, head to the pantry and buy a couple of kilos of flour. We need to bake pies for tonight when Vicky and Grace arrive with their families, and Lucy from Birmingham will come to meet the future bride.
While we dress, Ethel Mary rummages under her bed and pulls out a cabbage, chopping it and shouting, This heads going for a trim, off to the pot!
We walk through the village; everyone stops, greets us, the men tip their caps and bow.
The pantry is in the next town, a short trip through a forest. Spruce trees wear snow caps like little hats. The sun plays on the snowy boulders as we go, and on the way back a yellowish light bathes the path. Winter days are short.
Back at the cottage, Ethel Mary says, Get cooking, Ellie. Ill stomp the snow in the garden so the mice wont gnaw the bark. Tom will toss snow onto the trees with me.
If I hadnt known what to make, I wouldnt have bought so much flour, but she encourages, No matter how big the task, once you start youll finish. The start is hard, the end is sweet.
Im left alone with the dough, unsure what to do, but I must knead. One pastry is round, another long; one fits in my palm, another the size of a fist. Some are stuffed heavily, others barely. One is a golden brown, the other pale. Im exhausted! Later Tom confides that his mother set this test to see if Im worthy of her precious son.
Guests pour in like a cornucopia: fairhaired, blueeyed, smiling folk. I hide behind Tom, blushing.
A round table occupies the centre of the room; Im placed on a bed with the children, a sturdy wooden frame that makes my knees scrape the ceiling. The kids bounce, and I nearly get seasick. Tom brings a large box, covers it with a blanket, and I sit like a queen upon a throne for all to see.
I refuse the cabbage and fried onions, yet I eat everything else, and my ears ring with laughter.
Night falls. The future motherinlaws narrow bed sits by the stove; the others are in the hall. The cottage is cramped, but better together, she says. A special blanket, handstitched from a carved chest his father made, is laid out for me; it feels intimidating. Ethel Mary smooths it out, muttering, The house goes on, the fire burns, but theres nowhere for the lady to lie! Future relatives sprawl on the floor on old straw mattresses they hauled from the attic.
I need the loo. I free myself from the cramped bed, tiptoeing across the floor to avoid stepping on anyone, and reach the pantry hallway. Its dark. A scaly creature brushes my shoes. I scream, thinking its a rat. Everyone bursts out laughing: Its just a kitten, wandered out by day, came home at night.
I head to the toilet with Tom; theres no door, only a partition. He stands with his back to me, lighting a match so I dont stumble into the waste.
I return, climb into the bed and fall asleep: fresh air, no traffic noisejust the quiet of the English countryside.
