Tomorrow I’m off to meet my future motherinlaw. My married friends tried to calm my nerves, halfscaring me into a nervous wreck:
Remember, keep your head high; they didnt find you on a junkyard
Dont let them get on your nerves; set everything straight from the start.
Know that good mothersinlaw are a myth
Its you wholl make them happy, not the other way round.
I lay awake all night, and by morning I looked as if Id been polished for a funeral. We met on the platform and boarded a regional train. The journey was two hours.
The train wound through a tiny market town, then past a pinecovered hill. The air was sharp, smelling of winter festivals. Snow glittered under the weak sun, crunching beneath our boots. The spruce tops whispered in the wind. I was beginning to feel the chill when, thankfully, a village appeared on the horizon.
A slight, wiry old woman in a patched wool coat, mended felt boots and a threadbare but clean headscarf, stood at the gate. If she hadnt called out, I would have passed her by:
Mabel, dear, Im Agatha Whitmore, Toms mother. Lets be friends, she said, pulling a snug woolen mitten from her wrinkled hand and offering a firm handshake. Her eyes, hidden under the scarf, were sharp and inquisitive. We trudged along a path between drifts to a cottage built from darkened logs. Inside, a redhot stove warmed the room.
It felt like stepping back eight decades from Nottingham, right into the Middle Ages. A well supplied the water, the loo was a hole in the yard, a radio was a rare luxury, and the cottage was dimly lit.
Mum, shall we turn on the light? suggested Tom. His mother gave a disapproving glance:
Dont be fiddling with the light unless youre sure you wont scorch your fingers, she warned, then turned the lone bulb hanging over the kitchen table. A weak glow lit a metre around it.
Hungry, love? Ive boiled some noodles; come sit at our table and have a bowl.
We ate, exchanged glances, and she whispered gentle words, her voice round and affectionate, her gaze wary yet keen. I felt as though she were dissecting my soul. She flicked the fire, added wood, and muttered:
Ill set the kettle, well have tea. A little pot with a lid, a lid with a pinecone, a pinecone with a hole. Steam will rise from that hole. Not just any tea a berry brew.
She poured in a spoonful of raspberry jam, the broth warming my throat, promising to chase away any chill. It all seemed like a scene from a period film; I imagined the director yelling, Cut! Thanks, everyone.
The warmth, the food, the tea made me feel sleepy, as if I could linger on the cushion for hours. But before I could, she called out:
Now, you lads, head to the shop and buy a couple of kilos of flour. Well bake pies for tonight when the Whitmore and the Greene families arrive, and when Lucy from Nottingham comes to meet her future daughterinlaw. Ill start the cabbage filling, you can mash the potatoes.
While we were getting dressed, Agatha rolled a cabbage head out from under the bed, sliced it, and said,
This cabbage will be our chief garnish, trimmed just so.
As we walked through the village, folk paused, tipped their hats, and bowed their heads.
The shop was in the next hamlet, a short trek through the woods. Snowladen birches wore fluffy caps, and the sun played merrily on the icy knolls as we went, then cast a golden hue on our return. Winter days are brief.
Back at the cottage, Agatha said,
Mabel, Im going to clear the garden of snow so the mice wont gnaw the bark off the trees. Tom, youll help me toss the snow over the hedges.
Had she not bought that mountain of flour, Id have been left scrambling. She encouraged, No matter how huge the task, once you start, youll finish. The start is hard, the end is sweet.
Alone with the dough, I tried my best. One pie was round, another long; one the size of a palm, another the size of a fist. Some were stuffed to the brim, others scarcely filled. One dough turned a deep brown, the other a pale gold. I was exhausted. Later Tom whispered the truth: his mother was testing me, seeing if I was worthy of her son.
A flood of guests arrived, fairhaired and blueeyed, all smiling. I hid behind Tom, embarrassed.
The table was set in the center of the room, and I was ushered to a seat on a low cot with children. The cots wooden frame rose almost to the ceiling; the kids hopped around, making me feel a little seasick. Tom brought a large crate, covered with a quilt, and I perched on it like a queen on her throne.
I ate nothing of the cabbage or fried onions, but I laughed and chatted, my ears ringing with merriment.
Night fell. The future motherinlaws narrow bed sat by the stove, the others on the floor. The cottage is cramped, but its better together, she said, pulling a freshly laundered set of sheets from an old chest for me. Agatha smoothed them out and remarked,
The house may be small, the fire may crack, but theres nowhere for the lady to rest!
The guests sprawled on strawfilled mats that had been hauled down from the loft. I needed the loo. I slipped from my wooden prison, feeling the floor with my foot so as not to step on anyone, and made my way to the back where darkness lingered. A furry creature brushed my ankle; I thought it was a rat and let out a shriek. Laughter erupted: Its just a kitten, roamed about all day, came home at night.
I went to the privy with Tom; the door was just a curtain. He stood with his back to me, lighting a match to keep the gloom at bay.
When I returned, I collapsed onto the cot and fell asleep to the fresh village air, the distant hum of traffic nowhere in sight.
In those quiet moments I realised that courage isnt the absence of fear, but the decision to face a new life, however unfamiliar, with an open heart. The lesson lingered long after the last slice of pie was gone: love and resilience grow strongest when nurtured in the humblest of homes.
