Tomorrow I’m off to meet my future motherinlaw. My married buddies tried to calm me down, but they practically scared the life out of me:
Remember, keep your chin up they didnt find you on a rubbish dump
Dont let anyone step on your neck, set everything straight right away.
Good mothersinlaw are a myth
And youre the one who made them happy, not the other way round.
I barely slept that night; by morning I looked like Id been buried in a grave.
We met at the station and caught the commuter train two hours to the village.
The train rumbled through a tiny town after the forest. The air was crisp, smelling of mulled wine and fresh pine. Snow glittered under the weak sun, crunching under our boots. The tops of the firs whispered in the wind. I was starting to feel the cold bite, but then a little hamlet appeared on the horizon.
A wiry old lady in a patched wool coat, patched boots and a tattered but clean kerchief greeted us at the gate. If she hadnt called out, Id have walked right past her.
Ellie, love, Im Martha, Toms mother. Nice to meet you, she said, pulling a woolen mitten from her wrinkled hand and offering it. Her grip was firm, her eyes sharp from behind the kerchief. We shuffled along a snowladen path to a cottage built from darkstained logs. Inside, the stove was glowing a deep orange.
It felt like stepping back to the Middle Ages, eighty miles from Sheffield, and yet the world was modern enough a well for water, a hole in the wall for a loo, a radio that didnt work in every house, and dim light inside the cottage.
Mom, shall we switch the light on? Tom suggested.
Martha gave a disapproving glance.
Dont be fiddling with the lights, or youll end up with a spoon in your mouth, she chided, then turned to me, Of course, darling, Ill sort it out myself. She twisted the old bulb hanging over the kitchen table. A weak glow lit a small circle.
Hungry, are we? Ive boiled some noodles. Come in, warm up and have a bowl.
We ate, exchanged glances, and she whispered soft, round words, her gaze wary yet keen. It felt like she was dissecting my soul. She kept popping up cutting bread, tossing logs onto the fire, muttering, Ill put the kettle on, lets have tea.
The kettle had a tiny lid with a pine cone attached, a little hole for steam. The tea wasnt ordinary it was berryinfused, sweetened with raspberry jam, and she swore it would chase away any chill. No illness will touch you here, she added, Enjoy, dear guests, youre welcome to whatever you fancy.
I kept feeling like I was on a periodfilm set, waiting for the director to shout, Thats a wrap, thank you all.
The warmth, the food, the tea made me drowsy. I could have stayed curled up for a few minutes longer, but Martha snapped us back.
Alright, you lot, head to the bakery and buy a couple of kilos of flour. We need to bake pasties for the evening when Dave and Helen bring their families, and Lucy from Sheffield will arrive to meet her future daughterinlaw. Ill get the cabbage ready for the filling, and mash some potatoes.
While we were getting dressed, Martha hauled a cabbage from under the bed, sliced it, and declared, This cabbages going for a trim, right into the pot!
We walked through the village; everyone stopped, greeted us, men lifted their hats, bowed, and stared after us.
The bakery was in the next town, a short trek through the woods. Snowcovered trees wore little white caps, and the sun played on the icy stones as we went, then turned a golden hue on the way back. Winter days are short, after all.
Back at the cottage, Martha said, Keep busy, Ellie. Ill smash the snow on the garden path so the mice dont gnaw the bark. Tom, youll help me fling the snow under the trees.
If Id known how much dough wed need, I wouldnt have bought so much, but Martha kept urging, No matter how huge the job, once you start, youll finish. The beginning is hard, the end is sweet.
I was left alone with the massive bowl of dough, unsure what to do. I rolled one pasty round, another long, one the size of a hand, another the size of a palm. Some were stuffed to the brim, others barely filled. One was a deep brown, the other a pale golden. I was exhausted! Later Tom whispered the real reason: his mother was testing whether I was worthy of her son.
Guests poured in like a bountiful harvest all fairhaired, blueeyed, smiling. I hid behind Tom, feeling shy.
A round table took up the centre of the room, and I was ushered to a seat on the cot with the children. The cot was high, the kids were bouncing, and I almost got seasick. Tom brought in a large wooden chest, covered it with a blanket, and I perched on it like a queen on her throne.
I didnt even touch the cabbage or fried onions; I just laughed and chatted, my ears ringing with the noise.
Dusk fell. The future motherinlaws narrow bed was by the stove, the rest of the guests sprawled on the floor. The cottage is cramped, but better together, Martha said, pulling out a freshlystarched sheet from an old carved chest that Toms father had made. It felt strange to lie on such a proper bed. Martha added, The house may be small, the fire may crack, but the lady of the house never has a place to rest!
The other relatives settled on straw mats that had been hauled down from the loft. I needed the loo. I slipped out of the cot, tiptoed across the floor so as not to step on anyone, and made it to the back hallway. It was dark, and a small tail brushed my ankle. I jumped, thinking it was a rat, and let out a scream. Everyone burst out laughing it was just a kitten that had roamed around during the day and decided to come home at night.
I went to the loo with Tom; there was no door, just a thin partition. He stood with his back to me, flicking a match to make sure I didnt tumble in.
Back in the cottage, I collapsed onto the cot and fell asleep instantly. The air was fresh, no cars buzzing outside just the quiet of the village.
