Tomorrow Im off to see my future motherinlaw. My married friends tried to steady my nerves, halfscaring me into oblivion:
Remember, keep your chin upno one found you in a dump
Dont let her step on your throat; set every i dot and every t cross.
Good mothersinlaw are a myth
Its you whos made her happy, not the other way round.
I lay awake all night, and by dawn I looked as if Id been polished for a funeral.
We met on the station platform and boarded the local traintwo hours to the countryside. The ride took us through a tiny market town, then past a stand of pine trees. The air was crisp, smelling of Christmas lanterns. Snow glittered under the weak sun, crunching beneath our boots. The tops of the pines whispered and rustled. I was beginning to shiver when, thankfully, a small village appeared.
A skinny, wiry old woman in a patched woolen coat, wornout boots and a threadbare but clean kerchief greeted us at the gate. If she hadnt called out, I would have walked right past her:
Little miss Primrose, Im Eleanor Whitby, Toms mother. Pleased to meet you.
She yanked a fur mitten from her wrinkled hand and offered it. Her handshake was firm, her eyes, barely visible under the kerchief, sharp and piercing. We trudged along a path between drifts to a cottage built of darkened logs. Inside, the old iron stove glowed a deep red, spilling heat into the room.
Eighty miles from Birmingham and it felt like stepping back into the Middle Ages. Water came from a well, the latrine was a hole in the yard, and a radio was a luxury not owned by every household. The cottage was dim.
Mother, shall we light a lamp? suggested Tom. His mother glanced disapprovingly:
Dont be larking about in the dark, or youll bite the hand that feeds you. She turned her gaze to me, then sighed, Alright, love, Ill have a go. She twisted the old bulb hanging over the kitchen table. A weak glow lit a metre around us.
Hungry, are you? she asked, ladling out a pot of noodle soup. Come, have a bowl of hot broth in our little shelter. We ate, glanced at each other, while she murmured soft, round words, her eyes wary yet kind. It felt as if she were dissecting my soul. She kept movingcutting bread, shovelling logs into the stoveand chimed:
Ill set the kettle. Lets have tea. She produced a tiny teapot with a lid shaped like a pine cone. Steam rose from a little hole, and the tea was a berryinfused brew, sweet with raspberry jam. This will chase away any chill, she said. Therell be no more sickness, so drink up, my dear guests.
I felt like an extra in a period film, waiting for the director to call, Thats a wrap, thank you all.
The warmth, the food, the tea made me drowsy; I could have stayed curled up for hours. But then Eleanor clapped her hands:
Alright, you lot, off to the bakery! Grab a couple of kilos of flour. We need to bake pasties for the evening when Varick and Gracie with their families drop by, and when Lucy from Birmingham arrives to meet her future daughterinlaw. Ill be frying cabbage for the filling, and boiling some mash.
While we dressed, Eleanor hauled a cabbage head from under the bed, chopped it, and declared:
This cabbages going to be a proper roast.
We walked through the village; everyone stopped, greeted us, men tipped their caps and bowed.
The bakery was in the next hamlet, a short trek through the woods. Spruce trunks wore snowy caps, and the sun played merrily on the frosted boulders as we headed back, casting a golden glow. Winter days are short indeed.
Back at the cottage, Eleanor said:
Mind the fire, Primrose. Ill pack the garden with snow so the mice wont gnaw the bark. Tom, youll help me toss snow over the trees.
If Id known Id have a tonne of dough, I might have bought less, but Eleanor kept urging, No matter how big the task, start and youll finish. The beginning is hard, the end is sweet.
Alone with the dough, I fumbled, shaping one round pasty, another long one; some as big as a palm, others as small as a thimble. Some were packed with filling, others almost empty. One browned like a chestnut, another turned a pale gold. I was exhausted. Later Tom whispered the truth: his mother was testing whether I was worthy of her precious son.
The guests arrived in a flood, all fairhaired and blueeyed, smiling. I hid behind Tom, embarrassed.
A round table took up the centre of the room, and I was placed on a makeshift thronea sturdy bed piled with blanketsright beside the children. The bed creaked under me, the kids jumped, and I felt a touch of seasickness. Tom brought in a large wooden chest, covered it with a quilt, and I sat there like a queen for all to see.
I declined both the cabbage and the fried onions, yet I ended up sharing everything, my ears ringing from laughter.
Night fell. The future motherinlaws narrow bed sat by the stove in the kitchen, the others on the floor. Its cramped in the cottage, but better together, she said, pulling me onto the beda guests place. From an old carved chest, a stiff set of sheets was laid out for me; it felt odd to lie on such formal bedding. Eleanor spread the covers and muttered:
Go on, the cottage will keep warm, but the lady of the house has nowhere to rest!
The other relatives sprawled on blankets theyd hauled down from the attic. I needed the loo. I slipped from my makeshift prison, feeling my way across the floor to avoid stepping on anyone. I reached the hallway, darkness looming. Something with a tail brushed my ankle; I froze, thinking it was a rat, ready to scream. Everyone giggled: Its just a kitten that roamed by day and came home at night.
I shuffled to the privy with Tom, who stood with his back to me, lighting a match to keep the darkness at bay.
Returning, I collapsed onto the bed and drifted off; fresh air drifted through the open windows, no car horns in the distancejust the quiet of the village.
