Tomorrow I’m heading off to see my future motherinlaw. My married friends, trying to calm my nerves, nearly gave me a heart attack:
Remember, hold your head high they didnt find you in a junkyard
Dont let her sit on your neck; dot all the is right away.
Good mothersinlaw are a myth
Youre the one whos making them 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 platform and jumped onto the regional rail a twohour ride. The train whistled through a tiny village after a pinefilled forest. The air was crisp, smelling faintly of mulled wine and Christmas. Snow twinkled under the weak sun and crunched beneath our boots. The spruce tops sighed and rustled. I was starting to feel like a frozen statue when, thankfully, a little hamlet appeared.
A wiry, stooped old woman in a patched coat, patched felt boots and a threadbare but clean kerchief greeted us at the gate. If she hadnt called out, I would have walked right past her:
Rosie dear, Im Agnes Whitaker, Toms mother. Lets get acquainted. She yanked a shaggy mitten from her wrinkled hand and offered it. The handshake was firm, the stare under the kerchief sharp. We shuffled along a narrow path between drifts to a cottage built of darkened logs, its hearth already glowing redhot.
Miracle! Fifty miles from York and it felt like stepping straight into the Middle Ages. The water came from a well, the toilet was a hole in the garden wall, radio reception was a luxury and the interior was dim as a cellar.
Mother, lets light a lamp, suggested Tom. His mother gave a disapproving look:
Dont be fiddling with the light, or youll end up with a spoon stuck in your mouth! She glanced at me, then, as if remembering, turned the bulb hanging over the kitchen table. A feeble glow lit a metre radius.
Hungry, are you? Ive boiled some noodles, help yourself to a bowl of hot broth. We ate, exchanged glances, and she whispered sweet, cautious words. I felt like she was dissecting my soul. Her eyes met mine while she bustled about: slicing bread, tossing logs into the fire, then announcing, Ill put the kettle on. Lets have tea. A tiny teapot with a lid shaped like a pine cone, a lid with a little hole, steam curling out. Not ordinary tea berryinfused. A spoonful of raspberry jam would warm any chill, chase away any ailment. No sickness here, only good cheer. Help yourselves, dear guests, all free of charge
It was as if I were starring in a period piece, waiting for the director to shout, Cut! Thanks, everyone. The warmth, the stew, the berry tea made me feel drowsy, as if I could lie on a pillow for two hundred minutes. But the next order came straight from the matriarch:
Alright, you lot, off to the shop! Grab a few pounds of flour. We need to bake pasties for tonight when Vicky and Graham with their families swing by, and Lucy from York will pop over to meet the future daughterinlaw. Ill be chopping cabbage for the filling, youll make the mash.
While we dressed, Agnes rolled a cabbage head out from under the bed, started chopping and muttered, This cabbage needs a haircut, lets trim it into a little bundle. We walked through the village; everyone stopped, greeted us, men tipped their caps, bowed, and watched us go.
The bakery was in the next hamlet, across a forest dotted with tiny firs wearing snow caps. On the way there the sun playfetched on the snowy boulders; on the way back it shone a yellowish glow. A winter day is never long enough.
Back at the cottage, Agnes declared,
Get cooking, Rosie. Ill stomp the snow in the garden so the mice wont gnaw the bark off the trees. Ill take Tom to fling snow at the branches.
If Id known the amount of dough wed need, I might not have bought so much, but Agnes kept urging, No matter how big the job, start it and youll finish. The beginnings hard, the ends sweet. I was left alone with a mountain of dough, unsure whether I could manage. One pasty was round, another long; one fit in a palm, another the size of a foot. Some were packed with filling, others barely had any. One was a goldenbrown bloke, the other a pale little thing. Oh, I was exhausted! Later Tom revealed the truth: his mother was testing whether I was worthy of her precious son.
Guests poured in like a cornucopia all fairhaired, blueeyed, smiling. I hid behind Tom, blushing. A round table took centre stage; they placed me on a makeshift throne a sturdy wooden bed with children perched on it, knees higher than my head. The kids bounced so wildly I thought Id get seasick. Tom brought a large crate, covered it with a blanket, and I sat there like a queen for everyone to admire.
I refused the cabbage and fried onions, but I ate everything else, jokingly cracking jokes that made the room echo. Dusk fell. The future motherinlaws narrow bed was tucked by the stove, the others in the sitting room. The cottage is cramped, but its nicer together, she said, offering me a spot on the bed a special place on a carved chestofdrawers made by Toms father, complete with freshstarch linens. It felt intimidating. Agnes smoothed the sheets and said, The cottage may creak, the fire may spark, but the lady of the house never finds a place to lie! The soontobe relatives sprawled on the floor on straw mattresses taken down from the attic.
I needed the loo. I slipped out of my makeshift prison, feeling the floor with my foot so as not to step on anyone, and made it to the backroom. It was dark, and a furry tail brushed my ankle. I froze, thinking it was a rat, ready to shriek. Everyone laughed, Its just a kitten, out all day, back home at night. I entered the toilet with Tom, who stood with his back turned, flicking a match to keep the darkness at bay.
Back in the bedroom, I collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep. The air was fresh, no traffic hum just the quiet of an English village night.
