Tomorrow I must travel to the house of my future motherinlaw. My married friends, trying to soothe me, almost frightened me to death with their counsel:
Remember, hold yourself proud; you werent plucked from a rubbish heap
Dont let anyone sit on your throat; set every dot over the i straightaway.
Know that good mothersinlaw are a myth
Its you who will make them happy, not the other way round.
That night I could not close my eyes; by morning I looked as if Id been polished in a coffin. We met on the platform and boarded a regional train, a twohour journey.
The train rattled through a tiny market town after a frosty stretch of countryside. The air smelled of pine and freshbaked gingerbread, the snow glittered under a weak sun, crunching beneath our boots. The spruce tops whispered and shivered. I began to freeze, but, to my relief, a hamlet appeared.
A shrivelled, wiry old woman in a patched wool coat, threadbare slippers and a clean, holed kerchief stood at the gate. Had she not called out, I would have passed her by:
Ethel, lass, Im Hattie Wainwright, Toms mother. Lets be acquainted. She slipped a fur mitt from her wrinkled palm, offered a firm, gripping handshake, her eyes peeking from beneath the kerchief like daggers. We shuffled along a path between drifts to a cottage built of darkened logs. Inside, a redhot stove threw warm light onto the walls.
Miracles! Eighty miles north of Birmingham and suddenly I was in the Middle Ages. Water came from a well, the privy was a hole in the wall, radios were a rarity, and the interior lay in halfdark.
Mother, shall we light a lamp? suggested Tom. Mother gave a disapproving glance:
Dont sit there fiddling with the light, or will you try to carry a spoon past your mouth? Her gaze fell on me, Of course, dear, of course, I was about to turn it on, she said, twisting the bulb over the kitchen table. A dim glow washed a metre around us. Hungry, are we? Ive boiled some noodle soup; come, have a taste at our little hearth. We ate, exchanged glances, while she murmured round, tender words, her eyes sharp and wary, as if she were dissecting my soul. She kept looking at me, bustling about: slicing bread, tossing logs into the fire, then declaring, Ill set the kettle. Lets have tea. The teapot had a little lid, the lid a tiny pine cone, the cone a hole, steam curling from the hole. The tea was no ordinary brew; it was berryinfused, raspberry jam swirling in, promising to chase away any chill. No illness will find you here, she said, Enjoy, dear guests, youre priceless. I felt as though I were starring in a silent film from the Edwardian era, waiting for the director to call, Cut! Thanks to all.
The heat, the hot food, the raspberry tea made me drowsy. I thought of pressing my head into a cushion for hours, but the moment was interrupted:
Come on, dears, run to the bakery, buy a couple of kilos of flour. We need to bake pies; tonight Varma and Grace with their families will drop by, Lucy from the city will arrive to meet the future daughterinlaw. Ill fry cabbage for the filling, brew some mash. While we dressed, Hattie rolled a cabbage head out from under the bed, sliced it and said, This cabbage will be the star of the stew, chopped fine as a garnish.
We walked through the village; everyone stopped, greeted us, men tipped their caps, bowed, and watched us pass. The bakery lay in a neighbouring town, reachable through a pineladen forest. Snowcapped logs wore white hats, the sun playing mischievously on the frosted boulders as we went, and a pale yellow light followed us back. Winter days are brief.
Back at the cottage, Hattie announced, Get to work, Ethel. Ill stomp the snow in the garden so the mice wont gnaw the bark off the trees. Ill take Tom to toss snow onto the branches. A tonne of flour sat there; if Id known what to bake, I wouldnt have bought so much, but Hattie nudged, No matter how great the task, start and youll finish. The beginning is hard, the end sweet.
Left alone with the flour, I fumbled, trying to shape the dough. One pie round, another long; one the size of a palm, another absurdly tall. One stuffed with plenty, the other almost empty. One browned like a biscuit, the other as pale as a cloud. I was exhausted. Later Tom whispered the secret: his mother had set a test to see if I was fit to become the wife of her precious son.
Guests poured in like a cornucopia, all fairhaired, blueeyed, smiling. I hid behind Tom, shy. A round table dominated the middle of the room; I was placed in honour on a bunk with children. The bunks railings rose higher than my head, the kids hopped around, and I felt a wave of seasick vertigo. Tom brought a large crate, covered it with a blanket, and I perched on it like a queen upon a throne, on display for all.
I ate neither cabbage nor fried onions, yet I gorged with everyone, my ears ringing. Darkness fell. The future motherinlaws narrow bed lay by the stove, the others in the hall. The cottage is cramped, but better together, they said, moving me to a bed carved from a cupboard made by Toms father, linen stiff as cardboard. Hattie spread it and muttered, The cottage creaks, the fire roars, yet theres no place for the lady to lie! Future relatives sprawled on the floor on straw mattresses salvaged from the attic.
I needed the loo. I slipped out of the wooden trap, feeling the floor with my foot, careful not to step on anyone, and reached the pantry. Darkness. A whiskered creature brushed my ankles. I gasped, thinking it a rat, ready to shriek. Laughter erupted: Its just a kitten, roamed by day, returned home at night.
I shuffled to the bathroom with Tom; there was no door, only a partition. Tom stood with his back to me, lighting a match to keep the oil lamp from falling into the bucket. I returned, collapsed onto the bunk and fell asleep: fresh air, no car hornsjust the hush of an English village.
