Tomorrow Im heading to meet my future motherinlaw. My married friends tried to calm my nerves, practically terrorising me until I could barely breathe:
Remember, hold yourself with pride they didnt find you in a junkyard.
Dont let anyone walk all over you; set your house in order from the start.
Good mothersinlaw are a myth.
And its you wholl make them happy, not the other way round.
That night I lay awake, and by morning I looked as though Id been polished for a funeral. We met on the platform and boarded the regional train, a twohour ride. The train winded through a tiny market town after a brief halt. The air was crisp, smelling of New Years fireworks, snow glittered in the weak sunshine, crunching beneath our boots. The pine tops whispered and swayed. I began to shiver, but luck brought a little hamlet into view.
A wiry old woman in a patched woollen coat, threadbare slippers, and a tattered but clean kerchief stood at the gate. If she hadnt called out to me I would have passed by:
Ellie, love, Im Agnes Whitby, Toms mother. Pleased to meet you.
She tugged a knitted mitten from her wrinkled palm and offered a firm handshake, her eyes peering sharply from beneath the kerchief. We trudged along a path snaking between drifts to a lowtimbered cottage, its walls darkened by years of smoke. Inside, a redhot stove gave the room a comforting glow.
It felt like stepping back eight decades from London into the Middle Ages. The water came from a well, the toilet was a simple hole outside, a radio was a rarity, and the cottage was halflit.
Mother, shall we light a lamp? Tom suggested. His mother gave a disapproving glance:
Dont sit in the dark, youll bite your tongue, wont you? She glanced at me, then smiled, Of course, dear, I was about to. She twisted a bulb above the kitchen table; a weak yellow light bathed the immediate area. Hungry, are we? Ive boiled some noodles. Come, have a bowl of hot soup. We ate, exchanged glances, and she murmured soothing words, her gaze watchful, her tone gentle yet sharp. It felt as though she were dissecting my soul. She flitted aboutcutting bread, tossing logs onto the fire, then declaring, Ill set the kettle. Lets have tea. The kettle was small with a little lid, the lid a tiny pine cone. Steam rose from a hole in the cone. The tea wasnt ordinary; it was berryinfused, with a spoonful of raspberry jam that promised to chase away any chill. No ailment will stay, she said, Enjoy, dear guests, its on the house.
I had the sensation of being on a periodfilm set. In my mind the director would call out, Thats a wrap, thank you all. The warmth, the food, the jamladen tea made me feel sleepy, as if I could press a pillow for a couple of hours, but the demands kept coming:
Alright, you lot, go to the village shop, buy a couple of kilos of flour. We need to bake pasties for tonight when the Varley and the Grayson families arrive, and when Lucy from Sheffield comes to meet the new daughterinlaw. Ill fry some cabbage for the filling, boil some mash.
While we were dressing, Agnes hauled a cabbage from under the bed, chopped it, and quipped, This cabbages going to be trimmed into shreds.
We walked through the village; everyone stopped, greeted us, men tipped their hats, bowed, and all eyes followed. The shop lay in the next hamlet, reachable by a short forest trek. Along the way, little fir trees wore snowcapped caps, the sun played merrily on the icy stones as we headed out, and on the return a golden glow fell on the path. Winter days are short indeed.
Back at the cottage, Agnes said, Get a move on, Ellie. Ill stomp the snow in the garden so the mice dont gnaw the bark. Tom, youll help me fling the snow onto the trees.
If I hadnt known the recipe I might not have bought so much flour, but Agnes encouraged me, No matter how big the task, once you start youll finish. The beginning is hard, the end sweet.
Alone with the dough, I fumbled, shaping one round pasty, another long one; one the size of my hand, another barely a finger. Some were packed with filling, others scant. One turned a deep brown, the other a pale gold. I was exhausted. Later Tom whispered the truth: his mother was testing whether I was worthy of her precious son.
Guests poured in like a horn of plentyfairhaired, blueeyed, smiling folk. I hid behind Tom, shy and blushing. A round table was set in the centre of the room, and I was placed on a makeshift thronea sturdy bed with children climbing over me, my knees nearly touching the ceiling. I felt a hint of seasickness as they jumped. Tom brought a large wooden chest, covered it with a blanket, and I sat upon it like a queen for all to see.
I ate nothing but cabbage and fried onions, yet I forced myself to chat, my ears ringing.
Night fell. The future motherinlaws narrow bed was tucked by the stove, the others in the sitting room. The cottage is cramped, but better together, she said, offering me a spot on a carved chest that had once belonged to Toms father. The sheets were stiff with starch, and I felt uneasy lying down. Agnes spread a blanket and warned, The house will creak, the fire will crack, and theres nowhere for the lady to rest! The guests sprawled on the floor on old woollen rugs taken from the loft.
I needed the lavatory. I slipped out of the makeshift prison, feeling my way across the floor, careful not to step on anyone, and made it to the back where darkness loomed. Something with a tail brushed my ankles; I panicked, thinking it was a rat, and let out a scream. Laughter erupted: Its just a kitten, was out all day and came home at dusk.
I went to the privy with Tom; the door was a simple screen. He stood with his back to me, lighting a match so the little lantern didnt go out.
Returning, I collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep to the fresh country air, the distant hum of traffic absent, the village settled in quiet.
