Tomorrow Im off to meet my future motherinlaw. My married friends, trying to calm my nerves, almost scared me half to death:
Remember, keep your chin up they didnt find you on a dump
Dont let them get on your throat; set everything straight from the start.
Know that good mothersinlaw are a myth
Its you who made them happy, not the other way round.
I lay awake all night, and by morning I looked fresher than a burial shroud. We met on the railway platform and boarded the train a twohour ride. The train wound through a tiny village after a stretch of fields. The air was crisp, smelling of Christmas pine. Snow glittered under the weak sun, crunching beneath our boots, while the tops of the spruce whispered in the wind. I was beginning to feel the chill when, thank heavens, a hamlet appeared.
A little, wiry old woman in a patched woollen coat, sheepskin slippers and a threadbare but clean kerchief greeted us at the gate. If she hadnt called out, I might have walked straight past:
Little Miss Poppy, Im Ursula Finch, Toms mother. Lets be acquainted. She yanked a fur mitt from her wrinkled hand and thrust it toward me. The handshake was firm, the stare from behind the kerchief sharp. We shuffled down a path between snowdrifts to a cottage built of darkened logs. Inside, the redhot stove gave off a comforting glow.
What a jump! Eighty miles north of Sheffield and it felt like stepping back to the Middle Ages. Water came from a well, the toilet was a hole in the garden wall, and the radio was a rarity. The cottage was dimly lit.
Mother, shall we light a lamp? suggested Tom. His mother gave a disapproving glance:
Dont sit in the dark like a frightened rabbit, or will you choke on your own breath? Her eyes landed on me. Of course, love, I was just about to turn it on, she said, twisting the bulb over the kitchen table. A feeble glow lit a metre around us. Hungry, are we? Ive boiled some noodles come on, have a bit of hot broth. We ate, glancing at each other, while she murmured sweet, cautious words, her gaze sharp as a needle. I felt as if my soul were being examined. She kept popping in and out, cutting bread, tossing a log onto the fire, then announcing, Ill put the kettle on. Lets have tea. The kettle had a little lid with a pine cone attached, a tiny hole, and steam puffed out. The tea wasnt ordinary it was berryinfused, with a dollop of raspberry jam that would warm the bones and chase away any sniffles. Theres no illness here, darling, only good company, she cooed. I kept thinking I was starring in a period film. Soon a director would shout, Thats a wrap, thank you, everyone.
The warmth, the food, the jamladen tea made me feel sleepy, as if I could press a pillow for a couple of hours. But no, the next command came:
Alright, you lot, off to the bakery! Buy a couple of kilos of flour. We need to bake pies for the evening when Vera and Graham and their families arrive, and little Lucy from Sheffield will drop by to meet the new bridetobe. Ill start on the cabbage filling, you handle the mash.
While we were dressing, Ursula hauled a cabbage head from under her bed, diced it and declared, This cabbages getting a haircut, trimming off the leaves.
We walked through the village; everyone stopped, greeted us, men tipped their caps, bowed, and gave us a lingering look. The bakery was in the next market town, a short trek through the woods. Snowclad birches wore tiny white hats, and the sun played merrily on the frosted boulders as we went, turning a buttery yellow on the way back. English winter days are short indeed.
Back at the cottage, Ursula said, Get cooking, Poppy. Ill stomp the snow in the garden so the mice dont gnaw the bark off the trees. Tom, you take a bag of snow and fling it under the branches with me.
If Id known how much dough wed need, I wouldnt have bought so much, but Ursula nudged, No matter how big the job, once you start youll finish it. The beginning is hard, the end sweet.
Alone with the dough, I was at a loss but had to knead. One pie was round, another long; one the size of a palm, another as big as a foot. Some were packed with filling, others barely had any. One was a deep brown, the other a pale gold. Oh, Ive worked myself to the bone! Later Tom revealed the truth: the test was a ploy to see if I was fit to be his dear sons wife.
Guests poured in like a cornucopia of strangers, all fairhaired, blueeyed, smiling. I hid behind Tom, blushing. A round table took up the middle of the room, and I was placed on a makeshift throne a sturdy old bed with a pile of youngsters jumping around. My stomach felt like it might tip over. Tom brought in a big wooden chest, covered it with a blanket, and I sat perched like royalty for all to see.
I refused to eat the cabbage or fried onions, but I managed to stuff myself anyway, my ears ringing with laughter.
Night fell. The future motherinlaws narrow bed was tucked by the stove; the rest of us sprawled in the hall. The cottage is cramped, but better together, she announced, pulling out a stiff, embroidered sheet from an old oak chest that had once belonged to Toms father. Heres a spot for you, dear. Ursula spread the linens and muttered, The fires burning, the house is full, but the lady has nowhere to lie! Future relatives slumped onto the floor on wooden pallets 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, and reached the darkened hallway. Something with a tail brushed my ankles. I squealed, thinking it was a rat, but everyone laughed, Its just the kitten, out all day, back home at night.
I headed to the privy with Tom; there was no proper door, just a thin partition. Tom stood with his back to me, lighting a match so the candle wouldnt fall into the bucket.
Back in the cottage, I collapsed onto the bed, breathing fresh country air, no car horns in the distance just the quiet of the English village.
