Tomorrow Im to visit my future motherinlaw. My married friends, trying to soothe me, nearly scared me to death:
Remember, hold yourself with pride; you werent found on a junkyard
Dont let anyone sit on your throat; dot every i straight away.
Know this: 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 for a funeral display.
We met on the platform and boarded the commuter train. Two hours of rattling rails.
The train slipped through a tiny market town after a frosty pine forest. The air was sharp, smelling of NewYear firecrackers. Snow glittered under the weak sun, crunching beneath our boots. The spruce tops whispered and shivered. I began to feel the cold bite, but then a little hamlet appeared, like a promise.
A wiry old woman in a patched woolen coat, threadbare felt boots and a holepunctured but clean kerchief met us at the gate. Had she not called out, I would have walked past:
Rosie, dear, Im Agnes Whitaker, mother of Tom. Lets be acquainted. She peeled a stiff, furred mitten from her wrinkled palm and extended a hand. The grip was firm, the glance from beneath the kerchief sharp as a needle. We trod a lane winding between drifts to a cottage built of darkened logs; inside the hearth glowed a deep, red blaze.
A miracle! Eighty miles from Manchester and it felt as if wed stepped into the Middle Ages. Water came from a well, the toilet was a hole in the yard, a radio was a luxury, and the cottage lived in perpetual halflight.
Mum, lets light a lamp, suggested Tom. Mother looked disapprovingly:
Dont sit in the dark, lest you choke on a spoon. Her eyes flicked to me, Of course, love, of course, I was just about to turn the bulb, she said, twisting the little glass shade above the kitchen table. A dim glow spread a metre round. Hungry, are we? Ive boiled some noodles; come have a bowl of hot broth in our little hut. We ate, exchanged glances, while she murmured soft, round words, her eyes wary, keen. I felt she was dissecting my soul. Our eyes met, and she busied herself: slicing bread, tossing a few logs onto the fire, then declaring, Ill put the kettle on. Lets have tea. A tiny teapot with a lid, the lid a pine cone, the cone a hole, steam curling from the hole. The tea was not ordinary but berryinfused, with a splash of raspberry jam that warmed the body, chased away any chill. Theres no illness here, and there never will be. Help yourselves, dear guests, eat what you cant buy elsewhere
It seemed as if I were acting in a silent film of a bygone era. Soon a director would appear and announce:
Cut! Thanks to all.
The heat, the steaming food, the tea with jam made me drowsy, as though I could press a pillow for two hundred minutes, but the moment was stolen:
Alright, lads, off to the bakery. Pick up a couple of kilos of flour. We must bake pasties; tonight Varney and Grace will bring their families, Lottie from Manchester will arrive, and well meet the future bridetobe. Meanwhile Ill fry some cabbage for the filling, mash some potatoes.
While we dressed, Agnes hauled a cabbage head from under the bed, shredded it and chanted,
The cabbage goes to the cutter, the cutter to the pan.
We walked through the village; everyone stopped, greeted us, men tipped their hats, bowed, and watched us pass.
The bakery lay in the next town, a trek through a wood. Spruces and stumps wore snowy caps. The sun, as we went, danced on the white boulders; on the way back it cast a yellowish glow. Winter days are brief.
Back at the cottage, Agnes said,
Mind the fire, Rosie. Ill pack the garden snow so the mice wont gnaw the bark. Ill take Tom to toss snow under the trees.
If Id known how much dough wed need, I wouldnt have bought so much, but Agnes urged, The work may seem huge, but 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 palm, another as long as a ruler. One packed with filling, the other barely anything. One browned like a chestnut, the other pale as flour. I was exhausted. Later Tom revealed the truth: his mother had set a test to see if I was worthy of her precious son.
Guests poured in like an overflowing horn. All blond, blueeyed, smiling. I hid behind Tom, shy.
A round table dominated the centre of the room; I was placed on a makeshift thronea bed piled with blankets and tiny children, their knees higher than my head, staring up at the ceiling. The kids bounced, and I felt a touch of seasickness. Tom brought in a large wooden chest, draped it with a quilt, and I sat upon it like a queen on a throne, on display for all.
I ate neither cabbage nor fried onion, but I gorged myself with everything, my ears ringing.
Night fell. The future motherinlaws narrow bed lay by the hearth, the others in the hall. The cottage is cramped, but better together, she muttered. A special bed, carved from an old chest that once belonged to Toms father, was set out for me with stiff, starched linens that felt daunting. Agnes spread them and said,
The cottage moves, the fire crackles, but the lady has nowhere to lie! Future relatives sprawled on the floor on straw mattresses hauled up from the attic.
I needed the loo. I slipped from the blanket prison, feeling my way across the floor, careful not to step on anyone. I reached the pantry, darkness enveloping me. A scaly creature brushed my ankle; I gasped, thinking it a rat, ready to scream. Laughter erupted: Its just a kitten, out all day, back home at night.
I went to the loo with Tom; there was no door, only a partition. Tom stood with his back to me, lighting a match so the candle wouldnt fall into the cesspit.
I returned, collapsed onto the bed, and fell asleep: fresh air, no car noisesjust the quiet of the village.
