The Village of Woodend, nestled beneath ancient oaks near the outskirts of Canterbury, greeted us with a frost-laden morning. Tomorrow I was to meet my future mother-in-law, and I, Evelyn, was beside myself with nerves. Married friends, meaning well, only deepened my dread with their warnings:
“Chin up! You’re no common girl off the street!”
“Don’t let her order you about—show some spirit from the start!”
“Kind mothers-in-law don’t exist—mark my words!”
“It’s them who should be grateful for you, not the other way round!”
The night passed without sleep; by dawn, I looked as though I’d been buried and dug up again. My fiancé, Edmund, met me at the station. Two hours on the train dragged like an eternity. Alighting, we pressed on through a quiet market town and then a snow-laden copse. The crisp air smelled of pine and Christmastide, snow crunched underfoot, and the oaks murmured overhead. I was near frozen when, at last, the rooftops of Woodend appeared in the distance.
At the garden gate stood a tiny old woman in a threadbare coat and a faded kerchief. Had she not called out, I might have walked right past her.
“Evie, my dear! I’m Margaret, Edmund’s mother. How lovely to meet you!” She tugged off a worn mitten and clasped my hand. Her sharp, keen gaze seemed to pierce straight through me. Following the narrow path between snowdrifts, we entered an old cottage built of darkened timbers. Inside, warmth enveloped us—the hearth roaring crimson.
It was like stepping into another age. Eighty miles from Canterbury, yet no running water nor proper privy, just an outhouse. Wireless? Not in every home. The dim interior was grudgingly lit by a single flickering bulb.
“Mother, let’s have more light,” Edmund suggested.
Margaret frowned.
“We’re not gentry, sitting in lamp-light. Afraid you’ll miss your mouth with the soup, dear?” But catching my expression, she softened. “Very well, lad—go on, then, light it up.”
She twisted the bulb above the table, and a feeble glow spilled over the kitchen.
“Hungry, I’ll wager? Made some broth—help yourselves!” She bustled about, ladling steaming noodle soup into bowls.
We ate under her watchful eye, exchanging glances as she murmured kind words—yet her gaze, sharp as a surgeon’s knife, dissected my every thought. I felt like quarry in her sights. When our eyes met, she busied herself—slicing bread, stoking the fire.
“I’ll put the kettle on,” she chirped. “Special tea—blackcurrant leaves and honey. Jam too, raspberry—chases off chills and warms the heart. Help yourselves, darlings!”
It felt like a scene from a forgotten tale. Any moment, a director might bellow, *Cut!* The warmth, the hot meal, the sweet tea lulled me. I longed to collapse into bed, but Margaret had other plans.
“Off to the shop with you, my dears—fetch two pounds of pastry. We’ll bake pies—Edith and Anne are coming tonight, and young Elizabeth from Canterbury with her fellow. I’ll fry cabbage and mash potatoes.”
While we bundled up, she hauled an enormous cabbage from beneath the bed, shredding it with quick strokes, muttering,
“Off to the barber goes the head, shorn down to a stump instead.”
As we walked the village, folk tipped their hats to Edmund—men doffed caps, eyes trailing after us. The shop lay beyond the wood, through snow that glittered under the sun, though dusk crept in fast—winter days are short. Upon our return, Margaret declared:
“Time to bake, Evie. I’m off to the garden—must tramp the snow so mice don’t gnaw the bark. Edmund’s coming too, shovel in hand.”
She left me with a mountain of dough. Had I known I’d be baking, I’d have bought less!
“Begin the task, and it’s half done,” she teased. “Heavy the start, sweet the end.” My pies turned out lopsided: one round, one oblong; one stuffed to bursting, the next hollow. I toiled over them—only later did Edmund confess his mother had been testing my worthiness as his wife.
The house soon brimmed with kin—no room to breathe. All fair-haired and blue-eyed, smiling warmly, while I shrank behind Edmund, abashed. The table was dragged to the center, and I was seated on the bed with the children—rickety, my knees nearly bumping the low ceiling. Their bouncing set my head spinning. Edmund fetched a crate, draped it with a quilt—there I perched, on display like royalty. Though I never touch cabbage or onions, I ate enough for three—could’ve burst at the seams!
Darkness fell. Margaret’s narrow bed sat by the stove; the others slept in the main room. “Close quarters mean cheer,” she said. As guest of honour, I was given the bed. From a carved chest—crafted by Edmund’s late father—she pulled starched linens. Lying down felt like resting in a museum.
“Walk, cottage, walk, hearth—yet the mistress finds no berth!” she muttered, smoothing the sheets.
The family bedded down on the floor, atop heaps of old quilts from the attic. Then came the call of nature. I edged from the bed, groping for the floor to avoid trampling sleepers. The hallway was pitch—then something furry brushed my leg. I shrieked, certain it was a rat. The household erupted in laughter—only a kitten, scrounging by day, returning at night.
Edmund escorted me outside, matches in hand. No door—just a partition. He stood guard, back turned, striking matches lest I tumble into the pit. Returning, I collapsed into bed and slept the sleep of the dead. Fresh air, silence—proper country living.
