My husband and I have just arrived in the countrysideto meet his parents for the first time.
Johns mum, appearing on the doorstep with her hands on her hips, looked for all the world like a matron ready to inspect a tea party and exclaimed,
Oh, Johnny! You could have told us you were coming And youve brought someone, I see!
John promptly scooped me up into a hug and held me tight.
Mum, meet my wifeEmily, he introduced with a grin.
Mrs. Thompson, clad in a frilly apron, beamed and strode over to me with open arms.
Well, hello there, daughter-in-law! she cried, pulling me close and kissing me three times, as is traditional.
The air around Mrs. Thompson brimmed with the scents of garlic and freshly baked bread. Her embrace was so firm I found myself wedged between two well-padded pillowsher generous bosom. She drew back for a moment, eyed me up and down critically, and turned to her son.
Johnny, where on earth did you find such a slip of a girl?
He chuckled.
Oh, you knowdown in the city! At the library Is Dad in?
Hes at the neighbours, fiddling with their fire, she replied. Come on in, do take your shoes off thoughIve only just scrubbed the floors.
Out in the yard, a group of village children gaped at uswide-eyed, curious.
Sammy! Mrs. Thompson called to a boy. Pop round to Mrs. Richmonds and tell Mr. Thompson his son and daughter-in-law have arrived!
Right! he shouted, tearing off down the lane.
We stepped into the house. John took off my stylish autumn coatbought at a clearance saleand hung it by the fire. Then he pressed my cold hands to the warm white side of the range, rubbing them gently and murmuring,
Youre my breadwinner, you arestill warm
Pots and pans banged, clay jugs landed on the table, crystal tumblers clinked, and spoons chimed against enamel plates as Mrs. Thompson busied herself setting at the table. I glanced around the cottage with keen curiosity: religious prints in the front corner, small chintz curtains at the windows, homemade rag rugs strewn across the floor and over the stools. A ginger cat snoozed by the range, tail flicking as it turned away from us.
We tied the knot just last week, Johns voice floated to me as though from a distance.
I found myself amazed at the culinary bounty that rapidly filled the table: in the centre, a beautiful pork pie; alongside, pickled cabbage, tomatoes, and a jug of still-warm milk with a golden crust from the oven; a pie with chopped egg and spring onions
Goodness me, my mouth was watering!
Mum, thats plenty now. Thisll last us a week, John mumbled, biting into a thick wedge of homemade bread.
Mrs. Thompson placed a frosted glass bottle of elderflower cordial next to the pork pie and, satisfied, wiped her hands on her apron.
There we arenow we can sit down together!
And that was how I met Johns mother.
Mother and son looked strikingly alikeboth with dark hair and rosy cheeks. Only my John was gentle and easygoing, while Mrs. Thompson, much like an English summer storm, was sudden and boisterous. I supposed shed tamed more than one unruly horse at some village fête and rescued her share of blazing farmhouses.
Just then, the door to the porch slammed noisily.
Into the kitchen strode a short, wiry man, swirling in cold autumn air.
Blimey! he declared, delighted.
Without shedding his soot-stained jumper, he enveloped his son in a hearty hug.
Hello, Dad! John grinned.
Go wash those hands, then well have a proper greeting! Mrs. Thompson commanded.
Mr. Thompson shook my hand warmly.
Pleased to meet you, young lady!
His twinkling blue eyes glinted mischievously beneath a scant ginger beard and lively, copper-toned curls.
Love, pour me some soup, will you? he called as he rattled the wash basin.
We raised glasses to one another.
To you bothwelcome!
After a few sips and nibbles I found myself emboldened.
Mr. Thompson, why is everyone in your family called John?
He laughed, Simple, Emily! My grandfather, my father, and mewe were all chimney sweeps for generations. Only young Johnny here he nodded at his son, decided to be a machinist instead.
Machinists are needed too, Dad! John protested.
So, Mr. Thompson, is it difficult to build a good fireplace? I asked.
He held up one finger.
Thats an art, my dear! Has to be handsome, smoke-free, and bake a pie to perfection. Dont be fooled by my size! Us red-haired folk are a hardy lotkissed by the sun.
My husband there can turn his hand to anything! Mrs. Thompson chimed in proudly.
Dad, tell us a story, will you? Wed love to hear it.
He sighed, stroked his beard, looked slyly around, and agreed.
All right, since youre asking. Heres a good one
One summer, years back, we went out haymaking. Remember Bessie, love? he asked his wife. Wasnt a cowshe was a milk miracle on stilts. We set out at dawn, whole village togethermen and women, young and old. The sun hadnt yet lifted above the woods, and the air was ringing with the whish of scythesshush-shush, shush-shush
The heat that day was fierce, the horseflies never-ending! And that year, the woods swarmed with wild boar, more than Id ever seen. Come midday, we were dropping with exhaustionnot our first day at it. I looked at the lot and thought: Ill have a bit of fun, get everyone moving. Mustve been the sun going to my head
So I drop my scythe, dash off and yell, Oi! Boars! Run for your lives! And up I went into a tree. Everyone else flung down their tools and scrambled into the branches too
We burst out laughing.
What happened next? I asked.
Well, once they realised, the lot of them threatened me with rakes! But I tell you, the work went twice as fast after that
Mrs. Thompson landed a playful slap on his shoulder.
You ginger troublemaker!
Dad, tell us about the real boars.
Oh, I can. So, back when John was just a twinkle in our eyes and me and the missus were newlywedsId just taken up hunting. Havent touched the gun since, mind you.
He told of a snowy dayheading out hunting, dog at his side, trudging through the woods. Drew near some boar, fired, missedthen the biggest one charged. He scrambled up a tree, clung there half the night, freezing, while a whole pack of wild boar circled below. By morning Mrs. Thompson had rounded up a search party and found himhalf-frozen, hauled back home.
Youre no wilting flower, loveblood and milk, you are! she teased.
Oh, hush! Emily, fancy a cuppa? Weve got strong black tea, some chamomile, and a bit of home-made honey.
Id love some, thank you.
Mrs. Thompson poured out steaming mugs of fragrant tea.
Dad, you must tell how you cured my aunt.
Mr. Thompson nearly choked on his sip, then chuckled.
Once, Mrs. Thompsons sister wired usa telegram saying she was coming for a visit. Tessa arrives, stays for a few days, then complains over lunch her legs are hurting dreadfully.
Whats wrong? we ask.
Dont know, she says. Suppose I should see a doctor but cant be bothered.
Ever tried bee stings, Tessa? we tease. Not many bees in London
Well, I soon took her to the hive, told her to hitch her skirt up above the kneesnot too high! Set a bee on each leg. Tessa thanked me at first, but soon after, she was in agonyturns out shes terribly allergic; her legs swelled right upcouldnt walk at all!
See? Our own Dr. Dolittle, Mrs. Thompson laughed.
Well, how was I to know? You didnt know either Emily, have some honey. No allergies, I hope?
None at all, Mr. Thompson.
Good, good
Tea finished, night fell beyond the windows, and weariness crept over me. Mrs. Thompson drew the curtains.
Johnny, where would you two like to sleep?
Mum, can we sleep by the fire? What do you think, Emilyfancy a night beside the hearth?
Id love it!
Ill sort it! Dad built that fireplace with his own hands, she announced with pride.
Mr. Thompson looked pleased as punch.
And deserved tohis hearth glowed with warmth, a real centrepiece that fed and gathered the family.
The brilliant fire burned, pulsating with life.
We thanked our hosts and stood from the table. John gave me a gentle pat and helped me onto the broad hearth ledge.
From the loft above, a heady scent envelopes mebaked bricks, dried herbs, lanolin from woollen blankets, and the tang of new bread.
John soon drifted off to sleep. I, however, lay awake.
What on earth?
Someone nearby was breathing heavilypuff-snort, puff-snort
The house ghost! I thought in alarm. Ive read about those
A childrens rhyme came to mind:
Dear old ghost, leave us bejust let us sleep peacefully!
At dawn, I learned the truth: it wasnt a ghost at all, but the bread dough Mrs. Thompson had set to rise in the warmthcompletely forgotten.
Well pay many a visit again to Johns welcoming family home: for Mr. Thompsons tall tales, to bask by the fire, and to feast on homemade bread.
But those are stories for another day.
