**A Twist of Fate**
The village of Woodend, nestled beneath ancient pines somewhere near Canterbury, greeted us with a biting cold morning. Tomorrow, I would meet my future mother-in-law, and I, Emily, was beside myself with nerves. My married friends, meaning to reassure me, only made it worse:
“Chin up, love—you’re no stray off the street!”
“Don’t let her push you about—set your boundaries early!”
“Good mothers-in-law don’t exist, mark my words!”
“You’re the one blessing them, not the other way round!”
The night passed without sleep, and by dawn, I looked half-dead. James, my fiancé, met me at the station. The two-hour train ride stretched like eternity. When we finally stepped off, we trudged through a quaint little town, then into a snow-laden forest. The icy air smelled of pine and Christmas, the snow crunched underfoot, and the trees whispered overhead. I was freezing, but at last, the rooftops of Woodend came into view.
By the gate stood a tiny old woman in a worn-out coat and faded headscarf. If she hadn’t called out, I’d have walked right past.
“Emily, my dear! I’m Margaret, James’s mother. So pleased to meet you!” She tugged off a threadbare mitten and gripped my hand. Her gaze, sharp as a knife, seemed to see right through me. Along a narrow path between drifts, we entered an old timber cottage, its darkened beams steeped in time. Inside, warmth embraced us—the stove glowed red-hot.
It was like stepping into the past. Eighty kilometres from Canterbury, yet no running water, only an outhouse. A radio? Not in every home. The dim light of a single bulb pushed back the shadows.
“Mum, let’s turn the light on,” James suggested.
Margaret frowned. “We’re not posh folk, sitting in full glare. Afraid you’ll miss your mouth with the soup, love?” But catching my expression, she relented. “Fine, fine—let’s brighten it up a bit.”
She twisted the bulb above the table, and a dull glow lit the kitchen.
“You must be starved. I’ve made soup—help yourselves!” She bustled about, ladling steaming broth.
We ate under her watchful eye, exchanging glances as she chirped sweet words. But that gaze—like a surgeon’s scalpel—dissected my soul. I felt pinned under scrutiny. Each time our eyes met, she flitted away, slicing bread or feeding the fire.
“I’ll put the kettle on,” she trilled. “Special tea—blackcurrant leaves. And strawberry jam to go with it—chases the chill right out. Drink up, dears!”
It felt like a scene from a bygone era, as if any moment a director would shout, *Cut!* The warmth, the food, the syrup-sweet tea lulled me. I wanted to collapse onto a pillow and sleep, but Margaret had other plans.
“Pop down to the shop, will you? Fetch a couple kilos of pastry dough. We’ll bake pies—family’s coming tonight: James’s sisters, Grace and Lucy, and Elizabeth from Canterbury with her beau. I’ll fry the cabbage, mash the potatoes.”
As we bundled up, she hauled out a massive cabbage from under the bed, muttering while she shredded it:
“Chop it neat, chop it fine—what’s left is but the spine.”
Through the village we walked, folk tipping hats to James, eyes trailing us. The shop was in the next hamlet, the path cutting through woods. Snow glittered under the sun, but dusk was quick to swallow the light. When we returned, Margaret declared,
“Your turn, Emily. I’m off to the garden—trample snow so mice don’t gnaw the bark. James can dig a bit.”
I was left with a mountain of dough. Had I known I’d be baking, I’d never have bought so much! *Start and you’ll finish,* she coaxed. *All beginnings are heavy, but endings are sweet.* My pies came out lopsided—one round, one oblong, one bursting with filling, another hollow. It took ages to shape them. Later, James confessed: it was a test—was I fit to be his wife?
The house soon brimmed with guests—hardly room to breathe. All fair-haired, blue-eyed, smiling while I hid behind James, cheeks burning. The table was shoved to the centre, and I was seated on the creaky bed with the children. Knees nearly to my chin, kids bouncing—my head spun. James dragged over a crate, draped it with a quilt—there I perched, on display like royalty. I don’t usually touch cabbage or onions, but here I ate enough for three—could’ve burst!
Night fell. Margaret’s narrow bed was by the stove; the rest of us crammed into the main room. “Close quarters make merry hearts,” she chimed. As the guest, I got the bed. Starched linen—ironed stiff—was pulled from a carved chest, made by James’s late father. Lying down felt like resting in a museum. As she smoothed the sheets, she murmured,
“House may sway, hearth may lean, but where’s a spot for the ol’ queen?”
Family sprawled on the floor, buried under attic quilts. Then nature called. I crept from bed, groping for the floor to avoid trampling sleepers. The hallway swallowed me in darkness. Something furry brushed my leg—I shrieked, certain it was a rat. Everyone bolted up, laughing—just the kitten, wandering home after a day’s adventure.
James escorted me outside, the torchlight flickering as he turned his back, shielding me from the icy pit. I stumbled back to bed and slept like the dead. Fresh air, deep silence—this was village life.