The village of Woodvale, nestled beneath ancient pines near Oxford, greeted us with a frost-laced morning. Tomorrow I would meet my future mother-in-law, and I, Emily, was a bundle of nerves. My married friends, meaning well, only stoked my fears:
“Hold your head high—you’re not some backstreet girl!”
“Don’t let her boss you about—show your spine from the start!”
“Good mothers-in-law are a myth, mark my words!”
“You’re the one blessing *them*, not the other way round!”
The night slipped by without sleep; by dawn, I looked like I’d risen from the grave. My fiancé, William, met me at the station. The two-hour train ride stretched into eternity. Stepping onto the platform, we trudged through a sleepy market town, then into a snow-laced forest. The brittle air smelled of pine and Christmas, snow crunching underfoot as the trees whispered overhead. I was freezing when the rooftops of Woodvale finally appeared.
At the gate stood a tiny woman in a frayed coat and faded headscarf. Had she not called out, I might have walked right past.
“Emily, love, I’m Margaret, William’s mum. Pleased to meet you!” She tugged off a threadbare mitten and clasped my hand. Her gaze, sharp as a surgeon’s knife, seemed to peel me open. A narrow path between drifts led us to an old timber cottage, its beams dark with age. Inside, warmth enveloped us—the stove glowed cherry-red.
I’d stepped into another century. Eighty miles from Oxford, yet no running water, no proper loo, just an outhouse. A radio? Scarce here. A dim bulb fought the shadows.
“Mum, let’s switch on the light,” William suggested.
Margaret frowned. “We’re not posh folk, sitting by electric light. Afraid you’ll miss your mouth with the spoon?” But catching my expression, she relented. “Alright, love, I’ll fetch it—got caught up, I did.”
She twisted the bulb above the table, and a feeble glow bathed the kitchen.
“Hungry, are you? Ladle some soup—help yourselves!” She bustled about, serving steaming broth.
We ate under her watchful eye, her words kind but her gaze dissecting me like a specimen. Whenever our eyes met, she’d busy herself—slicing bread, stoking the fire.
“Tea’s on,” she chirped. “Not your usual cuppa—infused with blackberry leaves. Strawberry jam with it, chases the chills, warms the soul. Tuck in, dearies!”
I felt trapped in a pre-industrial folktale. Any moment, a director might yell, *Cut!* The warmth, the heavy food, the sweet tea left me drowsy. All I wanted was to collapse onto a pillow, but Margaret had other plans.
“Pop down to the shop, fetch a couple pounds of pastry. We’ll bake pies—kin’s coming tonight: William’s sisters, Lucy and Sophie, and Elizabeth from Oxford with her beau. I’ll fry up cabbage, mash some spuds.”
As we bundled up, she hauled a massive cabbage from under the bed, chopping it while muttering,
“Off to the barber goes the cabbage, leaves nothing but the stalk.”
The village bowed to William—men doffed caps, eyes trailing us. The shop lay past the woods. Snow glittered under the sun, but dusk came quick. Back home, Margaret declared,
“Your turn, Emily. I’m off to the garden, tramp down snow so mice don’t gnaw the bark. William, grab a shovel.”
Left with a mountain of dough, I regretted my choices. *Had I known I’d be baking, I’d have bought less!* “Start and you’ll finish,” Margaret teased. “Hard beginnings, sweet endings.” My pies were lopsided—one round, one oblong, one stuffed, one hollow. By the time I finished, my fingers ached. Later, William confessed: his mother was testing if I’d make a fitting wife.
The house swarmed with guests—blond, blue-eyed, all smiles while I hid behind William, cheeks burning. The table was shoved to the center; I was seated on the creaky bed with the kids. Knees nearly touching the ceiling, children bouncing—my head spun. William dragged over a crate, draped it with a quilt—there I sat, a spectacle. I loathe cabbage and onions, yet I ate enough for three, ears ringing.
Darkness fell. Margaret’s narrow cot sat by the stove; the rest slept in the main room. “Close quarters, but merrier for it,” she said. As the guest, I got the bed. Starched linens, pulled from a hand-carved chest (William’s late father’s work), felt like museum pieces. As she made the bed, she murmured,
“Room, stretch; hearth, breathe—yet where’s the mistress to sleep?”
Relatives sprawled on the floor, buried under attic quilts. Then nature called. I tiptoed through the pitch-dark hall, praying not to step on anyone. Something furry brushed my leg—I shrieked, certain it was a rat. The house erupted in laughter: just a stray kitten, wandering in by night.
William escorted me to the loo—no door, just a partition. He stood guard, striking matches so I wouldn’t plummet into the pit. Back in bed, I sank into oblivion. Fresh air, silence—the village slept.
