My husband and I have just arrived in a small English village its time for me to meet his parents for the first time.
Jacks mum, standing proudly on the front step with her hands on her hips like the matron of the manor, immediately calls out, Oh, Jackie! You mightve warned us you were bringing someone home!
Jack sweeps me up in a firm embrace. Mum, meet my wife Emily, he announces.
Mrs. Harris, tied up in a flowery apron and stretching out her arms, makes her way towards me. Well, hello there, dearie! she shouts, planting three hearty kisses on my cheeks, as is her familys custom.
Im instantly enveloped in the scents of fresh garlic and oven-warm bread wafting off of her. Mrs. Harris hugs me so tightly I momentarily worry I might not catch my breath; my head gets buried between two well-stuffed cushions her formidable bosom. She finally holds me at arms length to inspect me from head to toe, then turns to Jack, Jackie, where on earth did you find such a little thing?
Jack gives a short laugh, Where else? In the city! We met at the library. Is Dad at home?
Hes next door, fixing Mrs. Wilkinsons old AGA. Come inside, then but shoes off, mind! Ive just scrubbed the floors, she orders.
Outside, a group of curious children gape at us from the garden gate. Ben, run over to Mrs. Wilkinsons. Tell David that Jacks here, and hes brought the missus!
Alright! yells the boy, tearing off down the lane.
We step into the cottage.
Jack removes my trendy mid-season coat snagged from a charity shop in the city and hangs it on the peg by the fireplace. Then he places my chilled red hands against the warm, whitewashed range and presses his cheek to them, grinning, Youre still toasty, my love.
Immediately, pans rattle, baking dishes clang, stoneware jugs knock against the table, glass tumblers chime, and sturdy spoons clatter on crockery. As Mrs. Harris sets the table, I take in the details of their cosy home: framed cross-stitch in the corners, white lace curtains with tiny pink roses, woven rag rugs layered on floors and stools. Curled up near the range, a ginger tomcat snoozes, tail flicking.
We signed the register last week, Jacks voice floats over as if from far away.
To my amazement, the tables suddenly laden with delicacies: jellied stock on a large plate, pickled cabbage and tomatoes, baked milk with a golden skin from the Aga, and a pie stuffed with egg and spring onions. My stomach gives an impatient growl.
Mum, thisll last ages! Youve cooked for an army, Jack mumbles, munching a doorstep slice of homemade bread.
Mrs. Harris plonks a dewy bottle of elderflower wine next to the centrepiece and, with a satisfied sigh, wipes her hands on her apron. There we go, all done!
And so began my acquaintance with Jacks mother. She and her son share the same dark hair and ruddy cheeks; only my Jack is gentle and good-natured, while his mum is as forceful as a summer thunderstorm: loud and sudden. I bet shes wrangled more than one stubborn colt and pulled more than a few families through a blazing barn fire.
Suddenly, the porch door bangs loudly. In steps a small, wiry man, sending a gust of cold air into the kitchen.
Whats this, then! Well, Ill be! he exclaims, face crackling with joy. He doesnt bother removing his soot-smeared work jacket and hugs Jack with tough, work-worn hands.
Hello, Dad! says Jack.
Wash up before you start dishing out hugs! Mrs. Harris scolds.
Mr. Harris turns to me with a playful twinkle in his blue eyes, his ginger beard and coppery curls giving him an impish look. How do, young lady!
Lets have some stew for me as well, dear, he says, bustling at the sink.
We raise our glasses. To all of us cheers!
With good food and drink inside me, I finally find my nerve. Mr. Harris, why are all the men in your family called David or Jack?
Oh, simple, Emily! he laughs. My father, his father before him, and me were all bricklayers, craftsmen down through the generations. Only Jack here, he nods to his son, decided to be a turner.
Turners are needed, too, Dad! Jack retorts.
Is it hard to build a proper fireplace, Mr. Harris? I ask.
Thats an art, my dear! he grins, wagging his finger. It should look lovely, draft just right, and bake a good loaf. Dont let my slim frame fool you! We ginger folks are tough blessed by the sun itself!
My David can do anything! Mrs. Harris chimes in with pride.
Tell us a story, Dad well listen, Jack urges.
Mr. Harris strokes his beard and winks. Alright then, if you insist! Heres a tale for starters
One summer, we all went out to make hay. We had Daisy then, remember, love? Not a cow, more like a milk machine on stilts. Men and women, everyone from the village set out, and we started at dawn, scythes all a-swish.
It was blazing hot, and the flies bit like mad! That year, boar were everywhere in the woods. Come lunchtime, were all melting sweat pouring, arms heavy.
I take one look at the crew and think: lets liven things up! Maybe the heat had me barmy So, I drop my scythe, run across the field, and shout, Run for your lives! Wild pigs, look sharp! And up the first tree I go.
Jack chuckles, And everyone else?
They dropped their tools and scrambled up the nearest trunk after me! Afterwards, the whole lot were ready to wallop me with their rakes but it got the work moving again!
Mrs. Harris couldnt help herself and gave her husband an affectionate cuff. You daft ginger thing!
Dad, tell us about real wild boar, Jack teases.
Oh, that one right. We were newlyweds then, hadnt even thought of little Jack yet. I was mad keen on hunting back in those days.
One winters morning, after a fresh dusting of snow, I tell your mum Im heading out with my rifle.
Off I go, wandering for hours, but nothings about. Just as Im turning back, I hear boar nearby. I get close, take a shot miss! Suddenly, the biggest brute comes tearing at me, tusks flashing! I leg it and scramble up a tree, shaking like a leaf.
Didnt I shout at you for getting lost till dawn! Mrs. Harris interjects.
Oh, hush! So, up that tree I sit, heart pounding. The boar starts digging at the earth underneath, and instead of leaving, curls up underneath with his herd for the night.
My eyes go wide. What did you do? I say.
Would you believe, I spent most of the night up there hugging the trunk. Thankfully, it wasnt too cold, else Id have frozen solid.
As soon as first light broke, your mum gathered a search party and found me. Carried me half a mile home till I could walk again.
My, youre some woman! he laughs.
Oh, go on with you! Emily, how about some tea? Ive St. Johns wort and honey our own from the hives, Mrs. Harris offers.
Yes, thank you. That sounds lovely.
Mrs. Harris pours aromatic tea into mugs.
Jack, tell them how Dad once cured my sister, she says suddenly.
Mr. Harris nearly chokes on his tea, chuckles, and recounts, Once, Eliza sent us a note said shed visit. We were all excited! But at lunch she complains her legs ache, cant walk far, and keeps putting off seeing the doctor.
“Ever tried bee therapy? I suggest.
Where would I find bees in the city? she says.
I say, Come with me to the hives Ill sort you right out!
Off we go, and I tell her, Roll your skirt up a bit Just above the knee, nothing improper! I put a sleepy bee on each leg.
At first, she thanks me, but half an hour later, shes using language to make a sailor blush! Turns out shes allergic to bee venom. Her legs swelled up like tree trunks couldnt walk a step!
See, I told you: Doctor Dolittle himself! Mrs. Harris laughs.
How was I to know she was allergic? You didnt know either Emily, do have some more honey. No allergies, I hope?
None at all!
Thank goodness
We finish our tea.
Its properly dark outside now, and weariness creeps up on me.
Mrs. Harris closes the curtains. Jackie, wherell you be sleeping?
Mum, can we have the big bed next to the stove? What do you think, Em is that alright?
Absolutely!
Right away Dad built that bed himself, brick by brick, Mrs. Harris boasts.
Mr. Harris puffs up with pride.
And, rightly so that stove not only warms, but feeds and unites the whole family, with a bright, kindly fire burning inside.
We thank our hosts and rise from the table. Jack gives me a gentle pat and helps me up onto the tall bed beside the stove.
From the dark ledge overhead comes a deep, ancient scent: baked bricks, bundles of drying herbs, wool, and the comforting tang of homemade bread.
Jacks asleep in moments, but I lie awake, restless.
What on earth is that? Someones breathing loudly beside me: Huh-puff, huh-puff
A house spirit! Has to be Ive read about them I recall a childhood rhyme: Little house spirit, little house spirit, were just visiting, dont mind us!
By morning, I learn the truth: it was only dough in a bowl, left to rise in the warm spot by the bed, and Mrs. Harris had quite forgotten it.
Well visit Jacks family again, Im sure to hear more of Mr. Harriss wild tales, warm ourselves by the hearth, and feast on homemade bread.
But thats a story for another day.
