Barely had I reached adulthood when I rushed headlong into marriage. Rushed is quite the right way to say ita decision that seemed surprising both to those around me and to myself. But there it was, whats done is done. A new life had begun; a life I knew nothing about, one that included, amongst other things, getting to know my young wifes parents. She seemed just as bewildered by it all as I was. You could say wed both fallen out of the nest before wed learned how to fly.
One morning, while my Aunt Mary was fussing over me at breakfastoffering treats on my plate and gently coaxing me to eata neighbour, old Mrs. Foster, popped round. After watching my aunts mothering for a bit, she muttered with a sad shake of the head:
Such a pampered lad you are, never known real trouble. But just you waityour mother-in-law will try your patience.
Oh, do stop frightening the boy, Aunt Mary chided her.
The truth was, I hadnt really experienced any hardships. Our somewhat unconventional little family consisted of my grandmother and her three daughters: the youngest, Ruby, was my mum, while I was the favourite of the eldest, Mary.
There were no men in the house; the war had taken them all from my aunts. Still, life was goodhappy, even. Us kids were loved and spoilt, sometimes perhaps too much.
As the youngest, I was properly doted on. Old Mrs. Foster had a point; I really hadnt known a hard day. But the word mother-in-law struck a sour note with methere was something sharp and ominous in it, as though it promised all sorts of future misfortunes. I just couldnt shake the feeling, right up until we met.
But when I finally met my mother-in-law, she turned out to be a striking, tall woman, full of energy and warmth. Come on in, my dear, she said with a welcoming grin. There was nothing frightening about her; she bustled about, treating us to food, then took us out to her tidy garden, showing off her neat beds where the shoots were already poking through. She boasted, too, of her trusty piglet who came running, squealing with delight at the sight of her.
Benny, Benny, Ill feed you in a momentyoure such a good lad, she cooed at the little pig, and for some reason, hearing the affection in her voice gave me a warm feeling, as if it were me shed praised.
That garden, the pig Bennyit all felt comfortingly familiar, reminding me so much of my own childhood, where the pigs were always named Benny, too, and talked to as if they understood every word. It was all reassuring, and before I knew it, I felt quite at home.
Each morning, our menfolk would head off to work, doing some building out on site, while we stayed behind to look after the house. Still, that sharp wordmother-in-lawstuck in my throat when I tried to address her; I just couldnt say it, and there came a time I needed to. Once, she complimented my name, and I found myself telling her about Thomas More and Utopia. She laughed and said, Well, you just call me Theresa. That suits me fineTheresa, like in the stories. Do you like that name, dear?
And so, my mother-in-law solved what felt like an insurmountable problem for me. From then on, I called her Theresa, adding her middle name, Margaret, out of respect. Life was smoothing out. She was always cheerful and so quick and capablewhen I woke, breakfast was hot and ready, the floors gleamed, the garden was weeded, and Benny was already bustling with satisfaction.
Wed sit on the doorstep chatting, and with her usual chuckle, she told me about the hardships shed seen in the warleft alone with her three lads, doing hard labour gathering timber, how once her boys lost the bread coupons, and how her boss took pity and gave her the bread crumbs from the shop trays. He was a good man, may he rest in peacehelped the lads, especially the youngest oneyour wife, she was a frail little thing.
My mind conjured vivid pictures of her stories, making my world seem richer and fuller with these new experiences and understanding. Life felt peaceful, until one morning.
That day, my mother-in-law woke me early and said, My dear, the ladies are off to pick berries in the woods, and I rather fancy joining them. Ive sorted Bennys foodthe buckets right ready for him. Do you think you could feed him?
Of course, dont fret, Ill see to Benny, I replied, feeling quite sure of myself. I was soon left alone.
It didnt take long for Benny to pipe up with a piercing squeal. I grabbed the bucket and made my way to his pen, a modest little shed beside the veg patch. All I had to do was open the door, step in, and tip his food into the trough. Simple enoughor so I thought.
As soon as I cracked open the door, Benny threw his bulk at it, knocking the bucket from my hands and bolting straight for the garden beds. The thrill of freedom went straight to his head and Benny tore up and down the beds, flattening the young greens, rolling about and shrieking with glee, while I stood rooted, horrified and utterly at a loss. But something had to be doneto let him ruin all of Theresas hard work was unthinkable, and I could already sense my hopes of making a good impression crumbling along with the seedlings. Now I understood what the neighbour had meantthis was when the mother-in-law would try my patience, and Id have no one but myself to blame.
I must get Benny back in his penwhatever it takes! I resolved, and dashed after him, trampling through the carefully watered rows. I almost caught him a few times, grabbing at his muddy, slippery hide, but he wriggled right out, set on his romp. Clearly, brute force wasnt workingId have to lure him instead.
I sprinted back to the house and grabbed some bread. Benny, left hungry, was only too happy to nibble the pieces I offered, and I gradually coaxed him toward the pen. But as soon as we reached the threshold, he darted off again with renewed energy, creating even more havoc. He even managed to upend the little greenhouse, where ruby-red tomatoes had been growing strong until his shenanigans. I was near to tears with exhaustion and frustration, the garden a lost cause.
Then, as if by miracle, Benny tired. He flopped down on his ample haunches and, working his front feet, began rolling about and snorting for joy, completely finishing off the battered beds. Perhaps out of pure desperation, I remembered how wed stroke our own pets at home to calm them. Cautiously, I inched closerhe was too worn out to botherand with a gentle nudge, rolled Benny onto his side and began rubbing his belly. He closed his eyes, blissful, and contentedly grunted beneath those long, muddy lashes.
I couldnt tell how long I kept at itmy arms grew weary, the sun glared overhead, my mouth was parched. There we sat: Benny, fat and filthy in his garden paradise, and me, just as dirty, both stuck in a scene of defeat with little hope of rescue.
Just then, the gate clanged and Theresa appeared, charging over to our sorry pair.
Oh, you wretchyouve worn the poor lad out! she cried, hauled Benny by the leg, carried him across the ruined garden, tossed him back in the pen, and slammed the door shut.
I tried to stand but my legs felt numb and prickly. She helped me up and led me out of the wrecked beds.
Stay put, love, she said, Ill fetch you some water. Rushing inside, she returned with a big bucket, water shed drawn that morning herself from the village pump, and began washing my hands, face and feet, pouring water over the clumps of black earth and tears.
As the muddy water ran off, washing away the grime and my tears, it felt as if that harsh word mother-in-law vanished as wellgone for good.
Swept up with relief, I couldnt help myself, blurting out, Oh, Mum! Theresa laughed, put her arms around me, and led me inside for a bowl of wild berries.
The ruined garden was hardly mentioned. She waved it off: Oh, its only a few veg bedsnothing that cant be mended. The tomatoes will come back, just wait and see. Well, boys will be boys, and pigswell, pigs will run. You just relax till the men get home, Ill rustle up lunch in a tick.
Where did she find such patience and kindness after all life had thrown at her? Whoever had blessed her with such compassion, I can only guessbut I now understood just how strong, good, and generous-hearted sons are raised, sons later given in marriage to girls like me, by those women so wrongly branded, at times, by the prickly word mother-in-law.From that day on, I stopped seeing Theresa as anything but familycloser even than some Id known all my life. We found laughter in our failures, swapped stories over berry pie, and learned to speak gently of tumbled gardens and runaway pigs. The tangled rows outside slowly mended, but so did I, growing roots in new soil with every forgiving smile she offered.
And in the years since, through storms and sunny spells, its her voice in my memory each time I strugglewith worry, or work, or the muddles of marriage. Its only a few veg beds, I remind myself, thinking of her hands washing the dirt from mine, her heart big enough for forgiveness, for Benny, for me.
Who could have guessedthe word I once dreaded most would come to mean shelter, laughter, and a kind of love that asks nothing but your whole, muddied, hopeful self.
