My husband and I had travelled to a small English village to meet his parents for the first time. As we pulled our wellies from the muddy lane and made our way toward the cottage, Jonathans mother swept out on the step, hands planted firmly on her hips like some ragdoll lady perched atop a teapot.
Oh, Jonathan! You might have warned me! she exclaimed, her voice carrying across the frosty morning. I see youve brought a guest!
Jonathans warm arm swept around me, holding me close. Mum, meet my wifeElizabeth.
A great mountain of a woman, contained within a frilled apron, arms open wide, barreled toward me, her cheeks as red as autumn apples. Hello, darling! she declared and, as custom demanded, placed three hearty kisses on my cheeks. The smell of garlic and fresh-baked bread rolled from her like a summer hedgerow.
She gripped me tightso tight I briefly wondered if this was a clever test of urban staminamy face pressed between the comforting squish of her formidable bosom. She pulled back, surveying me critically from forehead to toes. Where did you find this slip of a lass, Jonathan? she inquired, lips quirked.
Jonathan grinned. Where else, Mum? In the city library! Is Dad about?
Hes at Mrs Beechams, fixing her cooker. Well, come along in, both of you, and take your boots offI only mopped the floors this morning!
Village children, bundled in mismatched jumpers, gawked at us through the garden fence. George! Jonathans mum called out. Run to Mrs Spierss. Tell your uncle the boys home with his new missus!
Right-o! the lad declared, pelting off down the cobbled street.
Inside, Jonathan helped me out of my stylish, slightly discounted coat, hanging it carefully near the Aga to warm. He pressed my cold hands to the warm enamel side. Look at you, lifesaverstill warm! he teased.
Soon I heard the clang of pots, the clatter of jugs, the musical chime of faceted glasses and spoons. While Jonathans mum set the table, I looked around the cottage, from the brightly painted crockery on the shelf to the hand-hooked rugs scattered over scrubbed floorboards. Delicate curtains, sprinkled with forget-me-nots, fluttered in the draught. A ginger catperhaps a tom, perhaps a shedozed, tail curled, by the hearth.
We got married last week, Jonathans voice floated to me as if from a long dream.
To my wonder, food appeared as if by sorcery: a shimmering pork pie at centre, surrounded by spiced chutneys, pickled onions, steaming jug of baked milk with a golden crust atop, and a pie filled with chopped egg and spring onion. My mouth watered as the aroma curled around me like a secret.
Mum, surely thats enough! Youve cooked for a regiment, Jonathan groaned, gnawing at a thick slab of bread.
Jonathans mum thunked a beaded bottle of cider next to the pie and wiped her hands on her apron, content. Right then, everyones fed!
And so I met Jonathans mum.
Mother and son, like two halves of a shilling, dark-haired and rosy-cheeked. Only my Jonathan was gentle, patient, while his mumwell, summer thunder had nothing on her.
I imagined she could tame any wild horse, rescue any burning barn.
A bang shattered the peacethe back door slapped open. In drifted a man no taller than the coal bucket, trailed by swirling November air.
He clapped his hands in delight. Well, strike me pink!
Without removing his smoke-scented, soot-streaked jacket, he embraced his son.
All right, Dad!
Wash your handsthen say your hellos! Jonathans mum sang out.
He took my hand. Pleased to meet you, young lady!
Jonathans father, with twinkling blue eyes and a rust-bright beard, hair as unruly as autumn bracken, settled at the table.
Sarah, could I get a bowl of your soup? he called, rattling the sink.
We raised our glasses. Cheers, all!
After a mouthful, I found myself bold. Mr Campbell, why are all the men in your family called Jonathan?
He grinned. Simple, Lizzie! My father, his father, and meall chimney sweeps, you see. Only this one, he jerked a thumb at my husband, had to go and become a lathe turner.
Turners are needed, Dad! Jonathan protested.
Is it difficult to build a proper oven, Mr Campbell? I asked.
Ah, now, my dear, thats an art. He raised a finger. It must be handsome, bake a fine loaf, and send not a whiff of smoke inside. Dont be fooled by my size! We redheadstough as old boots, kissed by the English sun!
My Billmaster of all trades! Jonathans mum chimed in.
Dad, tell us a story, then, Jonathan pleaded.
With a sigh, Mr Campbell smoothed his beard and arched an eyebrow. Well, if thats what you want. Heres a tale for you
One summer, we all went to haymakingremember, Sarah, that giant cow we had? Bessie the Queen, more milk than legs! The sun barely up, and the whole villagewives, gents, childrenswinging scythes every which way. The heat, mercy me! And horseflies nipping like tiny dragons. Oh, and that year, wild boars everywhere!
Lunchtime, and were worn to the bone, sweat pouring. So, to liven everyone up, I had a funny thoughtmaybe the heat got to me. I dropped my scythe, sprinted up a tree, hollering, Run for it! Wild boars! Next thing, the villagers dropped everything and swarmed up the trees, too.
What happened after? I asked, eyes wide.
Oh, nearly got beaten with rakes for my trouble! But we all worked twice as fast after.
Sarah clouted him. You daft old fox!
Tell the real boar story, Dad! Jonathan begged.
Very well. Back when we were youngbefore Jonathan hereand I fancied myself a hunter. One snowy day, I declare to Sarah Ill go stalking. Out I go, tramping about, not a sign. Just as dusk falls, I hear grunting nearby. I sneak closer, take aim, but miss. Suddenly, an enormous boar comes charging! Up a tree I scramblednot sure how. Sat there half-dead with fright. Think I was up there for hours, waiting for them to leave. Frosty night, that.
And I nearly went mad with worry! Sarah interrupted. At dawn, I rounded up the men, combed the woods, found him clinging to a branch, carried him home myself!
Youre no ordinary woman, Sarah! Mr Campbell said. How about some tea, Lizzie? Got my own honey and some good chamomile.
Oh, yes, please, I replied.
Sarah poured fragrant tea into sturdy mugs.
Dad, tell her how you cured my sister, Jonathans mum laughed.
He coughed over his tea. Oh, that tale! Sarahs sister Mary visits by train; halfway through her visit, complains her legs ache. Cant walk a step, she moans. Ever tried bee therapy? I ask her. Where am I to find bees in London? she says. Come along to the garden then! I got her to hitch her skirt and let a bee sting each leg.
Dr Doolittle at his best, Sarah snorted.
At first shes all thanks till, half an hour later, cursing blue murderturned out shes frightfully allergic, legs like balloons! Couldnt walk for days.
Shouldve warned you about allergies! I said, grinning.
Well, never mind! Have some honeyno allergies, I hope?
None here, Mr Campbell!
Thank heavens.
We finished our tea as dusk thickened, the cottage windows aglow. I felt the familiar weight of tiredness settle. Sarah drew the curtains.
Jonathan, where shall you sleep?
Can we kip on the Aga, Mum? How about it, LizzieAgas warm as dragons breath!
Couldnt wish for anything better.
Aga it is then! Jonathans father built it brick by brick, she declared, proud as could be.
Mr Campbell gave her a wink, pride shining in his eyes. After all, an English range can warm, feed, and gather the whole family around its heart.
The fire flickered cheerily as we thanked our hosts, rising from the table. Jonathan helped me climb atop the Aga, patting my hip with a conspiratorial grin. The air above wavered with scents steeped deep by years: baked brick, dried rosemary, sheeps wool, and loaves hot from the oven.
Jonathan fell asleep in seconds, yet sleep eluded me. What was that noise? To my rightan odd, wheezing puff: Phuff-phuff, phuff-phuff.
A boggart? I wondered dreamily. Surely a boggart! I recalled the old nursery rhyme: Boggart, boggart, we dont meddle with you tonight! Only, in the pale hours of dawn did I learn: no boggart at all, but a bread sponge, left by Sarah in the warm, its doughy breath astonishing in the hush.
Many more times, I know, well visit this friendly cottage, to hear Mr Campbells wild tales, to bask by the fire, and to taste Sarahs breadthough those are dreams for another night.
