explained to Maggie about the bedding and then enquired for Gus.
“He had to go out,” Maggie said. “Big meeting with the archdeacon about church finances. It’s a funny thing: the smaller the finances, the bigger the meeting. Did you want him for anything special?”
Maybe she would be better off talking to Maggie, woman to woman, Fern thought, tempted by the hazy concept of universal sisterhood. Haltingly she began to stammer out her doubts about the forthcoming marriage. She felt like a novice curate admitting to the lure of religious schism. Maggie’s face melted into instant sympathy. Her normal Weltanschauung combined genuine kindness and conscientious tolerance with the leftovers of sixties ideology at its woolliest. In her teens she had embraced Nature, pacifism, and all things bright and beautiful, Freudian and Spockian, liberal and liberationist. She had worn long droopy skirts and long droopy hair, smoked marijuana, played the guitar (rather badly), and even tried free love, though only once or twice before she met Gus. At heart, however, she remained a post-Victorian romantic for whom a wedding day was a high point in every woman’s life. Relegating the loan of sheets to lower on the agenda, she pressed Fern into an armchair and offered coffee.
“No, thanks, I…”
“It’s not too much trouble, honestly. The percolator’s already on. What you need is to stop rushing around and sit down and relax for a bit. All brides go through this just before a wedding, believe me. I know I did. It’s all right for the men—they never do any of the work—but the poor bride is inundated with arrangements that keep changing and temperamental caterers and awkward relatives, and there always comes a moment when she stops and asks herself what it’s All For. It’s a big thing, getting married, one of the biggest things you’ll ever do—it’s going to alter your whole life so it’s only natural you should be nervous. You’ll be fine tomorrow. When you’re standing there in the church, and he’s beside you, and you say ‘I do’—it all falls into place. I promise you.” She took Fern’s hand and pressed it, her face shining with the fuzzy inner confidence of those fortunate few for whom marriage really is the key to domestic bliss.
“But I’m not sure that I”
“Hold on: I’ll get the coffee. Keep talking. I can hear you from the kitchen.”
“I had this picture of my future with Marcus,” Fern said, addressing the empty chair opposite. “I’d got it all planned—I’ve always planned things—and I knew exactly how it would be. I thought that was what I wanted, only now I—I’m not sure anymore. Something happened last night it doesn’t matter what that changed my perspective. I’ve always assumed I liked my life in London, but now I wonder if that was because I wouldn’t let myself think about it. I was afraid to widen my view. It isn’t that I
dislike
it: I just want more. And I don’t believe marrying Marcus will offer me more—just more of the same.”
“Sorry,” said Maggie, emerging with two mugs in which the liquid slopped dangerously. “I didn’t catch all that. The percolator was making too much noise. You were saying you weren’t sure—?”
“I’m not sure I want to get married,” Fern reiterated with growing desperation.
“Of course
you’re not.” Maggie set down the mugs and glowed at her again. “No one is ever one hundred percent sure about anything. Gus says that’s one of the miraculous things about human nature, that we’re able to leave room for doubt. People who are too sure, he says, tend to bigotry. He told me once, he even doubts God sometimes. He says that if we can deal with doubt, ultimately it strengthens our faith. It’ll be like that with your marriage: you’ll see. When you get to the church”
“Maggie,” Fern interrupted ruthlessly,
“I’m not in love with Marcus.”
The flow of words stopped; some of the eager glow ebbed from
“He had to go out,” Maggie said. “Big meeting with the archdeacon about church finances. It’s a funny thing: the smaller the finances, the bigger the meeting. Did you want him for anything special?”
Maybe she would be better off talking to Maggie, woman to woman, Fern thought, tempted by the hazy concept of universal sisterhood. Haltingly she began to stammer out her doubts about the forthcoming marriage. She felt like a novice curate admitting to the lure of religious schism. Maggie’s face melted into instant sympathy. Her normal Weltanschauung combined genuine kindness and conscientious tolerance with the leftovers of sixties ideology at its woolliest. In her teens she had embraced Nature, pacifism, and all things bright and beautiful, Freudian and Spockian, liberal and liberationist. She had worn long droopy skirts and long droopy hair, smoked marijuana, played the guitar (rather badly), and even tried free love, though only once or twice before she met Gus. At heart, however, she remained a post-Victorian romantic for whom a wedding day was a high point in every woman’s life. Relegating the loan of sheets to lower on the agenda, she pressed Fern into an armchair and offered coffee.
“No, thanks, I…”
“It’s not too much trouble, honestly. The percolator’s already on. What you need is to stop rushing around and sit down and relax for a bit. All brides go through this just before a wedding, believe me. I know I did. It’s all right for the men—they never do any of the work—but the poor bride is inundated with arrangements that keep changing and temperamental caterers and awkward relatives, and there always comes a moment when she stops and asks herself what it’s All For. It’s a big thing, getting married, one of the biggest things you’ll ever do—it’s going to alter your whole life so it’s only natural you should be nervous. You’ll be fine tomorrow. When you’re standing there in the church, and he’s beside you, and you say ‘I do’—it all falls into place. I promise you.” She took Fern’s hand and pressed it, her face shining with the fuzzy inner confidence of those fortunate few for whom marriage really is the key to domestic bliss.
“But I’m not sure that I”
“Hold on: I’ll get the coffee. Keep talking. I can hear you from the kitchen.”
“I had this picture of my future with Marcus,” Fern said, addressing the empty chair opposite. “I’d got it all planned—I’ve always planned things—and I knew exactly how it would be. I thought that was what I wanted, only now I—I’m not sure anymore. Something happened last night it doesn’t matter what that changed my perspective. I’ve always assumed I liked my life in London, but now I wonder if that was because I wouldn’t let myself think about it. I was afraid to widen my view. It isn’t that I
dislike
it: I just want more. And I don’t believe marrying Marcus will offer me more—just more of the same.”
“Sorry,” said Maggie, emerging with two mugs in which the liquid slopped dangerously. “I didn’t catch all that. The percolator was making too much noise. You were saying you weren’t sure—?”
“I’m not sure I want to get married,” Fern reiterated with growing desperation.
“Of course
you’re not.” Maggie set down the mugs and glowed at her again. “No one is ever one hundred percent sure about anything. Gus says that’s one of the miraculous things about human nature, that we’re able to leave room for doubt. People who are too sure, he says, tend to bigotry. He told me once, he even doubts God sometimes. He says that if we can deal with doubt, ultimately it strengthens our faith. It’ll be like that with your marriage: you’ll see. When you get to the church”
“Maggie,” Fern interrupted ruthlessly,
“I’m not in love with Marcus.”
The flow of words stopped; some of the eager glow ebbed from
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