Blythe was a hopelessly oldfashioned lass who feared she would never be wed. Modern women, she thought, no longer chased marriage: why haul a whole pig into the kitchen when a single sausage would do? And sausages were everywhere nowadaysdifferent flavours, sizes, all the while cohabitation was no longer a scandal but an ordinary convenience.
Once, virtues like modesty, pride, honour and propriety still mattered. Today even the lazy Mr. Potter was no longer a villain; after all, his estate sent him a steady trickle of rent, making him a comfortable landlord. Give a smartphone to Arthur Ilyich and he instantly turns into a successful vlogger with a thriving channel. As for relationships, the rule now reads: Live as you wish! Rendezvous in hotels, in hourlyrent flatswhat a marvel of invention! There are even guest marriages, why rush to the registry office the moment you say I do?
Little things that once seemed disastrousmissing socks, an inability to boil borschthave been eclipsed by more terrifying spectres: childish dependence, mumisms and the chronic habit of men to avoid any responsibility. And those habits, besides admiring their own reflection, often manifest in the women too.
Bread, entertainment, shoppingthese were the new commandments, though the bread you ate yourself. Blythe, however, was an exception: pretty, devoid of any flashy bodybuilding trends, wielding a respectable university degree and a wellpaid job. Yet men passed her by, marching in tidy rows toward other partners, stepping on the same old rakes.
She wasnt without suitorsshe was charming, after allbut none ever made it to the registrars desk. She was about to turn thirty, a number that once meant nearing the age of a firsttime mother in oldtime Britain, now stretched to sixty for the modern mumtobe. Blythe refused to bear children without a husband.
She also trusted horoscopes, or rather, the astrological forecasts that clever marketers invented just to squeeze out a few extra pounds. In these trying times, every forecast was a burst of optimism: On Tuesday morning a fateful meeting with a billionaire awaits you! So she packed a toothbrush just in case his intentions turned serious.
Blythe matched herself to the stars: a Sagittarius, firesign, surrounded by Aries and Leo, the most relaxed of the fiery trio. Her first love bloomed in her first year at universitya time now regarded as nursery age for eighteenyearold sprites. Back then, sex education was a whisper; now its shouted from the rooftops, Go forth with your pollen and pistils, we know the drill!
Reality soon hit: bills, transport, mealsshe had to buy groceries herself instead of raiding a communal fridge. Previously her parents had handed her money; now she lived alone, but two mouths were too much for a single paycheck. Her boyfriend, James, was bewildered.
Wouldnt you be buying the food? he asked, genuine surprise tinting his tone.
Why me? Blythe replied, startled.
The fridge is yours, Im just a guest! James explained, his logic a tidy chain.
If its only that, Blythe thought cleverly, Ill hand you full authorityrun the house as you like! The consequence was inevitable: James vanished from her life, even stopped greeting her in their shared class. As a Sagittarius, she mused, What a perfect coincidence, blimey!
The marriage altar remained empty, yet Blythe kept dreaming of plans. She loved Jamesher first loveso the loss stinged. Youth and time marched on, and a second regular appeared in her third year. He wasnt from her university; he floated in from elsewhere, a swimmer of sorts.
Mark was well over thirty, earnest, and declared, Well marry, love! He was divorced, but love knows no barriers. Yet Mark had no steady job. This was before the latest health panic and before any special operationswhen Britain was not yet tangled in endless crises. Still, his life was riddled with permanent hardships: Theyve thrown me out again, love! Im nervous, Im nervousshould I eat, or what?
Bosses were a nightmare, demands absurd, shifts unbearable. Mark, a homebound guy, claimed, Im looking for work, love! Blythe, sympathetic, offered, Maybe a courier?
Im an analyst! he declared proudly.
Can an analyst be a courier? she asked calmly. Drive and analyse, why not? Yesterday I spent my last pounds on groceries.
Ask your mother! he retorted. Tell her were short of cash.
Ive told her for two months! Blythe countered.
Time is a long thing, he quoted Maynard, flashing a smug grin. See my eruditionhow lovely to have snagged a lad like me!
She replied, Then dont ask for food! Times have changedmove your feet faster! Blythe was not only witty but sharp.
Who are you suggesting should move their feet? Mark snapped, a first in his lifehed never been the one to dump a lady. You?
No, I suggested Maynard! Blythe shot back. You can both go on togetherlet him feed you.
Mark, a Capricorn, traditionally diligent and reliable, took offense. The third suitor, Leon, also believed in the zodiac; theyd met on an astrological forum, and their chats blossomed into genuine affection. Yet Leon stubbornly called their signs zodiacs whenever Blythe asked, Why?
Just for fun, he laughed. Its amusing!
Blythe recalled her grandmothers advice: Youre not needed when everything runs smooth without you. The peculiar language continuedLeon tossed out tonguetwisters like Snedurucha and Stervadesa, turning his speech into a ceramic faucet that never ceased leaking jokes. At fortyone, his wordplay irritated Blythe, though everything else was fine. Both held good jobs, were freeLeons ex had an adult son.
Initially shy, Leon soon opened up fully. A scandal erupted at a family gathering when Blythes grandfather, a retired MI5 officer, heard Leon refer to the famous Soviet figure Dzerzhinsky as Zherdinsky, laughing heartily. Jesus, Mary! the grandfather shouted, his Polish roots evident. Off with you, you dog! The scene unfolded at a wedding rehearsal; the couple were already playing the part of bride and groom.
Their registry office plans fell apart. Leon, a Taurus, earthsign like Capricorn, proved the most touchyfeathered of the zodiac. Then Blythe met Petera man without a single irritating trait. Divorced, childless, handsome, comfortably welloff, educated, with a sharp wit and a modest onebed flat. He was also thrifty, a born Virgo, another earth sign renowned for prudence.
Together they seemed a perfect match for a stable family life. They lodged a joint application; Peter moved in, renting out his old flat. He asked Blythe to register him at her address.
Why? Blythe asked. Youre already registered at your own place! I mean, today you cant be without an address, but why now?
Peter stared, baffled. We love each other, were a family, everything should be shared!
It reminded Blythe of a joke: Write your name on my flat, please! Oh, sorry, wrong startdo you believe in God? The conversation spiraled from love to paperwork.
Alright, Blythe said after a pause, Youve spoken well of love, family, sharing. Ill register you, and youll register me.
Where? Peter wondered.
In my flateverythings ours now!
But you dont live there! he protested, as if that were a weighty argument.
If thats the only issue, lets alternate monthsyours one month, mine the next, Blythe suggested, though a hollow echo of emptiness lingered.
Peter fell silent; no clever retort sprang to mind. Blythe pressed on, Seems sensible, doesnt it?
What, register a stranger in your flat? If he could, why not? He stared, unable to argue.
Both sat, unsure how to proceed. The old masquerade of pretending nothing had happened no longer worked.
Blythe retreated from the kitchen to the sitting room as they dined, leaving Peter to untangle his thoughts. After fifteen minutes, he asked, Shall we go to the cinema?
Sure! Blythe replied, a sigh of relief escaping his lips. Hed already paid a deposit for a fancy restaurant.
She added, So, are you really going to register me, Pete? Im not sure we finished that bit.
He looked away, shuffled, and left. She didnt stop him; at least the wedding didnt drain their pocketshed fled before any official registration.
Were all love stories like this? Some friends of Blythe had married in a sense: one lasted six months, another a year. The third, like a joke, drifted into something quieter.
Blythe herself had lived more than a month with several civil partners, and love, she realised, was less about feelings than deeds. In her world, the suitors love for her was nearly nonexistent, as some unfriendly foreign proverb might put it, no bad people.
By the time Blythe crossed thirty, she stopped hunting for a husband. Shed been promoted at work, swapped her grandmothers tiny flat for a twobedroom, bought a secondhand car, and taken a short holiday. She concluded life had turned out well.
Nowadays, the fertile years stretch to sixty, so she could still have a child for herself. And sausagesoh, there were sausages aplenty, spilling over every market stall. The dream faded, but the surreal logic lingered, as all strange nocturnal tales do.
