I am often reminded of the days when I was a girl named Kate, a proper English lass of the old sort, and how desperately I longed for marriage. Back then most young women seemed content to settle for a mere sausage rather than a whole pig, for the market was awash with every sort of sausage imaginable. Cohabitation was no longer a scandal, and the old notions of shame, pride and propriety had all but faded.
Even the disreputable Mr. Blundell, the idle aristocrat who lived on an annuity, was no longer seen as a scoundrel after all, the estate kept sending him money, a true rentier! If young Ian were handed a smartphone today, he would be hailed a successful blogger; and as for family life, people now say do as you like, meeting in hotels or rented rooms by the hour. There is even the notion of a guest marriage instead of a civil ceremony. Nobody knows what might happen after the vows in the old days a stray sock or a botched cabbage soup would be a tragedy, now the real dangers are infantilism, mothercomplexes and a chronic inability to take responsibility.
Kate was something of an exception: pretty, unadorned by the latest fashions, with a respectable university degree and a decent salary. Yet, for some reason, the men passed her by, marching off in tidy rows to pair off with others, as if she were stepping on a rake. It would be wrong to say she never had suitors; she was a charming girl, but none of them lasted to the registry office. By the year I turned thirty, it seemed the old saying marry before youre too old had taken on a new meaning in the socialist days it meant marry before forty, now it stretched to marry before sixty.
I also believed in horoscopes more precisely, in astrological forecasts, which I thought were the clever inventions of shrewd merchants looking to wring a few extra shillings out of the public. In those uncertain times the predictions were all positive: On Tuesday morning a fateful meeting with a wealthy magnate awaits you. So I kept a toothbrush handy, just in case he had serious intentions.
Being a Sagittarius, the fire sign, I looked for a partner whose sign matched mine. Aries and Leo were the other fire signs, but Sagittarians were thought to be the most eventempered. My first great love came in my first year at university an age now dismissed as juvenile, a time when the whole world seemed to be a nursery. Back then we were taught proper sex education, unlike todays more liberal approach.
Then came the creative block. I had to pay for utilities, travel and food, and I discovered that I now had to buy groceries myself rather than pilfer from a shared fridge. My parents had previously funded me, but I was living on my own, and two peoples wages simply werent enough. That fact shocked my boyfriend, who wondered why I wasnt doing the shopping.
Isnt the fridge yours? Im not the master here, he said.
Why should I be? I retorted.
Its yours, after all! he replied, as if the logic were airtight.
I could hand over all the household duties to you if that would help, I offered.
He vanished after that, no longer greeting me in our shared lecture hall. It seemed the fire of my Sagittarius nature had burned him out. We never made it to the registry, but I was already dreaming of wedding plans.
I mourned, for I loved Victor, my first boyfriend. Yet youth and time took their toll, and a second steady suitor appeared when I was in my third year. He wasnt from my university, but from a local college. Stephen was well over thirty, already divorced, and declared, We shall marry, my dear. He was generous, but he had no steady job. This was before the modern gig economy took hold, yet his life was riddled with permanent hardships: unreasonable bosses, impossible deadlines and a work schedule that left him exhausted. He even joked that he was analyst by day, courier by night, and when I suggested he take a courier job to earn a little extra, he scoffed, Im a gentleman, not a delivery boy! I pleaded, Ask mum for help, well say its temporary. He quoted Mayakovsky, Time is a strange thing, and turned away.
The conversation spiraled into a bout of absurd banter. He claimed, If youd rather I dont ask for food, then let the old days be gone, and you can lift your feet. I retorted, Who are you telling to lift their feet? He had never before been rebuffed like that. He was a Capricorn, reputed for hard work and reliability, yet even he could not bear my sarcasm.
A third suitor, Len, also believed in the stars; we met on an astrology forum and soon felt a genuine bond. He, however, kept referring to the zodiac signs as zodiacs, which I found irritating. Why do you deliberately mispronounce them? I asked. He laughed, Its funny! My grandmother, ever wise, would have said, You cant have everything your way. His speech was peppered with nonsensical nicknames Snafu, Stubborn Regina which, after a while, wore thin. Still, we shared good jobs and were both free; he had an adult son from a previous marriage.
The only real scandal erupted at a family gathering when my grandfather, a former MI5 man of Polish descent, shouted, By Jove! Youve turned Dostoevsky into a comic! The remark came as my fiancé, now a Taurus, was being introduced. Tauruses, earth signs like my Capricorn, are known for their stubbornness. At that moment I met Peter, a divorced, childfree gentleman with a modest flat, a steady income, and a neat sense of humour. He was a Virgo, another earth sign, famed for thrift and carefulness perfect for marriage, or so they say.
Peter moved in with me, renting out his own flat to earn extra. He asked me to register him at my address. Why? I asked. Youre already registered at your own place! He replied, Were a family now, everything should be shared. It reminded me of an old joke: Write my name on your lease, please! Oh, sorry, wrong start do you believe in God? The conversation turned, as it always did, to love and family.
Its fine, I said after a pause. Well both register each other. He seemed puzzled. Where? he asked. In my flat well share everything. But you dont live there! he countered. I suggested, Then well alternate months one month here, one month there. It was a clever, if disappointing, compromise, leaving both of us with an empty space in our hearts.
Peter fell silent, unable to find a witty retort. I pressed, Isnt this a sensible plan? He could only stare. The notion of registering a stranger in ones home seemed absurd, yet the idea of a joint life was still alluring.
Later, after dinner, Peter asked, Kate, shall we go to the cinema? I agreed, relieved that he had paid the restaurant deposit earlier. I added, Will you register me, Pete? Im not sure we finished that discussion. He looked away, shuffled, and left. I did not stop him; the wedding talk had already dissolved.
When I think back, two of my three close friends managed to marry one for half a year, another for a year while the third lingered like a joke. I, too, had fleeting civil unions that lasted more than a month, and there was love in those unions, albeit not the kind that lingered indefinitely.
Love, I have learned, is not merely a feeling but a series of deeds. In our land, they say there are no bad men, only mismatched ones. Though I never found the perfect Aries or Leo, the experiences were not fatal, dear Kate.
By the time I passed thirty, my desire for marriage waned. A promotion at work allowed me to swap my grannys tiny flat for a comfortable twobedroom house, buy a sleek foreign car, and take a holiday abroad. I concluded that life had turned out well. Nowadays, the childbearing age stretches to sixty, and sausages abound in every market, just as they did in my younger days.
