by David Lodge
“You can go on working after we’re married,” Dennis said. “You can go on giving part of your earnings to your Mum and Dad.”
“For how long? We’ll have children, won’t we?”
“Not immediately. We’ll use the whatdyoucallit, rhythm method.”
“Suppose it doesn’t work?”
“Why shouldn’t it work? It’s scientifically sound.”
“Oh, scientifically.…”
She jeered at his trust in science, uttered wounding remarks about his complacency, his self-centredness. She tried to make herself as unpleasant as possible, to provoke him into breaking their engagement; but he simply sat there, absorbing all her venom, and at last wore her out. All right, he sighed, when she had talked herself out, and was sitting red-faced and dumb, wanting to cry but unable to; all right, he would not press her, they could wait until she was ready. He came over to the divan where she was sitting and put his arm round her shoulders. Why me, she thought, why does it have to be me? Why can’t he leave me in peace and find another girl, someone who really wants to get married?
Dennis gave up the post he had been offered with ICI, which would have meant moving to Northumberland, and took a job with an electronics firm in London, on the production side, relying on his Army qualifications for the relevant technical knowledge. This job he saw as a temporary expedient, but in fact it turned out rather well for Dennis, for it was a lively firm in what turned out to be a buoyant market in the sixties. At the time, however, it seemed a waste of his chemistry degree. Dennis’s parents were quietly reproachful towards Angela when she visited them in Hastings. They thought Angela was a nice girl, “a lovely girl”, but they couldn’t understand her hesitation to marry their son and they couldn’t forgive her for keeping him waiting against his wishes. As for her own parents, they were thoroughly in favour of Dennis, a good Catholic, a steady chap with good prospects; and since Angela made it clear that in no circumstances would she allow them to pay for her wedding, they were quite eager to see it come off. Eventually Angela capitulated to all this gentle pressure, and not unwillingly; she felt she had put up a creditable fight for … whatever it was that had made her hesitate: independence, conscience, realism. I have made no promises I cannot keep, she told herself, when at last she named the day (it was being matron of honour to Ruth that tipped the balance in favour of marriage), I have warned him, I have warned them all. And then, she did love Dennis, wanted to make love to him properly after all these years of the tiresome game of How Far Can You Go. When they lay on the divan bed in her bedsitter now, she did not resist the advances of his exploring hands over her body and under her dress, and she felt the quickening excitement of his breathing and the hardness of his male parts pressed against her thigh. He gave her a book to read, written by a doctor, about the facts of sex, and she learned from it many things she had not known before, her cheeks burning as she read, and felt additional impatience to be wed, for it seemed to her indecent to have such knowledge without the experience.
As they were arranging their own wedding, and their families lived so far apart, North and South, Angela and Dennis decided to have it in London, at the University church. This was not the church of Our Lady and St Jude’s, of course, but a much more venerable structure in the City. They did, however, ask Father Brierley to officiate as they did not know the current University Chaplain; and Father Brierley, still a curate in the parish at the end of the Northern Line, was touched by the request, and agreed gladly. This gave Dennis and Angela the idea of inviting all the regular members of the group that used to attend the Thursday masses. There was no rational reason for this, really – for though some, like Michael and Miriam, were close friends whom they would have invited anyway, others were not and had been out of touch for years, except for the occasional Christmas card. However, they both agreed that Father Brierley would appreciate a reunion, and in some obscure, inarticulate way they both felt a kind of sentimental nostalgia for those dark, cold, Thursday mornings of their first love, when they trekked in from the suburbs for early mass. “Imagine,” said Angela, “travelling all that distance without a cup of tea first. Not even a glass of water. How did we do it?” For by this date, autumn 1958, the Eucharistic fast had been considerably relaxed, and one was permitted to drink any non-alcoholic beverage up to one hour before receiving Communion – a concession particularly appreciated by brides preparing for their nuptial mass.
Everyone agreed that it was a very nice wedding. It took place on a fine October day. Angela looked beautiful and Dennis looked like the cat who was finally certain of getting the cream. Miriam played the organ expertly, and Michael was an efficient best man. Angela’s brother Tom, who was a year away from ordination, assisted Father Brierley as deacon, and read the Epistle in a fine clear voice:
“Brethren: let women be subject to their husbands as to the Lord, for the husband is the head of the wife, as Christ is the head of the Church. He is the saviour of his body. Therefore, as the Church is subject to Christ, so also let the wives be to their husbands in all things. Husbands, love your wives as Christ also loved the Church.…”
Father Brierley’s sermon was a little on the heavy side, some thought, but it was sincere, and carefully prepared. This couple, he told the assembled congregation (who scarcely needed to be reminded of the fact) had not rushed into holy matrimony, like so many young people these days. They had tested their feelings for each other over a long period, they had prepared themselves prudently for the great responsibilities of the married state, and now they were calling down God’s blessing on their union by this nuptial mass. As St Paul’s epistle had reminded them all, the relationship between man and wife was analogous to that between Christ and His Church. (“What’s analogous?” Angela’s mother whispered to her husband, who shook his head.) Both were founded on Faith, Hope and Love. Dennis and Angela, poised on the threshold of a new life together, did not know exactly what the future held for them: great joys and happiness, certainly, but also trials and tribulations, for such was human life. (Dennis’s father stirred restlessly in his pew; it seemed a rather gloomy sermon for a wedding, he thought – more suitable for a funeral.) The Church also at this time stood on the threshold of a new era. A great Pope, Pius XII, had just died, a Pope who had steered the bark of Peter through the stormy seas of the Second World War, who had defended the right of Catholics to practice their faith in the teeth of Communist persecution, a Pope who had never hesitated to stand up for Christian values against the rampant materialism of the modern world. Even as he spoke to them now, the cardinals of all the nations of the world were gathering in Rome to elect a new Pope in secret conclave. No one knew who he would be, or what problems he would have to grapple with. What they did know was that the Holy Spirit would guide the Conclave’s choice, that the man who was chosen would be equal to whatever challenge lay before him, because of Christ’s promise that he would be with His Church all days, even to the consummation of the world. Likewise, Dennis and Angela knew that Christ would be with them, too, all days, sharing in their joys and supporting them in their sorrows, until death did them part.
Afterwards, at the reception, there were excited reunions between old friends, many of whom had not seen each other for years. Not everyone had been able to come. Sister Mary Joseph of the Precious Blood wrote to Angela to say that the Rule of the Order forbade attendance at weddings, but she wished them both joy and would remember them in her prayers. Adrian wrote excusing himself and Dorothy on the grounds that Dorothy was pregnant and had been ordered to rest. It didn’t sound terribly convincing, but Dennis, anyway, was more relieved than sorry at Adrian’s absence. All the others, rather to his surprise, turned up. Edward was there, in his Lieutenant’s uniform of the RAMC, which made Dennis feel a little queasy, and Tessa, proudly wielding her new baby. Polly came and wept copiously through the wedding service, making the mascara run down her cheeks in black rivulets, so that she had to retire for an interval afterwards to re-do her face.
She was twenty-six and was beginning to want very much to be married herself and have babies like Tessa, and like Miriam, who was four months pregnant and looked blooming in a green maternity dress which she scarcely needed yet. Polly now worked for the BBC as a research assistant, and knew lots of young men, but not one of them had asked her to marry him, as she had the reputation of being a bit of a tart. This was hardly fair to Polly, who had had only two affairs in the last two years, but coming back into contact with all these good Catholics, hearing mass for the first time in ages, looking at radiant Angela and proud Dennis, and feeling sure that, incredible as it might seem, they were going to the nuptial bed as genuine virgins, she herself felt distinctly Magdalenish, and began to wonder whether she should start going to mass again, perhaps even to Confession, and try to make a fresh start. But after her second glass of white wine at the reception she cheered up and began to flirt with all the men at the reception, even Father Brierley.
“I don’t suppose you remember me, do you, Father? The Salome of Cath. Soc?”
“Of course I do, Polly, yes indeed, how are you after all these years?” said Father Brierley nervously.
“That was a beautiful sermon, Father.”
“Thank you, most kind,” Father Brierley murmured, blushing with pleasure.
“Isn’t it exciting about the Conclave! Who d’you think will win?”
“‘Win’ isn’t perhaps the most appropriate –”
“Don’t you think it would be fun to have a Yank for a change? Good heavens, there’s Miles! Excuse me, Father.”
Polly turned aside and began to push her way through the crush, leaving a heavy smell of perfume lingering on the air in her wake. Austin Brierley was relieved to see her go, for her presence had stirred embarrassing memories and a still-vivid mental image of her silk-stockinged leg.
Polly greeted Miles with a faint shriek, to which he responded with expressions of surprise and rapture. They embraced with a great deal of physical flourish but little actual contact, since Polly did not want to have to repair her make-up again, and Miles did not want her lipstick all over his face and shirt collar. A little circle of the bride’s relations watched this performance respectfully, recognizing a code of manners more sophisticated and complex than their own. Michael, observing from further off, realized for the first time that Miles was homosexual, something that had never occurred to him in his innocent undergraduate days. What, he wondered, did a Catholic homosexual do? Sublimate, he supposed. It seemed rather hard. On other the hand it was difficult, not being a homosexual oneself, to believe that what homosexuals did with each other would be difficult to give up. It was always a mystery, other people’s experience of sex. Even Miriam, though she enjoyed making love, could not explain to him what it felt like, and became evasive and finally frigid if he questioned her too closely.
A little later, Michael chatted with Miles and learned that he had finished his PhD thesis, which was likely to be published, and had recently been elected to a Fellowship at one of the Cambridge colleges. Miles spoke eloquently of the pleasures of Cambridge, dropped a few great names, and enquired kindly, but a shade patronizingly, about Michael’s career.
“I’m schoolteaching to stay out of the Army,” Michael explained. “How did you get out of it?”
“I failed the medical,” said Miles.
“Lucky sod,” said Michael, unthinkingly. He added hastily, “I’d like to go into university teaching myself, but I can’t afford to be called up, now I’m married and with a baby on the way.”
“Really? My congratulations.”
“Thanks. We didn’t really want to start a family right away, but well, you know how it is.…”
“Not from experience,” Miles smiled suavely.
“I mean for Catholics. Birth control and so on.”
“Oh yes, well, I do sympathize, but on the other hand there is something rather fine about the Church’s refusal to compromise on that issue, don’t you think? Unlike the Anglicans, poor dears.”
It’s all very well for you, Michael thought; but said nothing.
The reception was nearly over, the telegrams had been read, and speeches made, and the wedding cake cut and consumed. Angela was beginning to think of retiring to change into her going-away clothes when Violet made a very late and somewhat disturbing appearance at the feast. She looked very ill and anxious, very much as she had looked just before her nervous breakdown in her Final year. Her clothes were dark and heavy and distinctly unfestive, and she carried a large paper carrier bag. She went up to Angela and apologized for being late, giving some complicated explanation of how she had lost her way on the Tube. “I’ve brought you a present,” she said, and produced from the bag a rather untidy parcel tied up in crumpled brown paper. As she seemed to want Angela to open it, Angela did so, and was disconcerted to find inside a complete baby’s layette.
“It was for the baby I lost,” Violet said. “I’m sure you’ll have a use for it one day.”
The guests, who had gathered round to see the present, turned away in embarrassment.
“But, Violet,” said Angela gently, “you mustn’t give me this. You may need it yourself another time.”
“No, Robin and I are separated. Anyway, he wouldn’t have any more children, he didn’t mean us to have that one, it was a mistake, he wanted me to have an abortion, but I wouldn’t. He’s not a Catholic, you know.”
“Angela,” said Miriam, seeing that Violet had to be stopped from spoiling Angela’s day, “if you don’t go and get changed immediately, you’re going to miss that train. I’ll get Violet something to eat.” And with a slightly worried frown, Angela went off to get changed.
“Well, well, poor old Violet,” said Michael later, when he and Miriam were alone together, walking back to the Tube station arm-in-arm.
“Was she like that as a student?”
“A bit inclined. She had a sort of nervous breakdown in her last year, had to take a year off.”
“It’s a shame her losing her baby,” Miriam said, covertly feeling her own tummy, like someone touching wood.
“Mmm. Her husband’s a bit of a cold fish, too. I met him once.”
“She said they were separated.”
“A typical Violet overstatement. I gather he’s gone to the States for a term. Some kind of exchange.”
“But he didn’t take her with him.”
“Expect he wanted to get away from her for a while. Can’t say I blame him. Did you see how she got Father Brierley into a corner? He didn’t look as if he was enjoying it one bit.”
They walked in silence for a while, thinking their own thoughts.
“Well,” said Michael, “it all went off very nicely, in spite of Violet. The organ sounded fantastic in that church.”
“And you were a super best man. It was a very funny speech.” She squeezed his hand.
“All the same,” he said, “I shan’t complain if I don’t have to go to another wedding for a few years. I’ve just about had enough.”
“From now on,” said Miriam, “it’s going to be christenings.”
Dennis and Angela’s honeymoon was, of course, no freer from awkwardness and disappointment than any of the others, though these feelings were mostly on Angela’s side. The book Dennis had lent her had not prepared her for the physical messiness of the act of love, and the orgasms she had read about in its pages eluded her. On the honeymoon Dennis was ravenous for her, begged her to make love twice, three times a night, he groaned and swore in his rapture, said over and over again, I love you, I love you, but always he reached his climax as soon as he entered her, and she felt little except the unpleasant aftertrickle between her legs, staining her new nighties and the hotel sheets. When they got home to their little two-roomed flat, she changed the bedlinen so often that their laundry bill became astronomical (there was nowhere to hang out sheets) and caused their first quarrel; after which she spread towels on the bed when the occasion required it. Then, after a couple of months,
she missed her period and felt nauseous in the mornings and knew that she must be pregnant. She told her headmistress that she would be resigning at the following Easter.
