Page 119 of A Good Heart is Hard to Find
I pulled away and looked at him. He looked back, tall, dark and gloomy.
‘Marry you? I was thinkingmore of applying for the post of madwoman in the attic,’ I blurted.
His straight brows drew together in a frown, then his face cleared: ‘Mr Rochester? You’d like to maim me a bit and set my house on fire?’
‘Not really: though I always felt more akin with the wife than with Jane, I consider burning the house down to be taking revenge a little far,’ I assured him. ‘But I can’t marry you.’
‘Whynot?’ he asked simply.
‘I’m way too old –mucholder than you.’
‘Physically maybe a few years, but mentally you’re still adolescent.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Is that your sole objection?’
‘No – I mean, when it comes down to it, I’m not sure I could live with someone all the time. I’m not domesticated, and I’m used to being alone a lot, and there’re my strange nocturnal writing and night-hike habits.’
‘This house is big enough for both of us to be alone whenever we need to be. You can even be my madwoman in the attic if you really want to – as long as you agree to marry me first. And I can live with your habits, though I might accompany you on the hikes.’
I stared at him. ‘I think we’re too alike.’
‘We’re two sides of the same coin and need to be together, Cass,’ he said.
‘Think about it,Dante,’ I tried to hold him off a bit. ‘You’d want children, and I’m probably way past it.’
‘I don’t think I’d want to risk it anyway. I’d rather have you.’
It came to me that he was right: that although I still felt that great yearning for a child, what I desperately wanted, and now couldn’t imagine ever losing, was Dante himself.
‘Be my Dark Lady?’ he said enticingly.
‘I don’t think Shakespearegot much further than adoring her from afar in his sonnets, did he?’
‘Then I’ve outdone the Bard already.’
‘You are a very unusual man,’ I said staring at him.
‘Because I read poetry? And is that a point in my favour, or against me?’
‘For, definitely for,’ I said.
‘Good, I don’t think you’d really be happy cooped up in my attic.’
Reader, I married him: but only after he added the clinchinglure of a late honeymoon tour finishing up in Mexico to coincide with that popular festival, The Day of the Dead.
That did it: I knew he was the man for me.
Not that I’d had any doubts once I’d accepted that we are the same kind of animal under the skin, and so understand each other’s demons. I helped him to finish his manuscript before we left for the trip, and it began to be serialized inthe newspaper while we were away, the proceeds going to Paul’s widow and family.
Meanwhile my book is nearing completion, Mexico proving to be a rich source of inspiration both to me and to Dante, who has written a series of brilliant articles about the culture and political state of the country, which seems to be turning into another book. I’ve thought up a great title for it:‘Death: Enemyor Friend? Four Months in Mexico.
From being convinced that I could never live with someone permanently, I now find I cannot bear to be apart from him for very long: the fear that there is something bad out there waiting to spring will never, I suppose, entirely go away.
And pictures of Elvis still make me shudder.
While we were away Pa went past the point of no return and was committed, andsince then Ma seems to have taken on a new lease of life in the Highlands with Francis and Robbie.
It’s autumn now, but as things die, new life is flourishing forth.
Eddie and Rosetta are in the lodge, awaiting their baby’s arrival.
Francis and Robbie, too, are expecting the surprise advent of a little Annapurna or Kathmandu, we are not sure yet which …
And as for me, far from being obsessedwith motherhood I entirely forgot about it until it suddenly dawned on me that either I’ve started an early menopause or a late baby. But I’m not mentioning either possibility to Dante until we are back home in Kedge Hall.
We will take what comes, because whatever happens we will always have each other.
Oh, and a lot ofwonderfulMexican Day of the Dead souvenirs.
