“I want you!”
“Joe, I let you talk, now you have to listen to me. I’m forty-four years old. I am not going to have another baby at my age—I don’t want one, I’ve done the baby stuff. Plus, I’m pretty sure I’m perimenopausal, so the clock is ticking on that one anyway, even if I did want another baby, which I absolutely don’t. And by the way, do you really want to be with a perimenopausal woman when you could be with some perky little thirtysomething? You’ve seen me have a hot flash, right? It’s not pretty and it’s probably going to get worse. I can’t deny you the chance to have a child of your own. You would make a wonderful father, I won’t stand in the way of that. And that’s before all the complications that come with me, my kids, and my precarious financial and living status, not to mention a myriad of hang-ups about allowing myself to depend on somebody. If I was on the outside looking in, I would see a whole lotta baggage and very few benefits to recommend me.”
“Do you love me?” he asked.
“Did you hear all the things I just said? Think seriously about what you would have to lose by being with me.”
“I am not afraid of menopause, Maggie.”
“That’s what they’ll start calling me, you know? Menopause Maggie! Do you want to be associated with that?”
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Make a joke to avoid talking about this.”
She began to play with a tassel on one of the cushion trims. Boy did he have her number. “Sorry.”
“As for your other worries. I’m not fussed about procreating. I mean, kids are great, and I’d be happy to be someone’s dad, but I’ve never felt that push to have children of my own, it’s just not a big deal for me. But I know I could be a good father to Verity and, with time, a good friend to Patrick.”
Maggie sighed. “I can’t commit to someone who might change their mind in a year or two years or five years, I just can’t. And that’s why I can’t tell the kids. Not yet. You have to understand, I loved someone and he died, and everyone else I’ve loved has left in some way or other. I don’t think I could stand that kind of rejection again, I just can’t risk it.”
Joe had been staring at his feet but now he looked her dead in the eyes.
“So your only objection to being with me is your belief that I am somehow in denial of my need to father my own children, and your worry that I will break your heart because of it, or that I’ll die?”
“Well, I mean, obviously that’s the oversimplified version, but essentially yes.”
“Firstly, I can’t promise you I won’t die; I’m afraid that’s out of my control, but I will do my level best not to, at least not until I’m in my nineties.”
She let out an amused huff of a laugh.
“Now let me put something to you. Say I was fifty, never had kids, and told you I never wanted to?”
“Well, that would be different, wouldn’t it? You’d be older . . .”
“So, what, at thirty-three years of age I’m too young to know my own mind? Immature for my age?”
“Joe!”
“Answer the question.”
“No, obviously not. But . . .”
“I am in love with you, Maggie North. I am in it for the long haul. You are the only woman I see in my future. I promise you that is not going to change. I just. Want. You. Now, I’ll ask you again: Do you love me?”
“Joe.”
“Do you?”
“Yes! Okay? Yes, I love you! I love you! I love you! But . . .”
She didn’t get to finish her very sensible next sentence, because he leaned in and kissed away her protests. He didn’t stop kissing her as he pressed her down onto the sleeping bag. Nor did he stop as he undid the clips on her dungarees and expertly divested them both of their underwear. It was a cold afternoon. But inside the tent of intent, Joe and Maggie found a way to keep themselves warm. Twice.
27
Belinda was seated in the front row of chairs in the village hall on Monday evening, her purple glitter Dr. Martens just visible below the hem of her black cassock. She gave the sisters an enthusiastic thumbs-up and whisper-shouted “Loud and proud!” as they took their seats on the stage.
Star picked nervously at her nails as the last few stragglers found chairs and got settled. Despite only having put the word out yesterday, they had a full house. Betty was sitting in the middle row surrounded by a few of the WI—Women’s Institute—members; others she recognized were sitting with their husbands and significant others. The Cussing Crocheters huddled together in a row near the back, and when Star gave them a tentative wave they stood, each holding aloft a piece of crocheted granny-square bunting that read GIVE ’EM HELL AND GIVE NO FUCKS in red and green wool. She’d say this for Rowan Thorp: there was no shortage of strong women in residence. She liked to think that maybe her ancestor Patience North had started the trend. Since returning to Rowan Thorp, Star was finding it easy to fill her daily magic quota.
The crowd began to quiet down.
“Right, remember what we’re going to say,” whispered Maggie.
Star instantly needed the toilet. “I can’t do it,” she said.
“Neither can I,” Simone agreed.
“You have to!” hissed Maggie. “I’m not doing it by myself.”
“We’ll stand next to you.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake!”
Her oldest sister pushed her shoulders back and gathered herself up and Star wished she owned that kind of can-do attitude. In fairness they were all out of their depth: a greengrocer, a physiotherapist, and a wandering hippie, none of them used to public speaking or asking for help.
Only her sisters would notice the slight tremor in Maggie’s fingers or the telltale quickening of her breath that belied her nerves as she looked out into the sea of faces smiling back at her. Most of these people had known them since they were kids—some had grown up with them.
“Ahem.” Maggie cleared her throat, and the microphone that Sonja had insisted she use reverberated with a deep boff! sound, followed by a high-pitched whistling. She jumped and looked helplessly over to Brian Moorhen, who was sitting in the wings and had adjusted the dials on the amp. He motioned for her to continue. “You probably all know by now that as per our dad’s final wishes, we are reinstating the winter solstice festival in Rowan Thorp.” The audience clapped in encouragement. “You probably also know that the three of us are way out of our depth on this. We stand before you today to ask for your help. I don’t know why the solstice celebrations stopped. Perhaps it simply fell out of favor, as old-fashioned things do . . .”
“Same thing happened with vinyl,” piped up Ron Docherty. “And now it’s all the rage again! My grandkids are asking for vinyl records for Christmas!”
This was met with murmurs of agreement from the audience.
“And Polaroid cameras!” came another voice, to further agreement.