awkward in her wedding dress. She looked at herself critically in Elizabeth’s huge Victorian mirror. There was something about the shape of the neck that didn’t flatter her. But what did it matter anyway? She carried pink roses from the Burchells’ garden bound together with a ribbon Rosemary had given her. She wore her tiny gold confirmation cross and remembered her father giving it to her.
Her mother came up from Twickenham for the occasion, wearing an enormous hat that Patty remembered from before the war. She looked ridiculous, but it made Patty feel terribly fond of her. She looked sharply at Patty’s waistline but did not ask, as Elizabeth had, whether she was expecting. Patty tried not to mind the look. What was anyone to think, with them getting married at such speed? Clifford gave Patty away and Cledwyn Jones was best man. Mark’s family did not attend. Marjorie, surprisingly, did.
St. Thomas the Martyr was High Church, and there was incense, as well as candles and splendid vestments. Patty did not mind them on that occasion and in the medieval building. She did find herself resenting the words of the marriage service, St. Paul’s admonitions and her requirement to obey Mark. She promised meekly, and Mark Timothy Anston took Patricia Anne Cowan and they were pronounced man and wife in the sight of God and of the congregation.
Marjorie was the first to kiss Patty afterwards. “I’m on my way to Rome, but I’ve waited to wish you joy,” she said. “I hope you’ll be very happy.” She didn’t sound confident of it.
“Congratulations, Mrs. Anston,” Elizabeth said.
“You congratulate the groom and felicitate the bride,” Patty’s mother said sharply. “Felicitations, Mrs. Anston, congratulations, Mark.”
“Oh, of course, felicitations, Tricia,” Elizabeth said.
Mark was looking over her head. Patty had been thinking that everything would be all right once they were actually married, that it would change everything. Once the ring was on her finger, she realized how idiotic that assumption had been, how it was magical thinking, and how Mark would despise her for it.
They had very little money, but the Burchells had insisted they spend their first night in a hotel—and from what Mark said, Patty assumed that they had paid for it. The Oriel Guest House was right in the middle of Oxford but had little else to be said in its favor. It had threadbare carpets and a pervasive smell of overcooked vegetables. They ate dinner together, awkwardly, talking about the wedding. She felt disloyal laughing with Mark at her mother’s hat, but it had been so absurd. “Mothers are supposed to dream about their daughters’ weddings.”
“This one can’t have been what she dreamed.”
“She would have dreamed my father and my brother there,” Patty said.
Mark looked at her for what felt like the first time since she had come to Oxford, and put his hand on hers. “I’m so sorry they couldn’t be there for you, Tricia,” he said.
She realized he had been calling her Tricia ever since Elizabeth suggested it, and that he really liked it, preferred it to Patty. She thought of protesting, but it seemed such a terrible time, when he was actually paying attention to her and being kind. Anyway, what did it matter, she was changing her surname, she might as well go the whole hog and change her first name too. It was part of her name, anyway, always had been. And maybe Elizabeth was right; perhaps it was a more sophisticated name, more appropriate for her new life. Perhaps as Tricia she would be armored a little against whatever was going to happen upstairs.
Mark ordered two hot baths, first for her and then for him. She had bathed that morning at the Burchells’, but did not protest. She took off the wedding dress and bathed again, thinking that when next she bathed she would be a woman. Then she shivered in their room. She owned two nightdresses, one red flannel and one striped blue and white cotton,
Her mother came up from Twickenham for the occasion, wearing an enormous hat that Patty remembered from before the war. She looked ridiculous, but it made Patty feel terribly fond of her. She looked sharply at Patty’s waistline but did not ask, as Elizabeth had, whether she was expecting. Patty tried not to mind the look. What was anyone to think, with them getting married at such speed? Clifford gave Patty away and Cledwyn Jones was best man. Mark’s family did not attend. Marjorie, surprisingly, did.
St. Thomas the Martyr was High Church, and there was incense, as well as candles and splendid vestments. Patty did not mind them on that occasion and in the medieval building. She did find herself resenting the words of the marriage service, St. Paul’s admonitions and her requirement to obey Mark. She promised meekly, and Mark Timothy Anston took Patricia Anne Cowan and they were pronounced man and wife in the sight of God and of the congregation.
Marjorie was the first to kiss Patty afterwards. “I’m on my way to Rome, but I’ve waited to wish you joy,” she said. “I hope you’ll be very happy.” She didn’t sound confident of it.
“Congratulations, Mrs. Anston,” Elizabeth said.
“You congratulate the groom and felicitate the bride,” Patty’s mother said sharply. “Felicitations, Mrs. Anston, congratulations, Mark.”
“Oh, of course, felicitations, Tricia,” Elizabeth said.
Mark was looking over her head. Patty had been thinking that everything would be all right once they were actually married, that it would change everything. Once the ring was on her finger, she realized how idiotic that assumption had been, how it was magical thinking, and how Mark would despise her for it.
They had very little money, but the Burchells had insisted they spend their first night in a hotel—and from what Mark said, Patty assumed that they had paid for it. The Oriel Guest House was right in the middle of Oxford but had little else to be said in its favor. It had threadbare carpets and a pervasive smell of overcooked vegetables. They ate dinner together, awkwardly, talking about the wedding. She felt disloyal laughing with Mark at her mother’s hat, but it had been so absurd. “Mothers are supposed to dream about their daughters’ weddings.”
“This one can’t have been what she dreamed.”
“She would have dreamed my father and my brother there,” Patty said.
Mark looked at her for what felt like the first time since she had come to Oxford, and put his hand on hers. “I’m so sorry they couldn’t be there for you, Tricia,” he said.
She realized he had been calling her Tricia ever since Elizabeth suggested it, and that he really liked it, preferred it to Patty. She thought of protesting, but it seemed such a terrible time, when he was actually paying attention to her and being kind. Anyway, what did it matter, she was changing her surname, she might as well go the whole hog and change her first name too. It was part of her name, anyway, always had been. And maybe Elizabeth was right; perhaps it was a more sophisticated name, more appropriate for her new life. Perhaps as Tricia she would be armored a little against whatever was going to happen upstairs.
Mark ordered two hot baths, first for her and then for him. She had bathed that morning at the Burchells’, but did not protest. She took off the wedding dress and bathed again, thinking that when next she bathed she would be a woman. Then she shivered in their room. She owned two nightdresses, one red flannel and one striped blue and white cotton,
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