So, my boyfriend and I went to the cinema, to dances and parties, to an occasional night club, and to visit friends. We enjoyed each other’s company and were comfortable together.
I was surprised when he first asked me to marry him, though I realized that it was the next logical step for him to take. I didn’t know how to answer. I begged him to give me some time to think about it. The truth was that I was terrified of marriage and all that it entailed. I used to ask my mother, who had met my father when she was 20, and had become engaged to him six weeks later, how she had known that she was in love and that my father was her Mr. Right. I wanted her to tell me how I would ever know if I was in love. Her answer was always the same. “You will know if it happens to you”, she said, “and if you have to ask yourself that question, Susan, then you aren’t in love!” It was a terrifyingly high bar to live up to, I felt.
I didn’t know if I was in love, or not. I felt as if having fun and going out together was one thing but living together for fifty or sixty years was entirely different. Did I love this man? He was fun, kind and considerate, but I just didn’t know if I was “in love” with him. My mother’s statement on this topic didn’t help.
After some time, as I continued to delay my response, my boyfriend asked me again to marry him. Once again, I hesitated and still wasn’t sure. I told him that I couldn’t think about things like marriage when I was so inundated in schoolwork and my life in Marandellas.
And then, a week or two later, he asked me a third time, at which point, understandably, perhaps, he was becoming more forceful. He didn’t want to wait any longer, he maintained. He insisted that I had to decide: Yes, or no? He needed my answer.
So, scared by the thought of losing him, I said yes! He was delighted and I felt as if a weight had been lifted off me. I had decided, and it felt right to me. I was going to marry this man and spend my life with him. We knew each other well. We’d be fine. Neither of us considered anything beyond acceptance of the moral standards of the time. Sleeping together or living together was out of the question, as far as we were both concerned. That would have been frowned upon, for sure.
So, back to Marandellas I went, with an engagement ring on my finger. I was happy and we began to plan our wedding, which was to take place just before Christmas, when the six-week-long school holidays meant I would have this time off.
