Then, as the weeks went on, my thoughts began to go in other directions. I didn’t say anything to anyone, but I kept thinking about what my married life would be like. My plans to travel the world might not come to fruition. I might not be able to go back to Europe, and, to make matters worse, because he was a geologist, I kept wondering if we might land up living in the bush. I was not thrilled with such a prospect. Would we argue about politics, about the rights of the Africans to vote, to have some say in the running of the country? He was politically more right winged than I was. Could I cope with this? Above all, did I want to spend the rest of my life in Rhodesia and raise my children there? I knew that the African majority was unhappy with the status quo. What would happen in the future? There were already signs of a brewing guerrilla war. Could I live here at such a time?
Yet I couldn’t bear to lose my fiancé. What was I going to do? I was a mess of contradictory thoughts and emotions. I knew that no-one else could help me sort them all out. It was all up to me, but I didn’t have time to think straight.
The weeks ticked on and eventually I made my decision. It was very tough. I was not going to marry my fiancé. Instead, I was going to resign from my position in the school (paying back the money I owed for failing to complete my two-year contract), and I would leave Rhodesia as soon as I could, to go to England. I did not want to stay in Africa. I wanted to lead my own life on my own terms before I considered settling down. I was simply not ready to do so. There was no middle way. I had to end my relationship and say goodbye to my fiancé. It was going to be hard, and I would be broken-hearted in one way, but hugely relieved in another. I felt that it was the correct thing to do. He was not Mr. Right and deep down inside of me, I knew it.
So, the next weekend, when I went home, I told my parents. They didn’t say much, except that it had to be my decision. I called my fiancé and asked him to come over that afternoon. I was a nervous wreck, as I sat in the garden, twisting my engagement ring round and round my finger, waiting for him to arrive. How was I going to lessen the pain I would cause him? I didn’t know. It was impossible.
Twenty minutes later, it was all over. I had given him back his ring, and he had got up, with tears in his eyes, trying to maintain some semblance of masculine dignity. He hadn’t walked to his car, though. Instead, he had gone indoors. I didn’t know why. I sat outside numb with the pain of what I had just done. I didn’t know till Peter told me later, that my fiancé had shaken hands with each of them, that he was very upset, but that he wanted to say a final goodbye to both my parents and to my brother.
