Jane Austen, Bridget Jones And Me

A classic romance

William’s in the garden again. Good. I stand at the kitchen window, watching him kneel to inspect an audacious weed with as much fervency as if he was at the altar… only with rather more venom.

He always removes himself from my presence if I’ve annoyed him, but I’ve never been sure whether he does it to prevent himself giving way to anger and saying things that might interrupt the even tenor of our lives, or because he thinks it punishes me. If that’s the reason, I’ve never disillusioned him.

I’m not one of those wives who complain that they’re a grass widow; even though it’s literally true in my case. Once, I might have hoped he would lavish half as much time and attention on me as he does on that lawn of his. But not now. Now, I encourage him to stay out there as long as possible.

It’s my own fault. My punishment, if you like, for marrying a man I didn’t – couldn’t – love. Nor could I kid myself that he was in love with me. He merely felt that a vicar should have a wife to cook and clean, remember his dental appointments and act as unpaid secretary for all the parish business he thinks is beneath his dignity.

“Marry William? You do know he asked me first?” my friend said, pouring wine with a lavish hand. “And that was only because he found out that Jane’s already engaged. The pompous little wotsit wasn’t fussed. Either of us would do. Can you credit it?”

“I’m not surprised he asked you,” I said, turning the wine-glass round and round in my fingers. “You’re beautiful, Lizzie. Feisty. Sparkling. You’re everything I’m not. I’m twenty-seven and I don’t want to end up as an old maid with only cats for company. As my dearest mother was so kind as to tell me I would, the other day.”

Liz snorted. She knows all about mothers. Hers goes off like a rocket at the least little thing. Mine specialises in the snide remark.

“Anyway,” she said, “I turned him down flat. I can’t believe you can even contemplate it, Charlotte. Don’t you dare let your mum push you into doing something you don’t want to.”

I murmured something noncommittal while I battened down the dark envy. Liz wouldn’t become Mrs Collins solely because she was afraid no one else would want her. Even back then, when there was no one on the horizon as far as either of us knew, I seriously doubted that she would end up an old maid, with or without cats.

But Liz would never have bowed to pressure like I did, for fear she’d never meet Mr Right.

Or, as it turned out, Mr Darcy.

Twenty-five years ago, it seemed I didn’t have much choice. It was marriage with William or acting as an unpaid servant to my mother until I progressed to cats.

No one else had wanted me before; why should they now? I couldn’t see anything changing, and the years were ticking past. Who’d want a thirty-something with no beauty or personality?

I had nothing to make me stand out in a crowd. And every time I tried, my

I didn’t run off with a TANGERINE TINTED BUFFOON. I retuned the RADIO

mother soon put a stop to it.

“For goodness sake, Charlotte, you can’t wear that/ do that/ go there.”

“It’s what everyone else wears/ does/goes to,” I’d say, knowing that frustration was pulling down my face like gravity so I looked even plainer.

“Oh well, if you want to make a fool of yourself, I can’t stop you, I suppose. But don’t come running to me in tears because everyone’s laughed at you…”

And the notion would be laid in my brain; an egg, ready to hatch if I defied

her. Alien has nothing on my mother.

I’d hoped children would bring me the joy that was so significantly missing in my life. It was the possibility of having someone of my own to truly love, and who would truly love me, which finally persuaded me that marriage, even with William Collins, was better than anything else the future offered.

But despite one false alarm – oh, my hopes were so high – no baby came along. That side of things was never quite… well, you know what I mean. And William would never concede that anything could be done.

“If the Lord wills it, it will happen,” he told me once.

“Not if something else doesn’t happen first! A bit more frequently!”

“Now, Charlotte, we can’t act like people in a Hollywood film. That’s not real life. Maybe you’re just one of those women who can’t have children.”

“Why must it be my fault?” I said, goaded. “It could be you.”

He merely gave me his special pitying look. PoorCharlotte.Shedoesn’t understandthesethings.

“Of course it isn’t, dear. Now then, what’s for tea?”

“We could at least go and get ourselves checked out – see if there’s anything wrong. Maybe go for IVF.”

But he wouldn’t. He had a position to keep up, he said; he couldn’t be seen going into a Place Like That. The capital letters that rang so clear in his voice made the fertility clinic sound like a brothel.

So the years gradually furred over with routine and I grew to expect nothing of life. And I was usually right. But, recently, things have begun to dissolve. Like de-scaling a kettle.

I don’t know what kicked it off. You’ve heard of Senior Moments; maybe I’m having a late Rebellious Teenage Moment.

Only it’s less of a moment and more of a slow sea-swell of defiance that’s about to turn into a tsunami and wash my old life away.

It began on my fiftieth birthday, a year ago. I was watching BridgetJones’s Diary while William finished off his sermon, and something Bridget’s mum said struck a sudden chord. She felt, as I did, that her life was empty of anything that gave it meaning. “No career, no sex life,” I think she said. I can’t remember the exact words but the general gist was that she had nothing of her own and neither her husband nor her child needed her any more.

Only a minor scene in the film… but it stayed with me long after I was lying by William’s side in the dark of our room, waiting for sleep that never came.

I didn’t run off with a TangerineTinted Buffoon. I tuned the radio to Radio Two. Time was when I used to switch it back to Radio Four before William noticed. I haven’t bothered to do that for weeks now.

Next, I had my hair cut in a more modern style and had it coloured. Not red or shocking pink or anything like that. I had it done more or less my natural colour, but with subtle highlights and no grey.

I catch William looking at me with a frown sometimes. I don’t think he can really work out what I’ve done. He just senses I look different. That I feel different.

Then, today, we bumped into Lady Catherine de Burgh in the village shop. She’s a JP and one of our parishioners, and William worships the ground she walks on.

I thought he’d wet himself when she said good morning. I looked at him as they chatted, all condescension on her part and obsequiousness on his.

With his thin neck protruding from his clerical collar and his head nodding at every word she spoke, he looked like one of those toy dogs people used to put on the rear window shelf of their car.

Needing something to distract me from my embarrassed revulsion, I found myself reading a poster that had been put up by the till. It was for a concert in the big park in the nearby town.

It wasn’t exactly Woodstock or Glastonbury or even the concert by Thin Lizzy my mother forbade me to go to when I was fifteen; it was a mixture of local boys and their bands and a few folk groups. People were invited to bring a picnic and there were to be fireworks to finish. It sounded fun, and you can’t imagine how much I yearned for fun.

William was still saying yes and amen to Lady C’s every pontification and I did the unthinkable. I interrupted.

“Ooh look, William! There’s a concert on at Queen’s Park. We should go! Take a picnic. Some wine.”

He flapped his hand at me as if I’d taken leave of my senses.

“Really, Charlotte, can’t you see that Lady Catherine and I –”

She cut right through him as if he hadn’t spoken.

“Oh, my dear Mrs Collins, I don’t think so. The vicar’s wife, at one of those dreadful pop concerts? It would be beneath your dignity. You couldn’t possibly enjoy that sort of music.”

William nodded sycophantically, but he shot a glance at me and I knew he was remembering Radio Two.

“Of course she doesn’t,” he said, trying to head me off at the pass. “It’s such a dreadful row, Lady Catherine, as you rightly say.”

“Really, William?” I asked. “When do you listen to it, then?”

He flushed as Lady Catherine turned to him, radiating disapproval.

“I’ve never listened to such rubbish in my life,” he spluttered.

“So in that case, how do you know it’s a dreadful row?”

“I’ll come WITH YOU, me duck. Our Ryan’s band will be PLAYING A SET”

I looked at him with innocent inquiry written all over my face. Lady Catherine wasn’t the only one who could raise a mean eyebrow.

“Of course it’s a dreadful row,” she pronounced. “You won’t be going, Vicar, of course.”

Having delivered her verdict, she moved towards the door. William leaped to open it for her and usher her outside. I was left to pay Annie at the till.

“Old bat!” Annie said, grinning at me. “Who does she think she is, ordering you about? You go to that concert if you want to, me duck.” She handed me my change and leaned forward with her elbows on the counter. “I’ll come with you, if you like. I was thinking of going anyway. Our Ryan’s band’s going to be playing a set. Speckled Death, they call themselves. Mostly Boyzone covers, bless ’em, although I think they reckon they’re hard rock. And there’s a couple of good Country and Western groups.”

So I shut my ears to William’s diatribe all the way home, and I’m going shopping in a moment. I’m going to buy myself a dress to wear at the concert. A dress like the one I coveted the last time I went shopping with him and he said was totally unsuitable.

The one he picked out for me is hanging limply in my wardrobe, an uninspiring, safe, washed-out blue. I want one in a vibrant fuchsia, with thin straps and a swirling skirt. And I’m going to buy a lipstick to match.

I can just see his face! And my mother’s. Muttondressedaslamb,you are,mygirl.Aren’tyouafraidpeople willthinkyou’reajoke?

Well, no, actually. Annie doesn’t, and I can’t see why anyone else should. And I don’t care if they do. It’s nothing to do with them. This is the Rebellious Teenage Moment I should have had years ago. It may be a bit late coming, but I’m going to enjoy every minute of it.

I stop watching William fuss over his lawn, and run a bowl of hot, soapy water. I plunge my hands into it. I don’t know why it’s taken me so long to realise I’m not living in a Jane Austen novel.

In her day, life for an unmarried woman was bleak. Austen’s heroines didn’t have much choice, but this is the twenty-first century, not the nineteenth. I withdraw my hands from the bowl, my wedding ring between my fingers. I’ll leave it in the middle of the table, where William can’t miss it.

Because I do have a choice. I don’t have to stay with a man I don’t love, live a life that crushes everything into a washed-out blue.

I want fuchsia. And I reckon I’m owed a little joy.