We were meeting Andrew, my Anglican priest friend, to discuss our wedding service.
“Why do we have to do this?” Anthony said grumpily, pulling his car into Andrew’s driveway.
“I think it’s just part of the deal,” I tried to quip, sensing Anthony’s unease.
He didn’t laugh.
During the meeting, Anthony was tense with reluctance and I was embarrassed.
After the meeting, Anthony dropped me back at my flat then he headed back to the farm.
Inside my flat, I felt tears of confusion creep into my eyes. A few minutes later, Andrew rang.
“Well, that went well,” he said with kind sarcasm. “Are you sure he wants to get married?”
“What’s wrong with him?” I asked Andrew.
“I’ve seen it before,” said Andrew.
“And….?”
“It’s called ‘cold feet’ and your Anthony has a very bad case.”
“Well if his feet are cold, then mine are now frozen,” I said, trying to laugh.
But I didn’t laugh.
Anthony’s cold feet episode lasted long enough for me to finally say to him, “Enough!”
“What is wrong?” I asked him on the phone. “Getting married was your idea, not mine!”
“It’s complicated,” he said miserably.
“Let’s just forget it then,” I said miserably.
“I’ll come up tomorrow and explain,” he said.
“Fine,” I said, sarcastically, ”I can’t wait.”
After our phone conversation I rang my Guinness buddies and they joined me down at the local pub.
A pint of Guinness can do wonders for a wounded soul!
Anthony’s cold feet episode seemed to last forever and I wanted very much to talk to my dad and to Inna who, of course, were both dead. I didn’t want to tell my mother about the latest situation because she had only just come to terms with the fact that I would soon be marrying a man old enough to be my father. I couldn’t tell my female friends because they were still wondering if Anthony even existed in the first place. I told my Guinness buddies but they just shrugged and bought me another pint.
My fantastic friend, Andrew, the priest who was going to marry us, knew though. Even if Anthony hadn’t stuck his cold feet into Andrew’s face (metaphorically speaking), Andrew would have sensed that something was badly wrong and, because he loved me, he counselled me to give up. I don’t think Andrew phrased it like that – he was far too tactful – but, yeah, I got the gist.
So, in my thoughts, I said to my dad that I was doing okay, and I told Inna that I had tried to fulfill my promise to her to look after her son, and had done my best.
And I gave up.
When Anthony got over his cold feet episode and told me it was to do with the farm, his brother, finances, their partnership, it was a relief! I had begun to think that maybe I was too fat, or too skinny, or too tall, or too short, or maybe it was my freckles, our age difference, his memory of me letting the grapefruit marmalade boil over on his precious Aga, my religious upbringing. I only wondered about these thing for a couple of days before realizing it was nothing to do with me, but I was still mystified.
So when Anthony came up to Perth and told me about his ‘he ain’t heavy, he’s my brother’ anxiety, I just said, “Is that all?” and in that blinkingly beautiful moment, he grabbed me in a huge hug and we both started laughing.
“What would I do without you, Jules!” Anthony said, once our laughing subsided.
“I don’t need you, Ants, okay,” I said more seriously as he took his boots off.
“What are you doing?” he said as I put my hands on his feet.
“Your feet are warm!” I said.
“What are you talking about?” he said, getting up to fetch a bottle of wine and grinning his fantastic grin.
“You wouldn’t understand,” I said.
He poured us a glass each and sat down next to me at my tiny kitchen table. “I need you, Julie, I need you.”
“Yeah, whatever,” I said, sipping my wine nonchalantly while the joy gradually seeped back into my freezing feet.
And the rest, as they say, is history!
Once we got over the cold feet episode, our warm feet kept colliding in ways that were both funny and significant.
We were going to get married and Anthony and I both allowed the droplets of bliss fall into our open smiles.
jmgoyder 