Who Do You Think You Are

he should not have said that.
    “Of course that’s not your real mother,” Patrick said. “Your real parents can’t have been like that.” Rose did not like his saying that either, though it was what she believed, herself. She saw that he was trying to provide for her a more genteel background, perhaps something like the homes of his poor friends: a few books about, a tea tray, and mended linen, worn good taste; proud, tired, educated people. What a coward he was, she thought angrily, but she knew that she herself was the coward, not knowing any way to be comfortable with her own people or the kitchen or any of it. Years later she would learn how to use it, she would be able to amuse or intimidate right-thinking people at dinner parties with glimpses of her early home. At the moment she felt confusion, misery.
    Nevertheless her loyalty was starting. Now that she was sure of getting away, a layer of loyalty and protectiveness was hardening around every memory she had, around the store and the town, the flat, somewhat scrubby, unremarkable countryside. She would oppose this secretly to Patrick’s views of mountains and ocean, his stone and timbered mansion. Her allegiances were far more proud and stubborn than his.
    But it turned out he was not leaving anything behind.
    P ATRICK GAVE HER a diamond ring and announced that he was giving up being a historian for her sake. He was going into his father’s business.
    She said she thought he hated his father’s business. He said that he could not afford to take such an attitude now that he would have a wife to support.
    It seemed that Patrick’s desire to marry even to marry Rose, had been taken by his father as a sign of sanity. Great streaks of bounty were mixed in with all the ill will in that family. His father at once offered a job in one of the stores, offered to buy them a house. Patrick was as incapable of turning down this offer as Rose was of turning down Patrick’s, and his reasons were as little mercenary as hers.
    “Will we have a house like your parents?” Rose said. She really thought it might be necessary to start off in that style.
    “Well, maybe not at first. Not quite so—”
    “I don’t want a house like that! I don’t want to live like that!” “We’ll live however you like. We’ll have whatever kind of house you like.”
    Provided it’s not a dump, she thought nastily.
    Girls she hardly knew stopped and asked to see her ring, admired it, wished her happiness. When she went back to Hanratty for a weekend, alone this time, thank God, she met the dentist’s wife on the main street.
    “Oh, Rose, isn’t it wonderful! When are you coming back again? We’re going to give a tea for you, the ladies in town all want to give a tea for you!”
    This woman had never spoken to Rose, never given any sign before of knowing who she was. Paths were opening now, barriers were softening. And Rose—oh, this was the worst, this was the shame of it—Rose, instead of cutting the dentist’s wife, was blushing and skittishly flashing her diamond and saying yes, that would be a lovely idea. When people said how happy she must be she did think herself happy. It was as simple as that. She dimpled and sparkled and turned herself into a fiancée with no trouble at all. Where will you live, people said and she said oh, in British Columbia! That added more magic to the tale. Is it really beautiful there, they said, is it never winter?
    “Oh, yes!” cried Rose, “Oh, no!”
    S HE WOKE UP EARLY , got up and dressed and let herself out of the side door of Dr. Henshawe’s garage. It was too early for the buses to be running. She walked through the city to Patrick’s apartment. She walked across the park. Around the South African War Memorial a pair of greyhounds were leaping and playing, an old woman standing by, holding their leashes. The sun was just up, shining on their pale hides. The grass was wet. Daffodils and narcisus in bloom.
    Patrick came to the door, tousled, frowning sleepily, in his gray and maroon striped pajamas.
    “Rose! What’s the matter?”
    She couldn’t say anything. He pulled her into the apartment. She put her arms around him and hid her face against his chest and in a stagey voice said, “Please Patrick. Please let me not marry you.”
    “Are you sick? What’s the matter?”
    “Please let me not marry you,” she said again, with even less conviction.
    “You’re crazy.”
    She didn’t blame him for thinking so. Her voice