This is the story of the breakdown of a marriage. It offers hope that good things can come from bad.
by Betty Heather
This is the story of the breakdown of a marriage. It details the devastation that follows destruction. But it also offers hope that good things can come from bad.
“Lay good solid foundations”, you were always saying, “build them strong. That way the structure will last; last for a life time.”
I agreed, if you remember. I finished my degree and never worked outside our construction firm. We agreed to wait to start a family, wait to take money out of the business, wait to travel, wait to live. And it worked didn’t it Robert? We built a great and prosperous business, a great and solid marriage.
A month ago today a lorry hit the wall and smashed our marriage to pieces.
I still can’t believe the way you gave me the news. I was clearing the table after dinner, my mind on sorting out the notes for your site meeting the next day. You were giving a running commentary on the last project, making comments about our forthcoming tax return. Metaphorically I had my pad and pencil out, I was taking notes. And then, you said, “oh by the way, I don’t think this partnership (yes, you actually said partnership) is working. I’m leaving.”
I think I actually felt the crash, saw a crack open up at my feet. But I may have imagined that. I couldn’t understand what you were saying. Snatches of speech were hitting the goldfish bowl that my head had become, and ricocheting off. “We’re not compatible." Zing. “You’re unadventurous." Zing. “You’re too placid." Zing.
There was a buzzing sound in the room, or in my head - like angry bees; and I vaguely remember you going out of the door with suitcases that I had never seen before. I came to my senses on our bed, and you were gone. A business card placed ever so carefully on the side table. A business card giving your new address. No personal comment from you, not even a “don’t make my breakfast tomorrow.”
I have watched survivors of accidents on TV and marvelled at how they manage to cope without giving way to despair. I think I understand a little now. Shock, and then a numbness that creeps up from your feet to your head and encases you in concrete. No thinking, no feeling, no awareness. I look in the mirror in the morning and see the same look of bafflement on my face: a blank face that has aged ten years.
I go through the motions. Make lists, lots of lists. Sort out the next consignment of bricks, liaise with the building control inspector, and pick up your dry cleaning. Like a chicken with a severed head, I run round and round. Shoring up, trying to support a structure that any fool can see is in ruins.
Today, I received a letter from your solicitor. It told me, in business like terms that you are now living with Sarah. Little Sarah, our neighbour’s daughter. Nice, cheerful, laughing Sarah. Sarah who used to borrow my dresses, and shoes, and jewellery - and now, you. Sarah who never returns anything, or if she does - it’s ruined.
Sarah is pregnant and you are keen to make a good clean break. Is there such a thing as a good and clean break? I suppose it depends if you’re doing the breaking. It doesn’t feel good or particularly clean when you’re the one who’s being broken.
I stare at the letter and the concrete starts to crack. I feel such desolation, in such a pit of despair that I think for a minute that I won’t be able to bear it. I bury my head in the sweater that still retains the smell of you and I cry, and cry and cry.
***
I really can’t understand why I spent an hour this morning arguing with you over two cd’s. Two cd’s, I ask you, when you had just informed me that you were selling the house. ‘”Sarah didn’t want to live in it because it’s too near her parents.’” So, no house and no job. Apparently all my work, worry, and waiting have been valued by your solicitors, and mine, as ‘secretarial help,’ which is no longer necessary. I don’t even get a redundancy package as I haven’t been ‘on the books.’
You were magnanimous though, and scrupulously fair, or so you told me. I get half the value of the house, and this will buy me a flat somewhere in the town.
So this is the real me is it? A forty eight year old divorcee - no children, no job, no future, no hope?
***
I saw you this morning, Robert. I was just returning from my run. Yes, I’ve taken up running again, and did a marathon last week. It took me four hours, but it’s a start. You probably didn’t recognise me in my track suit and woolly hat, and because I am now two stone lighter.
You were helping Sarah down the steps of the bank with the push chair. The baby was yelling, and you had a toddler in a harness. Sarah was giving you a real dressing down about something. You looked pained, standing there with a hang dog look on your face. I can’t ever remember contradicting you, Robert. I certainly never scolded. But then again, I am too placid. Your hair was long and you were dressed in clothes that I haven’t seen before: tight jeans with a thick belt; a checked shirt straining over your belly; and cowboy boots!
I felt a bubble starting in my stomach and it went up to my head like champagne. I only just managed to get round the corner, and I had to sit down on a wall. I laughed so much that I thought I would die. I laughed until I cried. And then I did cry. I cried for the lovely boy you had been; and I cried for the idiot you had become.
***
I have found a nice house just outside of town, Robert. It was cheap because it needs a lot of work. I am doing this myself. I must have learned a lot with your firm, because I’m quite good at it. It’s nearly finished now, and I have enough rooms to take in a lodger. A student, I think, who will look after the place, and my dog when I’m abroad.
There is another bit of news. I have just qualified as a nursery nurse. I have enrolled with a nanny agency, and they have found me work abroad. I will do six month contracts so that I can travel as well. I get to look after all the children I want, and can hand them back when they become teenagers. How good is that?
I saw a piece in the paper about you laying off men. It says that there has been a slow down in the housing market that may last for years. I hope that you were able to keep on Jeff, and Reg and Michael.
***
I was surprised to see you last night Robert, and shocked at how tired and old you looked. It’s not surprising though, with three children under five years old. All the mess, nappies and sleepless nights.
I was pleased that my house was finished and that I had managed to sort out my furniture. It looked nice and cosy yesterday. You said that you had a new house now: Sarah likes stainless steel and futuristic design.
It was strange to have you sitting at my table again. Sitting with a mug of coffee and talking about yourself; and you can certainly talk about yourself, Robert. I watched you as you went on spilling the poison about Sarah, and Michael, who had deserted you after all these years. I never noticed the pout before, or how your chin doesn’t quite peek out from under the shadow of your bottom lip.
So Sarah and Michael have left you and gone to France. Left you with the children.
I must confess it took me some time to register what you were saying. I was, I’m afraid, ticking off my mental packing list for my trip to LA next week. I was idly wondering if I needed to pack an evening dress – do nannies of movie stars attend premieres?
I came to when I realised that you had grasped my hand and were talking to me very seriously and earnestly. You were telling me what a fool you had been, and how much you had missed me. How much you had longed for my calm and cheerfulness. How Sarah was a nightmare with her tantrums and continual stream of ‘I wants’; and how much your children needed a mother.
I felt flattered and gratified for a brief moment, and then I felt such anger that I thought I would choke. Red hot, searing anger that felt like a wild thing beating at the back of my throat.
I managed to restrain myself long enough to wrench open the door; and something in my face told you it was time to go.
I sat for a long time after you had gone, trying to sort out how I felt. You said that we had had a strong marriage, a happy marriage. That you had spoiled it when you went off with Sarah. You said this was an aberration, and that we could put the past behind us and carry on
I don’t agree with you Robert. Our marriage wasn’t strong. Our foundations were built on sand. The fabric was strung together by your greed and my fear. Your need to control everything. My fear of contradicting you: of you leaving me if I did.
In reality it didn’t take a big jolt to destroy it, because it had been rotting for years. Slowly and insidiously, like rising damp. You were becoming more selfish and self opinionated as I became more colourless and insipid.
To answer your question, Robert, no I do not want you back. I discovered last night that I don’t love you. I don’t even like you.
If it’s any consolation, I think you were right to take the bulldozer to our marriage. Sometimes the only thing you can do is to smash a thing to pieces, and see what you can salvage from the wreckage.
