I never intended to marry. Had it not been for the relentless courtship of my future husband, I might have remained a free spirit forever. Arthur, like a lovesick moth, fluttered around me, never letting me out of his sight, bending over backwards to please me. In short, I surrendered. We married.
Arthur quickly became a homebody, a familiar and dear presence. With him, life was comfortablelike slipping into well-worn slippers.
A year later, our son Oliver was born. Arthurs job kept him in another city, returning home only once a week. He always brought treats for Oliver and me. During one visit, as I prepared to wash his clothesa habit by thenI checked every pocket. Once, Id accidentally laundered his driving licence, so now I was thorough. This time, a folded slip of paper tumbled from his trousers. Unfolding it, I found a long list of school supplies (August, after all). At the bottom, in a childs scrawl: *»Daddy, come home soon.»*
So this was how my husband amused himself abroad! A bigamist!
No hystericsjust my bag under my arm, Oliver (not yet three) by the hand, and off to Mothers for a long stay. She gave us a little room: *»Stay until youve made up.»*
Revenge simmered. I remembered an old schoolmate, Roger. *Him*, Id toy with! Roger had pursued me relentlessly in school and after. I rang him.
*»Hello, Roger! Still unmarried?»* I began casually.
*»Nell? Hullo! Whats it mattermarried, divorced… Fancy meeting?»* Roger perked up.
My impulsive affair lasted six months. Arthur delivered monthly child support to my mother, handed it over in silence, and left.
I knew he lived with Catherine Evans, who had a daughter from a previous marriage. Catherine insisted the girl call Arthur *Daddy*. They lived in his flatthe moment she heard Id left, shed moved cities to be with him. She adored him: knitted woolly socks, hearty jumpers, fed him well. I learned all this later. *Catherine Evans* would haunt me forever. Back then, I thought our marriage was overcrumbled, spent…
Yet, over coffee (discussing divorce), memories rushed over us. Arthur confessed undying love, repented. Said he hadnt the heart to send Catherine away.
Pity overwhelmed me. We reconciled. Incidentally, he never knew of Roger. Catherine and her daughter left town for good.
Seven happy years passed. Then Arthur had an accidentleg surgeries, rehabilitation, a walking stick. Two years of recovery drained him. He took to drink heavily, withdrew, became a shadow. Pleading didnt help. He refused aid, dragging Oliver and me down with him.
Then, at work, I found a shoulder to cry onPaul. He listened in the break room, walked me home, consoled. Paul was married, his wife expecting their second. How we ended up in bed, I still dont knowhe was a head shorter, scrawny, not my type!
But off we went: galleries, concerts, ballet. When his daughter was born, Paul cooled it, quit our firm, vanished. Perhaps *»out of sight, out of mind»*? I didnt clinghed only numbed the pain.
Meanwhile, Arthur drank himself senseless.
Five years later, I bumped into Paul. He earnestly proposed. I laughed.
Arthur briefly sobered, left for work in France. I played the dutiful wife, devoted mother. He returned after six months. We refurbished the house, bought new appliances. Arthur fixed up his car. Life was sweetuntil he relapsed. Hell resumed. His mates carried him home, insensible. Id scour the neighbourhood, finding him slumped on benches, pockets emptied, hauling him back.
Then, one spring, I stood glum at the bus stop. Birds sang, sun beamedI barely noticed. A whisper at my ear:
*»Perhaps I can ease your troubles?»*
I turned. Good Lordwhat a handsome devil! And me, forty-five! Could I still turn heads? Flustered, I boarded the bus just in time. He waved as we pulled away. All day, my thoughts strayed to him. I played hard to getfor forms sake.
But Henry (his name) pursued like a tank. Every morning, he waited at that stop. Id hurry, scanning for him. Spotting me, hed blow kisses. Once, he brought red tulips.
*»Whatll the girls at work say?»* I fretted.
*»Didnt think of *that*,»* he grinned, handing them to a watching granny, who beamed: *»Bless you, lad! May you find a fiery mistress!»* I flushedthank heavens she didnt say *young*!
Henry pressed: *»Nell, lets be guilty together. You wont regret it.»*
Tempting. With Arthur perpetually comatose, why not?
Henry was teetotal, a retired athlete (fifty-seven), divorced, magnetic. I plunged headlongthree years torn between home and him. My soul clouded.
I craved release but couldnt break free. *Drive him off, yet he lingers*, as the saying goes. Henry owned me. Love? No. But when he stood near, breath fledmadness! Yet I sensed disaster.
Returning spent from Henrys, Id cling to Arthurreeking, drunk, but *mine*. *Better dry bread at home than honey abroad.* Passion meant suffering. I longed to *finish* suffering, return to my family. Yet my body betrayed me.
Oliver knew. He spotted us dining once, met Henry with a stiff handshake. That evening, his questioning gaze demanded answers. *»Just a work chat,»* I lied. *»In a restaurant,»* he nodded, wry. He urged me not to divorce*»Dad might yet sober up.»*
I felt a stray sheep. A twice-divorced friend urged: *»Ditch these moth-eaten lovers! Settle!»* I heededuntil Henry raised a hand to me.
That was it. *Still waters run deep*, my friend had warned. The scales fell. Three years of tormentover!
Henry begged, grovelled. I stood firm. My friend kissed me, gifted a mug: *»You did right.»*
Arthur knew. Henry had called, crowing, certain Id leave. Arthur admitted: *»Hearing his gloating, I wished to die. I drove you awayto the bottle. What could I say?»*
Ten years on, weve two granddaughters. Over coffee, Arthur takes my hand:
*»Nell, dont look away. Im your happinessbelieve me?»*
*»Always, my love. *»Always, my love.»* I squeezed his hand, the lines on his face softer now, the ghosts of our storms weathered into silence. The kettle whistled in the kitchen, and Olivers girls laughed in the garden, their voices light as dandelion fluff on the breeze. Outside, the bus passed the stop where Henry once waited, a memory fading like chalk in rain. Arthur smiled, tired but true, and I knewno grand passion, no escape, just this: the quiet, stubborn warmth of a love that refused to die.
