I never loved my husband.
Never? How long were you together?
Well… Lets see, we got married in 71, so you can do the maths.
But hows that possiblenot to love your own husband?
We were sat side by side on a bench, close to a grave, two women who hardly knew each other. Wed been tending family graves and, winding up our work, we fell into conversation quite by accident.
Your husband? I nodded toward the mans photo on the headstone.
Yes, my Jim. Its been a year now… I cant get used to it. Miss him terribly. I loved him so much she tightened her black scarf around her neck.
A moments silence, then I sighed and said:
I never loved my husband.
She looked at me, curious:
How long did you stay together?
Well, as I said, we were wed in 71.
But how can you say you didnt love him, with all those years?
Out of spite, really. There was another lad I fancied, but he started seeing my friend instead. So I decided to marry first, just to beat them to it. Along came Rogersuch a polite, timid fellow. He was always hanging around, clearly fond of me. So, I went for it.
And…?
Oh, I nearly ran away right after the wedding! The whole village turned out, everyone celebrating, and I stood there in floods of tears. Thought my youth was over. And Roger poor soul, a scrawny little man with thinning hair and ears like jug handles, suit hung off him awkwardly, grinning with happiness, eyes never leaving me… Honestly, I wanted the ground to swallow me up. My own fault.
What happened after?
We moved in with his parents. They were gentle souls, doted on me as if I were royalty. I was sturdy in those days, fresh-faced, long plait, didnt look like we matched one bit. Rogers mother even made sure my shoes were cleaned every morningshed set Roger to it. Id sigh and boss everyone around, snap sometimes, mostly because I felt sorry for myself. After all, I didnt love him. Relations with the family just soured from there.
Then Roger suggested we go up north and earn a bit, make a life for ourselves away from his folks. I didnt care where; anything seemed better than stewing at home. It was the era when everyone was clamouring about moving for work. Roger wrangled us onto a work crew; first, we landed in Manchester, then off even further.
The journey up, they put men in one carriage, women in another. Roger had nothing to eat; I took no notice, too busy making friends, sharing out all the pies his mother packed for us. Figured Roger would find something. When we stopped at a station, he ran over asking for food; I was mortified. Told him it was all gone. He saw how bad I felt, so he simply said cheerfully, Well, thats alrighteveryones been sharing in our carriage too! Ive had plenty, and went back. I knew it wasnt true; Roger was never sociable, never asked for anything. He just said it so I wouldnt feel bad.
Our first weeks there, we got stuck in a huge dormitorythirty-odd women in one room, men elsewhere. I avoided Roger; always bustled about, made out like I was in a rush just to keep away. The girls sometimes scolded me, Hes your husband, you know. But I was set on divorcing. No kids after two years, no love, just pity. Now and again I slept at his place out of guilt, nothing more.
Then along came Gareth. Tall, dark hair, charming grin. Even though work was hard (I did concrete workimagine), we had a good time. Rations were generousthings like smoked sausage, tangerines, even Czech beer, none of which Id seen at home. Shows and dances at the workers club.
Gareth and I met through friends. He seemed to ignore everyone elsehe only had eyes for me. I fell hard. Roger pleaded with me not to leave, but I was head over heels.
Im divorcing you, I told him.
Around that time, we were given a little room. Thin walls and all that, but I didnt bother moving in.
Roger remained close by, always following. Id be out with Gareth and feel Roger somewhere nearby. But I didnt care. I was in love.
How did your Roger take it?
He endured. Because he loved me. In the end, Gareth took up with Kate, the bookkeeper, and dropped me. When I said I was expecting, Gareth humiliated me in front of everyone, saying Id latched onto him because my husband was weak.
Word got back to Roger. I think his love for me drained all the sense out of him, because he tried to pick a fight with Gareth behind the station. Didnt end well. Roger ended up in hospital. When I got there, he was battered and bruised, leg weighed down. I scolded him the whole waywhat was he thinking? Gareth could have crushed him.
At the hospital, he just said, It was for you.
I pitied myself then. With a child on the way, women in my situation were sent back home, and everyone back there would talkwhose child was it? I honestly didnt know myself. Thered been a night or two with Roger as well.
I visited the hospital out of a sense of duty, not love. Hed just started getting about on crutches when I visited one day. There he was, in hospital pyjamas, looking so old and worn out. Looking out the window he said, Dont divorce me. Lets move away. The child will be mine and only mine.
All I could say was, Why?
Because I love you, he said.
And I just replied, Do as you like, and walked away, feeling his eyes on my back. Oddly, in that moment, butterflies fluttered in my stomach. It meant I wouldnt have to go back home.
We moved to Norfolk. Roger was the quiet, gentle type, but at work, he got noticed. Hed done engineering at technical college; soon, he was leading a team, always out on jobs, and whenever he came home, hed bring treatscouldnt eat a morsel himself without bringing something for me.
My wifes expecting, hed tell everyone, proud as punch.
They gave us a flat. I worked as a records clerk.
When the baby was born, I could tell at oncehe was Gareths, all dark hair. But Roger was over the moon, fussed over the boy as if hed never been happier in his life.
Life wasnt easy. The boy, Oliver, was a difficult babyalways ill, always crying. Roger barely slept, but he never once complained. A year later, I had a girl with Rogernamed her Jane, after his mother. By then, the affection I felt had dulled to nothing. No love, no hate. With the children, life was non-stop, and I only cared that Roger pulled his weight. Which he did.
Once, he tried to do the washingnearly snatched the tub out of his hands, cross that a man in his position should be rinsing knickers. But he just shrugged: The waters freezing. Better I get ill than you. Bless him.
But his constant, patient love began to irritate me. And Oliver, from early teens, started getting into trouble. With the police. I got to know the officer, Simona good bloke, single, managed to reach Oliver in a way Roger never could. Roger, weak-willed, couldnt lay down the law, couldnt even raise his voice. Id reach for the belt now and thenwhat else could you do with a boy caught nicking from the shops? Roger would take the strap away every time.
Then Roger was sent away on a course. By then, wed moved to Newcastle, got a proper place. His lot wanted him in London for training.
If you tell me not to go, Ill stay, he said. He could sense how bad things were.
I just said, Go.
After he left, Simon, the copper, wasted no time: told me to leave Roger, said it straightYou dont love him. But I…
I started to think. Roger sent a letter. Ive still got it, never showed anyone. He wrote that hed understood hed made a mess of my life, since Id never loved him. Said if I wrote back to say I didnt need him, hed never return, but hed always support the children, would send half his pay, wished us happiness. No bitterness, no blame. He took all the pain himself, left me to live happily.
The autumn leaves scratched at the window. Id sit holding that letter, days ticking past. Simon wanted me to decide. I barely slept. There was a woman at work, a supervisor, a bit older, told me straight: Youre a fool, Lynne. Men like Roger should be carried on a velvet cushion.
One morning, I just woke up cold and empty, thinking, what on earth am I doing? All those years, that kind, patient man at my side, everything he did for our family.
Memories flooded back. The time I was rushed into hospital for surgery gone wrongthe doctors thought I wouldnt pull through, I could hear them whispering. When I came round in the ward, Roger was there, silent but determined, running around for medicine, fussing over me, even hiring help to care for me. If not for him, I wouldnt be here.
Or the time we opened the wrong parcel by mistakefood rations dropped off by helicopter in a blizzard. Realised too late, and Roger, stubborn as ever, trekked miles through snow to the next village to return it, ears frozen by the time he got back.
Thats when I knew: I needed him, and no one else.
But how could I write, after all these years of treating him so poorly, to say Id made a mistake?
By then, hed all but decided to leave. The autumn was just like thiswarm and golden. I sorted the children out and got on a train to London to bring him home. Train was painfully slow; every mile, I grew more impatient, desperate to see his face.
At the address hed left, they told me he was at college; pointed me in the right direction. Couldnt get inside so I waited. He came out amongst a group, looking grown, his flat cap at an angle, short coat, his notes under his armI almost didnt recognise him. Stood rooted, heart pounding. When he walked by, I finally called his name.
He stopped, surprised, stared in disbelief. We just stood looking at each other as the leaves skittered around. His mates tried to figure out what was going on. Then, all at once, we rushed at each other, his things spilling everywhere, and we embraced, unable to say a word.
His friends laughed, Now thats real love! You two must have been married forever.
She wiped her eyes with her scarf.
So, did you finally find love?
Find it? With him?
I mean, isnt that his grave?
Oh, no. Thats our Oliver. Lost him young, before he was forty, never did stay out of trouble. Did a stint inside, then took to drink…
So, your husbands alive?
Yes, thank God! He drove me out to sort things here, went on to run errands, helps our daughter these days.
Just then, Roger arrived, little rounder, now white-haired, in a black jacket and cloth cap. Still a lovely, gentle face. He gathered Olivers grave tools, but I snatched up the heavier rubbish, worried about his sore back, and carried it for him.
We walked home arm in arm, down the golden cemetery path. Before the bend, I looked back and waved at the woman in the grey beretRoger waved too.
She stayed by her husbands grave, lost in thought, staring at his photograph. And I, too, understood at last: happiness is not something that simply arrives. Real happiness only lives in your heart once you let it.
Theres really only one kind of happiness: to love, and to be loved.
I learnt, late in life, that kindness and devotion grow deeper than passion ever could. And Ill never take that gentle love for granted again.
