Once, A Glimpse

Get away. Hard to find a reason to stay here now. The present is about to become the past. I don’t know why I think that. I can just feel it. There’s nothing there to engage me now. He sits in his chair and stares at the tv screen. He doesn’t even eat the same meals as me now. I am, to all intents and purposes, his housekeeper.

I don’t remember why I started speaking. I did, though. I decided to make my voice heard. I decided to let him know what I was thinking, after forty-odd years of marriage. I decided to rock the boat. He doesn’t like it when I speak. He goes quiet. It’s almost sulking, but I haven’t done anything wrong. Nothing he doesn’t do himself, when he tells me what he’s thinking, when he walks all over me, tells me I’m stupid. Not even in words, in tone of voice. So I’ve started speaking. I’ve started telling him what I think, raising my voice to be heard over his.

Fast-track operation. The doctor promised it. Fast-track, because he’s so ill. That was years ago now, and he’s no worse. He can’t get any better, because there was nothing wrong with him. When he tells the tale, each time his problem becomes worse. Heart by-pass becomes triple heart by-pass becomes quadruple heart by-pass. If he had any more chambers in his heart, he’d make use of them. Fast-track operation indeed. I wasn’t there when he went to see the doctor, when the doctor allegedly made this diagnosis. I’m never there when he goes to see the doctor, so of course he can say what he likes about what the good doctor says.

Slow exertion, over-ridden by phantom exhaustion. Each step is painful for him. It’s his condition. Conveniently there when he doesn’t want to do something. Miraculously cleared when he’s on one of his missions.

Unseen, tough to catch what the symptoms really are. Hard to understand what it is the doctor sees when he gets back the test results. All those angiograms, all those blood tests. I wonder, sometimes, exactly what is in those tablets. He’s so sensitive, and that’s a blessing for him. So sensitive he has to take the smallest dose, breaking those tiny tablets up, because if he takes too much, then he gets the side-effects. He always has high blood pressure when he goes to see the doctor. The doctor gave him a blood pressure monitor to bring home once. His blood pressure was normal, so he bought his own. His blood pressure was normal, so he said it was faulty. His blood pressure was normal because there’s nothing wrong with him.

I can’t remember why I started drinking. It was just the odd, small glass of Bailey’s before bedtime. One Christmas. Our youngest had been home. She likes Bailey’s, so I’d bought a bottle in. Turns out it isn’t Bailey’s she likes any more. It’s vodka. So most of the bottle got left. I kept it next to my bed. I started drinking it in a small tumbler, but gradually I couldn’t be bothered, and I’ve taken to drinking a nip straight from the bottle every now and then. It helps. In a small way, it helps.

One track mind each and every time, he runs over the stories in his head on a loop. If you stop him he has to go back to the beginning. It used to be that if you stopped him, he waited until you had said what you needed to say to him, and then he would take up the tale precisely where he had left off. Not now, though. Now it’s right back to the beginning and everything all over again.

Smooth insertion of a needle would be all it took, then country living for me. I wish. I wish I had the means. Where would I get anything to inject into that hateful old body? His life assurance came through last year. It was a tiny amount, and there are no savings. His pension is pathetic, what with all the chopping and changing of jobs. How would I gain from that? How would I gain enough to go and live somewhere quiet, away from this suburban prison that he made my home when he married me and brought me down from the Saddleworth hills?

Engage and then entrust. I don’t know what I mean by that. I could engage someone, I suppose. I could find someone to bump him off for me. Take out some life assurance on him, then work out a way to get someone to get rid of him for me. Somehow. I’d have to trust them. Maybe I could let them in on a cut of the money. But money makes you greedy, and how could I be sure that they wouldn’t ask for more? Wouldn’t ask for all of it?

I can’t remember why I started hurting.

Another street light going down, and that means another moan from the armchair, about how the council never does what it’s paid to do. What is our council tax for anyway? He’s right, in a way, but why does he have to go on about it so much to me?

The night reveals itself to you when everyone else has gone to sleep and you’ve had one nip too many from the Bailey’s. It’s a dark place, the night. Especially when the street lights aren’t working. Especially when your husband is enough to drive you to thoughts of murder.

Slipping under, sliding down, all I need is a certain trigger. Whatever path I take will never make me happy. But all I need is a certain spur.

Once, a glimpse was all I needed. Flowers in the back garden. A photograph of one of the grandkids. Just a glimpse, and everything would seem okay again. Everything would go back into perspective. But not even the flowers in my garden can cheer me up now.

I can’t remember why I had to give you back. Maybe it was because you didn’t really want me. You just pretended. You were happy to have that flat, happy to meet me there, but the instant I said that I would leave him, that I wanted you to leave her, you wanted to cool it. You wanted to wait until my ardour had cooled.

I just remember that I kept all of your souvenirs, hidden away, salvaged traces of a love I never had. I got rid of them, though. Eventually. I gave you back completely. That’s why, last time I saw you, and you slipped me your phone number and asked me to call, that’s why I never did.

Enforced and then enabled. I don’t need you any more. He’s not what I want, but you’re not what I need. I’m finding my own way now.

I don’t remember why I started breathing again, but I did. I’d held my breath for so long. Until the kids left school, until the youngest left university, until you wanted me. Always holding my breath, always waiting. Then I started breathing again. And that’s when I started speaking again. You can’t speak if you have no breath. You can’t breath if there’s nothing to say.

Tied up for too long, if I turn him loose there will be no end to it. If I go, I mean. If I turn him loose on the children. They’ll have to bear the brunt. Or maybe they won’t. After all, their slow desertion kept me hidden for years until there weren’t any of them left at home, and gradually they stopped ringing for a chat, and calling round for a visit, leaving me with him, in full view.

So, that’s that, there’s no escaping. I can’t remember why I started thinking that there was a way to escape. Wrapped up in so many plans, cutting back on this and that to save up enough to run. Make my get away.

Their inertia, their inability and lack of desire to do anything left me driven. Just a glimpse was all I needed to decide that I could get away from this. Just a glimpse of the life other people had. And I still can’t remember why I had to give you back. I just remember that I kept all of your souvenirs, all those salvaged traces of a love I never had. Gone, now. All of them. Pointless hanging onto them.

I wish that I could say I don’t need you anymore. I heard every word you said and that is all.

I don’t think you’re going to get that early night.

© J R Hargreaves 2006 (after Maximo Park 2005)