But I never loved my husband.
How long were you together?
How long Well, lets see, we married in seventy-one.
And what do you mean you didnt love him?
Two women, only vaguely acquainted, sat on a wooden bench near a headstone beneath an old oak. Theyd each come to tend different graves and, by chance, found themselves talking beneath the grey English sky.
Husband? the one in the grey beret nodded gently towards the faded photograph fixed to the granite.
Husband. Its been a year now I cant get used to it; the ache just wont subside. So I come here. I loved him dearly, the woman in the black scarf clutched the ends tight, as if holding on to some invisible comfort.
They let the silence settle for a long moment. Then, quietly, the visitor sighed and said:
I never loved my husband, truth be told.
The other woman turned, curiosity piqued.
But how long were you married?
What was it We married seventy-one, so do the sums.
And you really didnt love him, all those years?
Oh, I married out of spite. There was a lad I fancied, but he started seeing my friend, so I decided Ill wed before they get the chance. Then there was Clive shy as a hedgehog. He had a thing for me, always hanging about, so thats that.
And so?
Honestly! Nearly legged it from my own wedding. The whole village was celebrating and I was crying. My youth, I thought, was finished. Every time I looked at Clive scrawny, short, thinning hair already, ears sticking out, his suit fit him like a sack on a scarecrow. Smiling at me, all silly and happy, eyes never leaving my face I thought, fool, its your own fault.
What happened after?
Oh, we moved in with his parents to start. They doted on me, wiped my shoes clean, his mother always making sure I was taken care of. I was full of life then, thick plait, bright eyes, strong figure everyone could see we were ill-matched.
Mornings Id find my boots scrubbed clean it was Clives mums doing. And still, Id boss everyone, even shout at her occasionally. But it stemmed from self-pity. I didnt love him, after all. Is it any wonder things didnt go smoothly? Who would take to a daughter-in-law like me?
So Clive suggested, quietly as ever, Lets move up north, find work, have a place of our own. And me, I just wanted to go anywhere head full of dreams.
At that time, they were recruiting for new projects in the North new developments, jobs. Clive managed to get us a spot in the group, so off we went first to Manchester, then even further north.
Women and men travelled separately then I was in a carriage full of women, Clive in another. He, poor lad, was left without food Id taken all we had in my bag, and there was no way between carriages.
I barely cared made friends right off, laughter, sharing everything, even the pies his mother baked for the journey I gave away to the girls.
At the next station, Clive came running, asking for food I felt guilty. Told him it was all gone, but he only smiled and said, No worries. Were well supplied in our carriage everyone shares. Im full up.
He dashed away, but I saw through it he was too reserved, never took anything from others, just wanted to put me at ease. But by then, Id already forgotten him again.
When we arrived, we were put up in a barracks-style hotel thirty-five women in one room, men separate, until they could give us couples our own rooms. But honestly, I hardly cared. When Clive came near, Id turn my nose, act busy the others even told me off, Hes your husband, you know.
Hed wait outside the window, hoping Id look out. Damp Yorkshire air seeping in, but I wouldnt budge.
I decided Id divorce him. Wed been married two years, no children yet, and love still hadnt showed up. Although, a few nights I pitied him and stayed over in his quarters.
Then along came Graham tall, dark, with a roguish curl of hair. We worked hard up there, I was with the concrete crew, yet we lived well: good food, Czech lager, oranges, and sausages wed never tasted at home. Concerts, dances at the barracks club just for us.
My mates knew Graham was handsome. But he picked me.
I was head-over-heels utter madness.
Clive would try to reason with me, plead, but I was swept away by love.
Im divorcing you, I told him.
Theyd just given us a small room of our own. Paper-thin walls, but still. I didnt go home that night.
Clive, though, was always nearby. Id walk with Graham and feel Clives eyes behind me. But my head was spinning with passion.
The woman in the black scarf listened, transfixed.
How did he bear it?
He bore it because he loved me. Then Graham took up with Cathy, a bookkeeper, and left me aside. When I said I was pregnant, he started bad-mouthing me in public claimed Id thrown myself at him, and my own husband was a weakling.
Kind people made sure Clive heard. The love he had for me mustve driven him mad, because he fought Graham behind the station one day. I didnt even know until someone told me Clive had been taken to hospital.
On the way there, I raged to Alex the driver What was he thinking, taking on Graham? Theyre nothing alike. Did he really think hed win? Alex said nothing, just frowned.
When I got to the hospital, I broke down. Clive was in bed, face blue with bruises, one leg in traction.
Why did you do it? I asked.
He only managed, For you!
And I oh, how sorry I felt for myself then. Pregnant women were sent away from the site children werent welcome. So, Id have to travel home, explain in the village that the baby wasnt his People would talk, of course. Truth be told, I wasnt sure whose child it was Id been with Clive, too.
I visited Clive at hospital, brought food parcels not from love, just duty.
I remember when he finally got up on crutches, I came to see him. We stood by the window, him in old mans pyjamas, looking fragile with grief. Staring out, he said,
Dont divorce me, lets leave this place. The child will be mine, no one elses.
And me? Did I thank him? No.
Why should you bother? I snapped.
He said, Because I love you.
And all I said, Well, do as you wish.
Turned and walked away down the corridor, felt his eyes following me, hoping Id turn back. I didnt, though inside me butterflies danced at the thought I wouldnt have to return home that at least, raising a child together would be easier.
We moved to the East. Clive was quiet but they noticed him at work. Hed got a qualification in engineering, which came in handy; he became a foreman on some hydraulic rigs, travelled about, and always brought treats home, never keeping a bite for himself.
My wife, hed say, shes pregnant. All full of pride, while I just looked away. We got a small room in a house and I got a job as a records clerk.
At the hospital, I saw it was Grahams boy, black-haired. Clive never batted an eye, just looked at the lad, beaming, almost cried when he first held him.
Max was a heavy baby, always unwell, a troubled soul and, I believed, conceived in sin. He cried endlessly. Clive was worn down, too. Still, not one word of complaint.
A year later, I had Mary Clives daughter, named after his mum. By then, I realised how much Id hurt his parents, but his father was gone, and I wanted to do something for his mother.
As for Clive, I felt nothing by then. No love, no hatred. Two small children back-to-back you havent got time for anything except hoping for help. And Clive did everything: laundry, housework, letting me sleep.
Once, he tried to wash the clothes I barely snatched the basin off him. What would people think: the boss doing womens washing? And Clive only said,
The waters freezing. No use you falling ill. Let people say what they like.
I was angry so soft, behaving like a woman.
His unending love even began to irritate me.
Max, at thirteen, was in trouble with the police. I came to know the local youth officer, a good man, single, understood Max better than Clive ever could. Max would never listen to his father, always shoved him aside. Clive was gentle, never raised his voice or hand. I I would grab the belt sometimes. What else could I do with Max stealing from the shops? But Clive would snatch the belt away.
Clive was sent on a course. By then we were living in Newcastle, nice council house. They sent him to London, for training.
He said, Tell me not to go, and I wont. He could feel things werent right between us.
I just told him, Off you go.
He left with heavy heart. That police officer, Simon, was soon around: Leave your husband, get a divorce you dont love him.
And I
The woman fell quiet, brushed leaves off the little table.
And you? the other woman grew close, an unspoken trust forming.
The storytellers brow creased.
I thought long and hard Clive wrote me a letter; I still have it. No one knows but me. He wrote he understood hed ruined my life, because Id never loved him, only tolerated. He said, if I wanted him gone, I should write and hed never come back, but hed always send half his wages for the children, leave me everything, wish me happiness. Kind letter. No complaining or blame. Took all the pain for himself and left me only the chance to live and be happy.
Birch leaves fluttered down, golden on the warm October breeze. The woman in black dabbed her eyes with her scarf.
Why are you crying? the storyteller asked.
Oh remembering life always draws tears. Go on did you leave? To the policeman?
Oh! I didnt sleep for nights. Max was out of control, everything a mess. Kept turning that letter in my hands. There was an older woman at the factory, wed grown close. She told me, Youre a fool, Linda! A man like that should be treasured.
One morning I woke up and suddenly saw it what was I doing? That man had lived his life for me, and I
Thought back on it all. How hed always followed me, always there to help. Once, I ended up in hospital, a bad operation. They gave me little hope, really. Moved me to a bleak yellow ward, but there was Clive, lifting the spirits of staff, never leaving my side. He paid for a nurse and found all the medicine needed.
If it hadnt been for him
Another time, a mix-up with a parcel a storm hit, the helicopter dropped the post and supplies in the snow, so parcels got swapped. We realised at home it wasnt ours. Clive carried it through the blizzard to the next village, said, People were waiting for this. Came back with frostbitten cheeks, fell ill.
Thats when I realised I needed nobody but him.
Write a letter? After all those years of showing him I didnt care? After all that, could I even put my feelings into words?
I knew he meant to leave me, thought there was someone else.
Autumn crept in just like this, warm and restful. I sorted out the children, fixed things at work, and set off for the station. I was going to London to find him.
The train was slow, maddeningly slow. I longed to see him, kept picturing his dear, saving smile in my head. I loved everything about him now his receding hair, big ears, tummy, all of him.
At his digs, they told me he was at lectures, gave me directions. I rode the Underground, searching every face for his.
They wouldnt let me in, so I waited on the high steps, eyes scouring everyone. Almost missed him he came out with his class, looking every inch the man Id once scorned: cap, short coat, folder under his arm. I froze with love.
They passed by. He didnt notice. Only when they were halfway down the pavement did I call out.
He turned, stopped, staring as if he couldnt trust his eyes. We just stood there, leaves falling all around, looking at each other.
His friends stared, mystified. Then both of us, together, broke into a run his folder dropped, papers scattered, and we embraced, speechless.
What is there to say?
His mates laughed: Now thats love, eh? Been together a lifetime, look how meeting sets them off.
The listeners scarf was soaked through she blew her nose.
So you were in love till the end, then?
The end?
Isnt that his grave, there? she nodded to the tidy headstone.
Ah no. Thats our Max, our son. He died young. Didnt stay on the straight and narrow. Did time, too. We suffered, Clive and I. After, he drank and that was the end of it.
So your husbands alive? the woman brightened.
Yes, he is, thank heavens she made the sign of the cross We help our daughter now, you see, and hes come to collect me. We got talking. Do you need a lift?
No, Ill tend some more graves. Thank you.
A slightly rotund, kindly-looking man in a black jacket and cap came over. He had a round, genial face, friendly eyes. Greeted her with a big smile.
Worn out, Clive? Run off your feet? his wife brushed some dust from his shoulder.
He quickly gathered up all the tools from their sons grave, but his wife lifted the heavy rubbish bag herself, worrying for his back.
Hand in hand, they walked down the yellowed cemetery path, arm in arm past the headstones.
At the corner, the woman in the grey beret looked back and waved goodbye, Clive following with a wave of his own.
The other woman gazed at the portrait of her husband, thinking: happiness doesnt find us on its own; it lives only when we welcome it into our hearts.
And theres only one true happiness in life to love and be loved in return.
