WHEN A FORCE MEETS AN IMMOVABLE OBJECT
My dear auntwho well call Dorothyfound herself briskly swept down the aisle for reasons other than swooning love. Her older sisters fussed, her parents huffed, and before she could protest, her singlehood was under siege.
Their logic was, frankly, as unbreakable as the Tower of London:
“You can gallop all you like, Dot, but it ends with a bridle. Or do you plan to sit here til your plait turns white and become an old spinster? No bachelorettes in this family! Wholl bring you a cup of tea when you’re feeble?”
Dorothy, having watched her own father marinate himself in whisky nightly, had, even as a pigtailed girl, solemnly vowed: never would she marry. Her plan was to conquer the worldnot a washing-up bowl. But on her 28th birthday, after she was clubbed by enough well-meaning advice, Dorothy caved. Shed set up a family.
Enter Harry, the would-be groom, who, by all accounts, had been marinated, tenderised, and left overnight in the familys matchmaking plans. After just a fortnight of tepid chit-chat, he proposed. Dorothy shrugged, mumbled, Alright, suppose so, and privately thought, “Maybe I’ll fall in love by the time Im fifty.”
Harry was, as they say, a man of solid vintage and extremely unyielding habits. The wedding was quick and, honestly, not worth the price of confetti. The master of ceremonies toasted, Love brings you to the altar, lack of it sends you home to Mother!
Dorothy, in time, would wholeheartedly agree with that pithy bit of folk wisdom. Daily life soon became a grand exercise in endurance. Within a month, Dorothy wanted out. Nothing sparked joy. Disillusionment parked itself in her heart and refused to move. Her husband? Obstinate, dull, and unbending to a fault. But then again, Dorothy was much the same. If ever there was a match doomed to stalemate, here it was.
A year on, a long-legged stork delivered a son, Charlie. Dorothy channelled her energy into motherhood, barely noticing Harry, who she now parked nightly on a camp bed as subtle revengeIm too tired, Harry, and youre just useless.
That summer, Dorothy and Charlie repaired to her parents village. Tearful and dramatic, she confessed to her mother,
Mum, I want a divorce. Ill raise Charlie on my own. Marriage just isnt for me. Some days, I want to close my eyes and slide out on a tobogganI just cant fit into this family life.
Her mother replied,
“Stay with us a while, darling. Maybe youll miss the old bore. Dont you dare get divorced. Put up and carry on! Husband and wife are like flour and water: stir them up, and whats done cant be undone.”
Dorothy, truth be told, expected nothing else. But what was there to endure for? Charlie would grow to see the lack of love between his parents, to absorb their miserywhat lesson was she teaching him about family? Her own mother had spent her life in patient suffering. Her father, permanently soused, rarely left the divan or stopped moaning. Mum was up before dawn, milking cows, boiling slop for pigs, wrestling weeds and digging potatoes. And then still found time for work at the farm co-op. Only during the bleak English winterafter seeing to the livestock, lighting the fire, feeding the family, stuffing the rabbitscould she snatch a minutes rest. Rural toil emptied hope faster than a leaky kettle.
All three daughters had fled to the city, longing for the urban luxury of indoor plumbing. Only their brother, Dorothys sibling, remained at home, quite unable to look after himself. Dorothy never understood, with her alcoholic father, why her mother had risked a fourth child. The response was always breezily British:
“Your father wanted a sonhad his fill of girls!”
Her parents doted on the youngest until their last days. The brother joined them not long after they passed, aged sixty, having not lifted a finger to care for himself.
After mulling it over and not wishing to upset her mother, Dorothy returned to Harry. Two years later, she was surprised with a second son, George. She secretly hoped baby number two might tidy up their marriage. She was, of course, bitterly mistaken. Harry completely ignored George; apparently, the child was the spitting image of Dorothys inebriate grandfather.
Dorothy swallowed the insultshe never regretted her two sons, but resolved, All my love goes to my boys. Harry can whistle for his share. So that was life
As Charlie and George grew into cheeky teenagers, the trouble began: drinking, smoking, and appalling manners. To make matters worse, father and sons forged an alliance against Dorothy, who, bless her heart, had wanted nice, obedient lads. Fat chance.
Harry began knocking back drinks with his boys. The family was falling apart before Dorothys weary eyes, and she was powerless to stop it.
Finally, her patience wrung dry, Dorothy packed up for her now-aged parents house.
They, of course, took her in. Her mother, ever the sweet bruiser, remarked,
Dorothy, dear, you look older than me! Blame men, those devils
Dorothy scolded her mum for pampering her brother:
“Why do you dote on him like hes a helpless baby? Be firm or hell climb up and never come down!”
Her mother would defend him to the last:
“Dont be ridiculous, Dorothy! Your brothers not too bright, but hes blood, aint he? Familys family, love!”
Shed never liked her brother much, though she knew it wasnt really his faulthow could a bright child possibly have resulted from a pickled old man? She and her sisters had escaped their father before things worsened.
A year later, George turned up in the village: Dad was deaddrank himself to oblivion.
Dorothy didnt shed a tear; she just exhaled,
“Knew it was coming. We plan for a nice long life and end up with the short end of the stick. Well, let Harry rest in peace
Back in the city, after some time with her grown-up sons, Dorothy bought herself a snug little cottage in the outskirtswanting at least a hint of tranquillity in old age. Charlie and George stayed on in the old family flat.
Charlie married, produced a grandsonand, in fine tradition, got divorced within a year.
George came to live with Dorothy after a spectacular brotherly brawl left him black-eyed and homeless. Why? Well, George had taken up regular boozing, an enterprise Charlie had zero tolerance for, resulting in George being thrown out. Back to Mums he went.
Life trundled on
Charlie remarried, then five years later found himself single againhis wife scarpered. He summed it up simply:
Married like Bambi on icefell flat on my face.
Wife number three? There was love, there was passionand then she died suddenly at forty, blood clot. Tragedy never needs a doorbell. Charlie mourned, then declared,
“Enough of this marriage merry-go-round. Im done. Bachelorhood for me.”
Now Dorothy comes round to clean Charlies place, make him a roast beef Sunday lunch, keep him mostly in one piece.
George? George remains single, drinks whatevers available, sometimes vanishes without warning. Then Dorothy, sprightly at 75, hurries about the neighbourhood with his photo:
“Anyone seen my boy?”
The neighbours know the drill. After a month or two, George turns up, none the worse for wear. Dorothy scrubs him down, polishes his tattered shoes, chucks the underpantstoo far gone. Any questions about his whereabouts are met with incoherent mumbling. But seeing him alive is enough.
Everyone but Dorothy knows George is kept in check by an extraordinary lady who can drink liqueur and ladys drinks more powerfully than most men. She always welcomed George for their intoxicating affair; until another man turned up and sent George back to his mum for a spell.
Dorothy supports him on her pension, despite his utter uselessness at holding down a job. Every time George gets a pay packet, he evaporates, along with the cash. Three days later, he turns up
Feed me, Mum!
Dorothy often thinks of her mother, endlessly running after her hapless brother. Only now does she honestly understand the pain that comes with love for ones child. It was all happening again. Blood is bloodyou cant scrub family out.
Well, there isnt enough happiness to go round for everyone
Looking back over her long and winding road, Dorothy realised their hasty wedding was barely worth the price of a wedding hymn.
