by Mary Hayward
I waited patiently for him, and held his hand. I didn’t know what to believe. He appeared so upset, and the tears were real enough. It must have been a difficult time for him, leaving his own family home, and moving in with me in a small terraced council house.
It was the following day when Mike had left for work. I knew it would happen. It was Rod. He simply turned up at my house. He asked who it was. He sensed that I had made a decision. He was bewildered, he didn’t understand why, with all that he could offer he wasn’t good enough for me, as if I would have all the choices in the world, why would I pick someone like Mike. Just a college lecturer; how could I do that?
I told him I was sorry, he was a lovely man, but I couldn’t help my feelings. I had chosen love above everything else. He didn’t take it well, but he conceded that it was my choice and we parted on a friendly basis. It was the best I could do. For the first time in my life I sensed joy and happiness all at once with Mike, and nothing was getting in the way of that. I could tell he loved me every bit as much as I loved him. Every time we passed each other he would hold me close, and peck me on the side of my neck just as tenderly as when we made love just a few days ago. It didn’t matter if we were in a restaurant, or supermarket, the affection was always there. I absolutely loved and needed it, and Rod, as nice as he was, couldn’t give of himself in that way.
For the first time in my life, given my early struggles, the hardship and the begging for food on tick, I surprised myself. Money didn’t seem to matter anymore. What did matter was the strength of character, being able to go the distance; plans we made were seen through to the end and if I was ill Mike would be there for me through thick and thin. These were the important things. I needed someone who was my rock, and Mike had that. Rod would look after me too, but he would send a nurse or doctor, Mike would give of himself and be there to hold my hand and comfort me in person; I would feel his love.
Over the coming weeks, events unfolded in an unexpected way. Lindsay enjoyed talking to Mike, and she seemed to take to his way, although, not surprisingly, she jealously guarded her right to be close to me. Nuzzling between us, she insisted on holding my hand rather than his. I kept pushing Mike to get close to Lindsay, but he said it would be better for her to come to him, in her own time. Perhaps I was too anxious, and kept insisting Mike play with Lindsay.
Eventually he sat me down and we had a long talk about the best strategy for Lindsay. I was not convinced his way was right, but I agreed to give it a few months, during which time Mike said he would just give her space.
Mike’s mother Eva refused to speak to him. It was his worst nightmare, to be cut off from his parents. His father, Charles, came to see us. He said he didn’t want to be cut off from Mike, but he also told us that Eva was very upset.
Charles was a seventy-something, quiet, well-spoken man—short like Mike, well dressed, with thinning dark hair that framed his tanned balding crown. Fit for his age, he had a soft kindly face.
I asked Charles if Mike’s wife, Joan, was close to Eva.
“No,” he said, “quite the opposite. They never have had much in common, but Eva feels strongly that it is against her religion.” He looked up at me, seemingly puzzled at his own words.
Mike said, “It was more a pride, than God.” I didn’t know the truth of it, but it gutted Mike because he had always been close to his parents.
“It’s the price I have to pay,” Mike said, “to have my freedom, and be with the one I love.”
It was such a comfort to me to hear him say that to his dad. I felt it best to leave Mike and Charles alone to talk. It was the least I could have done.
Two hours later, as Charles went to leave, he warmly shook my hand. I felt he was pleased for us both.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I won’t be cut off from my son, but you must understand that it is difficult for me. Eva is adamant that she won’t speak to you both, and there is little I can do.” He turned and left.
Mike and I watched as he drove away. I pulled Mike towards me, flung my arms around him, and we stood hugging in the hall.
I wasn’t sure about what was happening about Mike, and his wife. Perhaps it was the insecurity in me, but I wanted to find out if what he told me was true. We had a discussion about it, because Mike kept insisting on phoning his wife once a week to make sure she was all right. He was still paying all the bills for her, and I guess I was terribly insecure. Mike got upset with me.
“All right,” he said,” I’ll invite Joan round so that she can tell you herself.”
I was astounded when she came into the house, and stood in my living room. Mike asked her the question.
“Yes,” she said, “I didn’t think it would ever happen, and I tried to forget it. Hope that it would all blow over. We had a number of upsetting discussions. Mike said he would rather live on his own than live without love.” She looked directly at me. Mike sidled over towards me and firmly held my hand. It was such a strong signal to me, and I felt the warmth of his devotion. I was standing opposite his wife, and he was holding my hand. It made me love him all the more.
Joan moved to the sofa.
“Mike was unhappy because I didn’t love him as much as I should,” Joan said. “It’s just the way I am.”
She was so sincere, bowing to the inevitable in a rational way, but at the same time I could see a sadness in her face.
“I think it would be best if we get a divorce,” he said, “on the grounds of my adultery.”
“I wonder Joan,” I said, “if you would like me to leave you both alone to talk?”
“It’s okay Mary, we’ve talked about this before. You can stay, really, I don’t mind.”
“So Joan, will you agree to a divorce?” Mike said.
“Yes... What about the custody of the children?”
“No problem,” he spoke softly. “They can stay with you, and I don’t want anything from the house. I’ll give you three years to sort your life out before we sell it.”
I was shocked. Joan smiled.
I think she was relieved he had promised to give her three years. I got the impression she had taken advice from neighbours, and friends. She told him she had changed the locks and was prepared for a bitter dispute.
Mike took the wind completely out of her sails in a single statement. Joan went away after a cup of tea, looking happy and confident, but I was left with the feeling of insecurity once more.
He ordered the divorce papers from the clerk of the court, filled them in and sent them off together with the £40 fee.
It was May, 1989, when Mike’s divorce came through. Rushing up the stairs, he bounded into the bedroom. I was sitting at the dressing table at the time.
“Let’s get married!”
I flashed a glance in the mirror. As he came up to me, he flung his arms around my waist and gave me an affectionate peck on the cheek. I held his hand and spun round on the stool.
“I’m not sure I’m ready,” I said.
He looked crestfallen. “I have to keep introducing you as my partner, or girlfriend, and at my age it is continually awkward. I would much rather introduce you as my wife, Mary.” He bent down to me and held my hand.
“I’m sorry, I know, but I still feel uncertain about the future.”
I didn’t know why I said that. Sometimes understanding my own feelings seemed a mystery even to me. I wanted desperately to become a family unit, but at the same time my journey though life had been so badly scorched, that I needed more time.
It was nine months after we had got together. We were having a drink in the garden of The Woodman pub. The sun was shining and it was a lovely birthday. Mike was forty-three.
“Do you think that we should get married?” I said.
“Not bothered now,” he said. “I’ve got used to having a partner.” Leaning backward, he picked up his drink.
“Oh,” I felt myself swallow. It was the last thing I expected.
This wasn’t in my dream, being turned down. I
felt such a fool.
“It’s okay now, I quite like being single!”
As his bright eyes twinkled with smugness, I felt myself get angry.
“I’m not sure I want to settle down.” He took another laid-back swig of beer.
“Well,” I leaned forward, and raised my voice. “Perhaps you’d like to move out then—I don’t take lodgers anymore, if that’s the way you feel.”
He leaned forward and put down his drink as if to whisper. His cheeks widened, and he took my hand.
“We’d better get married then,” he whispered.
He was teasing me after all.
When we arrived home, Mike phoned the registry office. What date would we like?
Mum, Jane and her husband Jack were going off to their time-share in Spain, and so it was the perfect time to get married. Mike chose Saturday, 11th November 1989.
We broke the news to six-year old Lindsay. She was delighted, and asked if she could be a bridesmaid.
“What, wear a dress?” I asked.
She never wore a dress.
“Yes,” she squeaked, “pretty please.”
“What, a proper dress?” I knew she never wore a dress.
“A proper bridesmaid’s dress. A pink one.” She looked seriously at me.
“Okay,” I said, “you certainly can.”
I took her out to a shop that afternoon, bought her a nice pink dress, little headdress, and a posy of flowers to hold. To finish off I found her some matching pink shoes. She appeared a picture with her long golden hair curling at her shoulders. A little princess for the day!
Using the sewing machine, and a pattern, Mike made me a cobalt pinstriped blue suit. It fitted me perfectly. I phoned all our friends.
Mike took me to the jewellers in Waltham Abbey, and bought me a lovely diamond and emerald engagement ring. He said he wanted to match my eyes. We ordered two wedding bands; my one had ‘Mike’ engraved around the outside, and his ‘Mary’. Everything was set for the date.
It was Armistice Day 1989, and the wedding was booked for 11:30 a.m. at Broxbourne Registry Office. All our friends were waiting; there were no other relatives but Colin, now eighteen, and Lindsay aged six. It was to be our day, shared with only friends.
Colin arrived in a smart grey suit and blue tie.
“What about carnations?”
“I thought we’d wear poppies,” he said. “It marks an end to the struggles with Billy.”
Mike’s idea, and I laughed so much.
Our friends came to see our happiness, and we took them back to The Vine, for a buffet and drinks to celebrate the end of a lovely day and the start of a new life. This time there were no doubts, no regrets, no nagging worries. Instead, there was a degree of certainty, so complete I was sure it only came but once in a lifetime.
Decision made, checklist completed, we bought the council house I rented. Mike introduced me to a lot of things. One, was the setting up of a three-year plan, which proved to be such a guiding force in planning the future. Lindsay was part of the plan, and her getting to know and love Mike, was also part of that plan. “She will come when she is ready,” Mike always used to say.
We would be in a shop, and the assistant would say, “Is that your Mum and Dad?” and she would say, “No, that’s my Mum and that’s the man that lives with us.”
Children: so honest.
For the first year Lindsay called him Mike, then one day we were in a restaurant, owned by the parents of Paolo, one of Mike’s college students. He waited on us.
“Hello Mike,” he said, “is that your daughter?”
“Yes,” Mike said.
Nothing was said about the incident until we returned home, when Lindsay raised the issue.
She went straight up to Mike. He was sitting on the sofa in the living room.
“Mike, you know when we were in the restaurant?” She glanced up at him.
“Yes.” He turned towards her as she stood in front of him.
She looked down, fiddled with the hair band in her ponytail, and glanced over at me.
“Well, why didn’t you say I was your stepdaughter?” Her eyes stared up at him wondering what he was going to say.
“Does it matter?” .
“No,” she said. “Would you mind if I called you Dad?”
“No,” Mike said, “that would be lovely.” He stretched out to her and scooped her up in his arms. They cuddled for a moment, before Mike spoke to her tenderly.
“You are my favourite daughter,” he said.
Lindsay flung her arms tightly around his neck and kissed him on the cheek.
I choked up and I felt a lump in my throat, and for a moment I didn’t know what to say. It was as if my dream had come true at last.
It sealed the family unit, and confirmed that Mike was right all along. By allowing Lindsay the time, she had made her own decision. From then on Lindsay called Mike Dad, although it would cause some pain from Billy.
Lovely as she was, and Lindsay was angelic with her thick light brown hair, dark brown eyes, and full lips, she had some issues left over from Billy that needed correcting. It’s natural that children suffer during divorce, but sometimes it causes difficulties in families reformed with new partners, and ours was no exception.
It was Christmas and we went into a bookshop to pick a book for her. She was told she could pick any book. She wanted two and I said why don’t we just buy both of them, but Mike wouldn’t hear of it.
“She must learn to make choices,” he said.
Mike gave her five pounds, knowing it would only be enough for one book. She scampered back into the shop. I stood outside with Mike, and we watched her.
I complained to Mike. I thought he was being cruel.
“No,” he said, “she has learned bad habits, refusing to choose and take responsibility for her choices.”
It wasn’t about being mean, it was about learning.
“Watch.” He was confident.
Lindsay came out beaming, after picking Fireside Poems, by Roald Dahl. She didn’t stamp her feet or throw a tantrum, she got what she wanted, and learned to make a choice. Mike didn’t say she couldn’t have the books she wanted, he empowered her to make the choice.
Mike demonstrated that change for Lindsay didn’t have to be confrontational.
She needed to learn how to take control and make decisions. When she threw a tantrum in the supermarket because he hadn’t bought what she wanted, he simply left the trolley full of shopping in the store, and came home empty handed. He didn’t scold her or complain to her, she simply learned there was a price to pay for her behaviour.
Seeing that she wasn’t singled out, and that we all shared in the price to pay, made the lesson so powerful.
It wasn’t all discipline. Mike organised a panto for Lindsay and we would go to the theatre.
Puss in Boots, Jack and the Beanstalk, and shows like Rolf Harris. She enjoyed singing in the choir. Billy was musical, and being a pianist himself, Mike thought she might like to learn to play the piano. He organised private piano lessons for her at the nearby school.
We set aside Sunday as a family day, so that we all had time together, away from other distractions at home. Walking in Whitewebs Park, feeding the ducks, throwing pooh sticks in the river, we would lunch in the little cafe by the golf course.
Such an experienced, and intelligent approach just made me love him all the more.
Billy came to the house to pick up Lindsay for the weekend. He was shouting on the doorstep. Mike had left me to deal with him until now, but not any more. He strolled right up to six-foot Billy, pointed his finger at him, and told him to be quiet. Then he proceeded to tell Billy what the arrangements were going to be from now on regarding Lindsay.
I was amazed to see Billy so cowered down. Mike was in command, and much of the mind games with Billy were eliminated.
I began to learn about choice.
Mike suggested that, instead of earning my living as a secretary, why di
dn’t I think about taking up teaching because I was so good with people?
I laughed, but he was serious, and soon he had persuaded me to start an evening class in teaching practise.
Learning I found a challenge. My childhood had left me fragmented, but Mike helped me to overcome some of the practical issues that threw me, until I was able to gain the confidence for myself. Soon I was teaching at Enfield College, twenty hours a week.
Frightening, yes—I was terrified, yet I learned so much. It wasn’t until students thanked me for my skill and patience that I realised I was good at it. It was as if I had been transformed from a moth to a butterfly. Students took to me, and I found working with people enjoyable and rewarding. It appeared that giving was an important need in me.
I was enrolled for my Cert Ed for the coming September, until, that is, I started to get pains in my groin. On examination, my doctor diagnosed cysts on the ovaries. He later confirmed this with ultrasound, and Mr Harlow booked me for a hysterectomy operation.
The surgery went fine, or so I thought. I returned home to a thirst that wasn’t normal. I called my doctor. They said I was okay—I just needed time. I spoke to the surgeon at the hospital. “No,” he said, “it does sound like you have a problem.” My kidneys were backed up with urine caused by a blocked urethra.
Suddenly I was worried beyond belief, and the prospect of more surgery to remove a kidney put my mind in a spin.
They put a drain tube through my back directly into the kidney. The theory was that this would allow the urethra to uncoil. They checked the progress with an IVP Intravenous Pelogram, injecting a dye and then doing an X-ray that left me with blinding headaches. I hated them, but I had no choice.
Mike was building a new bathroom in the house, studying for a Masters Degree at University in the evening, working full time at the college. It couldn’t have come at a worse time. Yet he was my rock.
Mike could visit the hospital any day, except Wednesday—his evening class. He asked Mum to babysit the one evening he couldn’t visit and she agreed. All was fine, until Wednesday. She left him a note to say Jane had a cold and she was travelling to Redditch where she lived.
