Husbands

by Adele Parks

  ‘Well…’ Amelie stutters to a stop before she starts, clearly she’s unsure what to say.

  I take a deep breath and tell my story. ‘Stevie was my first love. He moved into our village when I was sixteen. He was like a glistening light in my humdrum existence. Unlike most of the other girls I’d never fancied the local boys I went to school with. Our village was so small that everyone knew each other since the day we were born so they had the familiarity of brothers. On the day I went into fifth form my only thought was which subjects I should take.’

  Amelie, who is terrifically academic, is shocked into interrupting me. ‘You hadn’t chosen your subjects even though it was the beginning of term?’

  ‘No. Amelie, I’m not like you or Ben. I don’t have a particular talent or vocation. I never did. I was waiting to see which teacher was assigned to each subject then I’d choose according to who was the easiest about wearing make-up and who would set the least homework. But then Stevie Jones arrived at the school gate and all I could think of was how to get near him. I found out he was planning on taking literature, politics, music and history so I followed suit.’

  ‘The work of the feminist movement has been so worthwhile,’ murmurs Amelie.

  ‘I didn’t think it mattered, although, all these years later I can’t help but think that I’d have done better if I’d picked geography and sociology instead of politics and music,’ I admit. ‘Anyway, aren’t we getting off the point here?’ Amelie nods tightly. ‘Stevie was the talk of the school. He was a year older than everyone else because he’d had a year out, travelling around South America. Age sixteen. Can you imagine the cred that gave him? He’d travelled with relatives – cousins – and he seemed so sophisticated compared to the other boys. So knowledgeable. He was dark and moody and brooding. All the girls fancied him and all the boys wanted to be him. Three girls asked him out on the first day of term.’

  ‘Not backward in coming forward at your school,’ observes Amelie.

  ‘We lived in a small town, you had to make your own entertainment,’ I say. ‘Luckily, he lived very near me and at the end of the day we found ourselves walking home together. It was a lovely early-September afternoon. Bright skies, leaves just turning to gold, there was a low sun glowing and throwing long shadows. We ambled along and I can still smell the sweet, wild grass and the hedgerow.’

  It’s a unique meteorological memory because, more often than not, the walk home from school was bleak and gloomy at best, or demanded an athletic feat of running while being stung mercilessly by lacerating rains.

  ‘You know something, Amelie? Since Stevie I’ve had countless romantic evenings with a varied cross section of the male population. I’ve been courted, flattered, pursued, call it what you will, in the finest restaurants, on boats, beaches and even in front of two of the seven wonders of the modern world.’

  ‘Really, which ones?’ Amelie can’t help her inquisitive mind.

  ‘The Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco and the Eurotunnel.’

  ‘Is the Eurotunnel really classed as one of the seven wonders of the modern world? How marvellous.’

  I stare at her and hope she can sense my exasperation. Our conversations habitually ebb and flow. Often, on leaving Amelie’s house I think, ‘Oh, I never told her…’ or, ‘I never finished the story about…’ Today, I’m not in the mood for chit chat.

  ‘Yes, I read about it on a website. Do you want the full account of those intrigues?’ I snap, barely disguising my impatience.

  Amelie considers for a moment. ‘No, stick to your story. Keep the bridge and tunnel stories for another time.’

  ‘I was just saying, nothing has ever been as romantic as that walk home with Stevie.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Except for Philip’s proposal,’ prompts Amelie.

  ‘Not really,’ I admit, refusing to comfort her with a lie. ‘It turned out that Stevie wasn’t dark, moody and brooding, just boyishly shy, but so clever and funny when you got chatting to him. He walked right past his house to mine, because he didn’t want to leave me, and then I walked him back to his, and then—’

  ‘He walked you back to yours.’

  ‘Yes.’ I grin, despite the seriousness of my situation. It’s a wonderful, innocent memory. ‘We did this from four o’clock until seven, when my dad got home and told me to stop messing around and come inside for tea. And then, in front of my dad and everything, Stevie kissed my cheek.’

  ‘That seems to be his signature move,’ observes Amelie.

  I glare at her. ‘So that was it. We were an item. He came in, had some tea with my dad and brothers and then we played Connect 4. I thrashed him,’ I add proudly.

  Until that night our house had existed in a bleak silence, punctuated by clocks ticking, coals sizzling and settling on the living-room fire and the occasional angry or drunken outburst. I think back to the cold, grey landscapes and seascapes of my childhood and fail to see their famed beauty but think of them as eerie and depressing. Stevie warmed the room with his irreverent chatter, even my father liked him and answered his questions about fishing with more patience than I’d ever enjoyed. Stevie was a sunrise on the horizon after a long, dark night. I thought he was the answer. To every question.

  ‘We were inseparable all of fifth and sixth form. We were so in love, the way only teenagers can be. We studied together, read poetry, he sang and played his guitar. It seemed obvious that we would go to university together. I’d always thought Stevie would take me away from it all. His otherness was the main reason I was attracted to him. I waited until Stevie had made his choices, then I applied for the same unis. We ended up at Aberdeen, a great university, but even then I was a little disappointed that we weren’t going somewhere further afield.’

  ‘Where did he originate from, this knight in shining armour?’

  ‘Blackpool.’

  ‘Blackpool?’ asks Amelie with understandable incredulity.

  ‘I had only left Scotland twice in my life, both times on school trips, one to the Lake District, the other to Whitby. Blackpool seemed exotic.’ I blush at my naivety. Was there ever such an innocent?

  ‘Didn’t your father object to you going away together? Most parents encourage their children to try pastures new.’

  ‘He never got involved in my private life.’ Or any other part of it. ‘I think he was just pleased that I was going away to study, not staying to kick my heels in the village.’

  I’m glossing. I don’t think Amelie would understand if I told her my father was glad to see the back of me and couldn’t have cared less what I did with myself, as long as I didn’t hang around him, being unlucky. He once muttered that a university education would do me no good, ‘Being a lassie an’ all, nae point.’ And he told Stevie that he’d be better off getting a trade, ‘Stick in at the skill, laddie, else ye’ll end up wi’ the rest of them, measuring the length of yer spit on the street corner.’ I wonder what he’d say if he knew Stevie had stuck to his skill and was now a fully bona fide Elvis impersonator. I think my father was recommending a life as a fisherman or a roof tiler.

  ‘Maybe it would have been different if Mum had still been with us.’ I battle to keep the self-pity out of my voice.

  Where do I start in explaining to Amelie? I bet if she was playing word association the word ‘childhood’ would provoke carefree responses such as ‘summertime’, ‘TV’ or ‘pick ’n’ mix sweets’. I’d say ‘misery’, ‘fear’, ‘guilt’. My father thought confectionery, central heating and even smiling were indulgences we could do without. He believed that a north-eastern Scottish life was one in which hardship was inescapable, almost preferred. He liked firm chairs, cold winds and winter, but his biggest peculiarity was his distrust of me.

  My father was a commercial fisherman. They’re a superstitious lot. It goes back for centuries, and maybe it is understandable given that, before the advent of sophisticated navigational and fish-finding electronics, catching fish
was in part good luck. It never hurts to hedge your bets.

  The superstitions my father believed in and abided by were unending. Superstitions dictated what we wore, ate and said. It was considered bad luck to end a boat’s name with a vowel, to paint a boat blue, to leave port on a Friday, to have a minister on your boat, to whistle on your boat. Rabbits were considered unlucky, as were pigs, salmon and women – especially women. I imagine this deep-seated distrust of women could be traced back to the myth of sirens luring boats to their doom or maybe it was just vicious misogyny. We weren’t allowed near the boats and there were rules about how and when a woman should wash, do her household chores, bake and even brush her hair.

  Having sired four sons my father considered himself especially fortuitous, but the day I was born he lost a man overboard. He blamed me. He didn’t think of blaming the lousy weather and the high seas.

  Victorian, isn’t it? Laughable, really.

  As a small child I was desperate to fish with my father and my brothers. Their lives seemed exciting and vigorous. Besides, nothing at all happened in Kirkspey except fishing and I didn’t want to be left out. One day, I clambered aboard and tried to hide. I thought I’d stow away until we were at sea, then I’d reveal myself and join the boys with their on-board chores. A completely childish fantasy, of course, which was brought to an abrupt halt when I was discovered even before they set sail. Unfortunately that day my father slipped and broke his leg. Again I was blamed.

  Proof positive that I was the devil in a skirt came when he caught me combing my hair when my brothers were at sea. He yelled at me, saying I was a curse, did I want to see them all ruined? My mum died that night; for a time he even had me believing in my ability to cause disaster. ‘Nae whip cuts sae deep as the lash of guilt.’ This superstitious claptrap seems total nonsense to me now as I’m sat in Amelie’s clean, warm kitchen. I can’t possibly explain it to her.

  I’m not required to, because Amelie asks, ‘What did Stevie’s parents think?’

  ‘They were divorced. He hadn’t seen his dad for years. He lived with his mum, who liked me. She was pleased we were going away together. She had this old-fashioned and inaccurate idea that I would keep him out of trouble.’

  ‘When did you marry?’

  ‘I was nineteen.’

  ‘So young.’

  ‘I loved that. I loved the idea that we had so much time stretched out in front of us. I was sure we’d last forever.’ I pause and think about a time when I believed in forever. It almost hurts. ‘We were so in love, it seemed like the obvious thing to do, which seems madness now. Funny how hindsight can completely alter perspective. The decision to marry was spur of the moment. We went to a registry office, still hungover from a wild party the night before. We pulled witnesses off the street. And while Scotland isn’t the State of Nevada, we were both over eighteen so it wasn’t at all tricky to get married. It seemed romantic. A big adventure.’

  ‘What went wrong?’

  ‘The obvious. We were too young. We were almost instantly ashamed and afraid and we didn’t dare tell our parents or anyone what we’d done.’

  ‘You thought they’d be angry?’

  I didn’t think it was anybody else’s business. ‘Sort of. We’d cheated Stevie’s mum out of the chance to wear a hat. My dad would have been mildly disgruntled at missing out on a valid reason to have a drink although he’d have been relieved not to have had to pay for a bash.’ I shrug apologetically, I’m apologizing for my youthful mistake. ‘I thought marrying would make me feel independent but it didn’t. I just felt daft. We knew everyone would dismiss our hasty ceremony as a silly, irresponsible joke because… well, it was, wasn’t it? We kept silent because we didn’t want to be told what we already knew.’

  Amelie dashes to a cupboard, locates the biscuit barrel and then sits down again. She offers me a chocolate digestive; normally I’m partial but I shake my head. Amelie eats the biscuit in just two bites and then starts on another.

  ‘Things were fine while we were at university. In a way we relished our wee secret. In halls of residence, we had no real responsibilities. We were two big kids playing house, playing grown-ups. The reality didn’t hit until we graduated. We moved to Edinburgh and found it expensive. We had no money and no jobs and when we finally got jobs, crap ones, still had no money because we were paying rent.’

  As I tell the story of this time in my life, the warmth drains out of my fingers and toes. I was always cold in our draughty flat. Cold and anxious. It wasn’t different enough from Kirkspey.

  ‘Stevie kept saying he wanted to be a musician but there weren’t many opportunities in Edinburgh. Everyone said we needed to move south or even abroad. But Stevie didn’t want to. He thought his talent would be revealed while he hummed and served chips in McDonald’s. I started to hate him for that. It seemed so infantile, believing that one day someone would shout, “Hey, you with the salt shaker! I’ve been waiting to discover you.” But things turned from dreadful to dire when he gave up on his dreams of entertaining with his own songs and style and fell into the Elvis tribute thing.’

  ‘Fell into?’

  ‘He’d done the Elvis gigs since he was a kid. His mother used to trail him round working men’s clubs. I’ve seen the photos; you wouldn’t believe it, Amelie. What sort of mother dresses her ten-year-old up in blue flares and gets him to perform to a room full of boozy strangers?’

  ‘Did he hate it?’ she asks with concern.

  ‘No, he loved it.’

  ‘Well, if he loved it his mother wasn’t being cruel, was she?’ I find Amelie’s reasonableness infuriating.

  ‘But what a seed of a dream to sow. A useless, tatty dream. Couldn’t she have encouraged his talent in another direction?’

  ‘She was probably doing her best.’

  ‘Yes,’ I nod but I’m distraught at the memory. I never understood. ‘When money got tight in Edinburgh, he got this crazy idea that he could start doing the circuit again. He was actually very good, more’s the pity. We spent night after night in squalid dives; Stevie in fancy dress, belting out someone else’s tunes. I couldn’t see myself spending the rest of my life trailing around filthy pubs.’ I sigh.

  ‘Your loathing of Elvis impersonators makes more sense now,’ says Amelie.

  ‘But, then, my career prospects weren’t much better. I had no idea what I wanted to do with myself and so I sat in our dingy flat, getting depressed. I wanted to move away but felt trapped by the marriage. Then some people started to ask if we were going to get married; we couldn’t find a way to tell them that we already were. Other people, more perceptive people, started to ask why we were still together, when we clearly had different agendas now. It was impossible to explain ourselves to anyone. Our juicy secret became a sword hanging over us.’

  I wish I smoked. This would be a good point to light a cigarette. Except that I hate the habit in others and have never dreamt of it for myself. Instead I take a swig of the whisky-coffee.

  ‘It wasn’t long before the bickering set in. Then we progressed to full-scale rows. We nosedived from love’s young dream to a ghoulish nightmare with indecent haste. So I left.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Just like that.’

  ‘Why didn’t you get divorced?’

  ‘We never got round to it.’

  ‘You never—’ Amelie is too incredulous to complete the sentence. ‘How could you be so nonchalant? So irresponsible? People marry young, mistakes are made. Choosing who you want to spend the rest of your life with is a tricky one, lots of people get it wrong first time. But you should have got divorced.’

  I nod. I’ve always known what I should have done, but doing the right thing is often hard. I’d wanted to pretend the whole thing had never happened.

  ‘What the hell made you accept Philip’s proposal? Why didn’t you say something then?’ she demands.

  This is possibly the hardest question she could have asked. I gather my courage. ‘He asked m
e minutes after I’d heard that Ben was dead. Before I’d even had time to tell him Ben was dead. I was scared. You must—’

  I daren’t finish my sentence. She must understand that. She must realize that I wanted to cling to life and that nothing seemed especially real or clear-cut, except that I loved Philip and he’d asked me to marry him. I wanted to feel safe and so I said yes.

  It wasn’t just the ISAs and the DIY that made me feel safe. It was something else. It was something I find difficult to put into words. Maybe something to do with his flat. Specifically, the thick creamy carpets, which were deeper and more luxurious than anything I’d ever come across. Or the large number of photographs in silver frames that showed Philip knew countless beautiful people who seemed devoted to having a great life. At least, that’s what the numerous photos of friends and family said to me. Even the oldies in his pictures looked impossibly glamorous. Grandmas with silver bobs, black trouser suits and chic diamonds. Not a curler or saggy stocking in sight.

  I was reassured by the enormous vases of fat, creamy lilies sitting on tables in the dining room and hall and on the shelf in the bathroom. I’ve always adored fat, creamy lilies, which seem to me the epitome of comfortable living. Somehow, waxy lilies embody summer, they smell sexy and expensive. We had dozens of lilies at our wedding even though everyone complained about the danger of the orange pollen staining their clothes. I ignored them. I wanted my wedding to smell of summer and wealth and sex. And security.

  I hardly dare to look at Amelie. I wonder if she is going to be hurt or understanding.

  ‘Are you blaming this on Ben?’

  ‘No, no, Amelie you mustn’t think that,’ I say. I force myself to meet her eye so she can see I’m genuine. ‘I loved Ben. I’d never try to use your tragedy as an excuse for my mess. It is because I loved Ben that I wasn’t thinking clearly.’