There's a temptation to imagine that
marriages that end in suicide end poetically and tragically.
Declarations of love in a tear-stained note, a last painful look at
the sleeping children, and then the lonely construction of a noose
and a gallows.
I can tell you, when you are looking at
a swinging belly in a liverpool jersey, the smell of shit, and the
realisation that now there is only you left to deal with this – It
is not poetic tragedy. It was not a surprise. He had painted a
picture. He thought I would put this together, and fall to my knees,
one hand clamped over my mouth, a silent wail – the whole thing.
I stood for a second, and called him a
fucking eejit. And do you know – I was relieved. I've heard people
say 'my life is over. I was relieved that mine was. Fucking
Liverpool, GAA, Debt, traberdine tiles, no work, small towns, endless
commutes, sweaty pints, rants, apologies.
When I was nineteen, I went to
Australia on my own. I bought a giant boat of a clapped-out Ford
Falcon with a scottish girl I met in a hostel, and we burned up the
east coast, her driving, me with my long brown legs out the passenger
window.
I met Paul in Australia. I liked him
because he was tall, and he was good looking – before pints and
chipper put paid to that. When we got back, he bought a house.
Hundred and ten percent mortgage. He borrowed more from the credit
union to do it up. New kitchen, bathroom and extension.
Then it turned out I couldn't have
kids. Paul kept doing up the house. He bought a jeep. Then the work
stopped. I kept my job – they'll always need nurses, although they
won't pay them well – but Paul sat at home.
He didn't cook, he didn't clean. He
took obsessions – we had a home gym. A built in barbecue, cycling,
golf. All of them with costs – “These will pay for themselves”,
he used to say. I was so anxious to keep him active I never
mentioned the costs. I took more and more shifts.
Paul had never been happy. When we were
young, I mistook this for stoic silence, and a silent, ancient
country solidity. It was the opposite. He was pathetic, a man
struggling with an illness as banal and fatal as cancer.
Why couldn't he have talked to anyone
about it? That's one I hear a lot – It's also untrue. He talked all
the time about it. Lying on the couch – 'maybe I'd be better off
dead'. When the bills came – 'I can't take this'. Long, long angry
rants about how he couldn't do this anymore. He made it my fault. I
hadn't stopped him buying the house, I hadn't kept an eye on the
money. Why wasn't I making an effort.
Would he do anything constructive?
Would he fuck. It's hard to love someone so self-obsessed. It's hard
to get dressed, put on lipstick, and go out for a night with someone
who is so intent on not treating what's making him miserable.
I stood there for about two minutes –
it might have been an hour, but I don't want to be dramatic. I called
the guards, and made a cup of tea. I function well under pressure,
and i'm not squeamish. There were jobs to be done. I heard a Garda
whisper 'cold bitch' to her colleague about me.
I don't think i'm a bad person. I
didn't do anything. I married a man who caught a disease, that turned
out to kill him. The disease took me, too – It took my life while
it was there. It won't kill me, though.
People look at me like i'm a tragic
widow. I'm going to be the girl with the long brown legs again.
