My Husband

Living with my husband is akin to living with a whole household of characters. As I’ve mentioned, Chris is twenty years my senior. I have always maintained that this is just as well - because I couldn’t keep up with him if we were the same age.

Chris is fond of saying (he’s fond of many sayings, as you’ll hear) “We have a chronological age and a biological age.” This is generally his justification for being 64 and behaving like a teenager, or even a toddler.

And good for him. He explained to me when we first came to Petworth that he was making the most of his older years: “I’m old enough now to get away with all sorts of things, and too old to change if people don’t like it.” A brilliant excuse for doing exactly as he pleases!

And for years I cringed in my nice, well behaved, well brought up mind, as he talked to everyone, flirted with beautiful girls and told outrageous stories to all that would listen. 

Then in a moment of clarity I realised that no one was taking offence and that I was the only one worrying over any possible repercussions. I accepted that Chris is my husband but I’m not responsible for his behaviour. So I decided to go along for the ride and just enjoy him, as everyone else did. 

At least I try.

Groucho Marks once said: “Don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story.” That’s Chris. His over exaggeration is legendary, accompanied always by fluidly expressive face pulling,  the most extraordinary sound effects and a stream of ‘Chrisisms’.

“I swear to Rudy” - taken from Bill Crosby and used to emphasise every ‘true’ story.

“Plannin’s not doin” - this one is courtesy of Pa Walton and is wheeled out a lot when talking to his teenage son.

“To assume makes an ass out of u and me” - borrowed from an inspirational boss.

“It’s all a ghastly nightmare!” This is accompanied by heavy banging on the table with both fists and whirring noises as he mimes cutlery flying. It’s from a Billy Connolly story - a source of many of Chris’s favourite sayings.

“Will you let me finish!” Said frequently as I interrupt his monologues. I’m going to put this on his headstone: “Will you let me finish...” on the front, then on the back: “Oh, you did.”

I confess to being almost pathologically obsessed with ensuring Chris’s stories are factual.   Something I am not proud of and a habit which interrupts Chris’s flow every time. Imagine:

Chris: “So we were in Montana in November” (me: “October”) and there must have been 200 horses (me: “50”) and the Crow Indian Chief Harold (me: “Henry”)...

You get the picture. I seem driven to correct him every time. I think it’s a woman thing and also a wife thing. Whatever it is, it’s bloody annoying and that’s just my feelings on the subject. 

My husband is one of life’s performers, a tour de force who does as he pleases and is happy to take the consequences. In Petworth you’ll see him striding round town wearing his Stetson hat and talking to everyone he meets. Not for him any thought of intruding or offending. We’re here to relate to each other and that is what he does.

He has no concern for how he may be perceived by others. He is who he is and completely unapologetic about it. And so he should be. At 45 I feel like a younger sibling trailing in the wake of my older, more confident brother, marvelling at his bravery and his impressive cheek.

For all I am a thinker, Chris puts me to shame by just doing it. He reacts to what he finds - offering help, giving his opinion, dealing practically with a crisis - where many of us would pause long enough to talk ourselves out of contributing.

So whilst I often berate him gently for his outrageous behaviour and larger than life persona - still being the fearful ‘good girl’ at heart - I admire him. He is a good man, not afraid to stand up and be counted.

And as he so often says (accompanied by big eyes and a lopsided grin) “You wouldn’t have me any other way”.

And he’s right. 

A Mother Apart

I am a mother living apart from my child. My son is in his twenty fourth year - not so unusual then. But I have lived apart from my son for ten years.

How does that happen? What takes place that is so traumatic as to lead to a mother giving up her son?

Not so much a trauma, at least not of the earth shattering, instantaneous kind. More the sort that creeps up, inveigles - layer upon layer of life, weighing me down, rubbing me out.

I was twenty when I fell pregnant. What an odd expression, as if a careless trip could find me with child. Well I not so much fell as jumped. My future husband thought it a good idea, for reasons best left unsaid. And I said "Why not?", which was my answer to most questions, and which has gotten me into a lot of trouble over the years.

Half way through my degree, I saw nothing strange in pausing to start a family. I had nothing to lose - no job, no house, no money - a perfect time to become a mother. And it was perfect. As our son grew up, my husband took on the role of carer, combining it with his painting. I went out to work and became the breadwinner. Unusual then but it worked for us.

I realise now that I’ve been overcompensating for my absence since  Max was young. My career as a fashion buyer took me away from home for six months of the year and the remainder was spent working long hours. I tried to cram all my mothering into the free time I had and made up the deficit with long-distance phone calls and presents from abroad.

By the time Max was 14, I was divorced, unemployed, recovering from depression, up to my eyes in debt and wondering if life was worth continuing. If you’re a parent I’m sure you can imagine the guilt. I’d put Max through so much and felt I’d let him down badly as a mother.

Living in Edinburgh with no prospect of work (believe me I tried), I took a job in London. How could I take Max with me? What did I have to offer? I had nowhere to live, the prospect of a new job working long hours. In Edinburgh he had a family home, an ever present father, friends, a familiar school. The choice seemed obvious.

So I travelled home every weekend, determined that my son wouldn’t accuse me of not being there. And I tortured myself with guilt while he grew up and we grew apart.

By the time we moved to Petworth I had a home to offer Max, but it wasn’t his home, wasn’t his family. It was too late. We continued our long distance relationship, intense and co-dependent, each of us trying to compensate for the distance between us. Oh I know we love each other and that we have an indelible connection - we both know that. 

But now we have no contact - his choice, and one that I respect. What else can I do? I practice “letting go with love” day in day out, with not a day going by that I don’t wish it had been different.

I fully accept that I made my choices. I understand that every action has a consequence, no more, no less. I try to manage the crippling guilt that has dogged me for the last decade, and I live as a mother apart from her child.

I am honest about my situation. I tell those who ask (however mortifying) that we are not in touch. What else can I do? This is who I am. However successful I may have been in my career, whatever adventures I have enjoyed, I did not put my son first. I wasn’t capable of it - whatever the reasons.

And so I try to be a decent person now, knowing that I cannot change the past, I can only learn from it. Once a mother, always a mother.