Something Happened at the Circus

My husband has become a grumpy old fart. He hasn’t spoken nicely to me for a long time. Getting older affects people like that sometimes.

‘The broccoli is cold,’ he says tonight.

‘So whose fault is that? I gave you a ten minute dinner warning but you plodded in half an hour later.’

‘That’s what microwaves are for. So you can finish what you were doing. You can’t just stop painting mid-stroke, you know.’

To remind him that I always have dinner on the table at six on the dot - as he demands - would be a waste of breath. For the same reason I don’t bother explaining that heating up the broccoli with the rest of the meal would’ve overcooked it.

‘You’ve got to drive me home from the eye doc tomorrow,’ he mumbles into the broccoli.

I hate driving to town. Too many potential hazards. Sheep crossing the road, tourists going at snail pace then speeding up without warning, kids behind the wheel who believe they’re infallible, long distance drivers who lumber past recklessly. But the doctor’s drops which will make his eyes temporarily blurry, so I’ll have to do as our youngest grandchild would say, and just ‘suck it up.’

Next morning he puts on his favourite blue and red checked shirt, with the frayed collar.

‘A smarter shirt for town, maybe?’ I suggest.

‘I’m not a bloody film star.’

He’d rather lose his life than this shirt, I reckon.

When we get to town we fill in time with a cuppa and cake, but (according to his lordship) the tea is lukewarm, the cake is too sweet, and the chopped nuts stick in his teeth.

We get through the eye appointment - he is surprisingly polite to the eye specialist, maybe because she is young and pretty - then back into the car for the long trip home.

Argue, whinge, whine, carp, criticise, complain, grumble, until I slide to a stop, just avoiding a ditch on the side of the road.

‘Get out,’ I yell.

He sits there, sullen but startled.

‘Have you lost your marbles?’ he asks.

‘No, but you lost your manners not long after we got married. I can’t drive safely with you being so horrible to me. Get out!’

He doesn’t, of course. So I do. I attempt to flag down cars, and the third one stops. It’s that nice young man from our village bakery.

‘Our car broke down,’ I explain, to my surprise. ‘Could you give us a lift please?’

My husband is - perhaps for the first time in his life - unable to think of a response, and after I assure the boy that no, we wouldn’t dream of him wasting his time trying to fix our car, that our sons will see to it in due course, we squeeze into his car. Once home, I nip out as fast as I can and lock myself in the bathroom, where I flamboyantly throttle a person the mirror doesn’t see.

Husband dear husband hammers on the bathroom door. ‘What are you doing in there?’

‘The usual.’

‘Well I want to use the toilet.’

‘Use the guest room bathroom then.’

He stomps off, his left leg dragging a little, as usual, and I listen to his footsteps disappearing.

Is it wrong to wish that he himself would disappear?

It’s not that he’s a bad man. He’s never raised a finger to me, he’s always looked after the boys and me financially, and even puts the garbage out without being reminded. (I’m not being facetious - apparently many women have arguments with their beloved about the garbage.)

If he did disappear (I mean go on a long fishing trip, or something, I don’t mean die) would I miss him? The days would be peaceful, free. I could eat whenever I wanted, and whatever I wanted. I could even eat cold broccoli if it suited me. Put honey and chocolate sprinkles on it, if that took my fancy.

‘Make us a cup o’ tea, will you?’ his harsh voice calls out.

‘Make it yourself. I’m busy. You know where everything is,’ I shout back, although that last point is debatable. Since we got married, apart from taking out the garbage, he has perfected the arts of not knowing where things are, and not knowing how to do anything even vaguely domestic in nature.

Now, to my amazement, he’s crashing around in the kitchen, presumably making tea.

I phone our youngest son and ask him to pick up the car. ‘Rattly noises,’ I tell him, vaguely, and I’m shocked how easily I’ve taken up lying. Then, ‘Dad’s going on a fishing trip tomorrow, can I stay in your spare room for a week, darling?’

‘Sure, Mum, great!’ he says, his voice buoyant. I pack a bag.

Both sons appear an hour later, one driving our car, and I carry out my case. ‘The kids have got a tummy bug,’ says my newly discovered inner liar to hubby, ‘so I’m going to help out. See you in a few days.’ I settle myself into my youngest son’s car and I’m gone. Just like that.

He’s a good listener, this son, and I relate the last couple of days to him. He chuckles from time to time. Then my other son, in the back seat, gives a snorty laugh and says, ‘So the worm turned, huh?’

‘You’re calling your mother a worm?’

My daughter-in-law settles me in. She is a delight. And she understands. Much more than I tell her this evening.

‘Tell you what,’ she says, grinning, ‘every time he rings up wanting to know where the bread is, or how to use the microwave, I’ll say you’re busy. You’re giving the cat a manicure. Or you’re on a pub crawl. Or you’re shearing the Border Collies.’

My granddaughter has been following the conversation. ‘Or preparing for a space mission!’

Oh this week is so relaxing, being surrounded by people who are affectionate, and not annoying.

Six days later I ask to be driven home. My daughter-in-law and I arrive at 7 p.m. but our car isn’t there.

My young neighbour hears our doors slam and bounces out to tell me, ‘I think he said he was going to the circus.’

‘The circus?’ I say, astonished, because he hates circuses. ‘He’s joined up?’

Half an hour later he gets back. In the kitchen he gruffly tells me to ‘take a load off and I’ll make you a cup o’ tea.’

Stunned into silence, I sit at the table, and he brings out from behind his back a huge red velvet heart, sequinned and garish.

Good heavens!

‘Went to get something nice for you, had a bit of a shoot at the circus, could’ve got you a cuddly toy, but I wanted to get you this.’

‘I’ve been a bit of a pain, haven’t I?’ he adds.

‘A grumpy old fart’, I agree.

‘Missed you, old thing,’ he says, pushing the red heart into my hands. ‘Sorry.’