Let’s be clear: I did nothing wrong. Barbara had a history of bad depression. Very trying, but I was ever there for her. I couldn’t pull her through but I stayed at her side. You can only get out of the dark tunnel by yourself, girl, I told her. But I’m outside it, ready to offer you my strong arms when you make it into the light. And get this: it was years ago when I left her. Can we be clear about that? It seems she carried on dwelling in gloom. Just listen now: don’t blame me!
‘Your face is unreadable,’ she said, ‘but I see trustfulness.’ Trust was an issue with her. Difficulties with her father. A rat, a philanderer. She claimed I broke that trust when I moved out. What can I say? I am not a philanderer.
There were signs of depression early on, but I was sure we’d overcome it. After our second child, Jake, the blues vanished. ‘We’ve come through,’ I told her. But when both Louisa and Jake started school, they returned, like a grey fog eating into her. I thought of a distant lighthouse swathed in mist, permanent darkness within. I edged round her carefully, leaving her to her inner turmoil. I couldn’t do any more. She had to want to get better. And it seemed to me she didn’t.
There were years of this. It wasn’t easy for me. Then, just by chance, I bumped into Margaret who I’d been at school with. We were boyfriend and girlfriend at fourteen, made each other laugh, with plenty of good times till we drifted apart. Too many other things going on in adolescence to appreciate what we had.
We fell in love, quickly actually. The sense of a lead weight inside my chest disappeared. I was alive! Margaret’s a positive woman, see. ‘We going to be together for ever,’ she said. ‘You deserve some happiness. No more sacrificing yourself.’ I admit it, a feeling of relief came. No more days and weeks the colour of gloom.
My departure made Barbara bitter and the children angry. It’s twenty years on now from being chained to Barbara. Louisa and Jake have grown up but still want no contact with me. ‘Betrayal’, they mutter. Louisa positively spits venom at the sound of my name. It’s pure hate.
Barbara called me names – ‘Hypocrite! Selfish!’ – as I shut the door for good. Margaret dismissed that: ‘she’s jealous’. In the divorce proceedings I was a touch nifty with my financial declarations, Barbara scrupulously honest. Margaret and I now live in a lovely detached house on a very pleasant estate. Barbara rented, not having enough from the settlement to buy. I understand her accommodation was damp and chilly. Them’s the breaks.
I’m good. That’s all I’ve got to say. You’ll get no more from me. The funeral? No, of course I won’t be going. Would you…! Listen, I’m sick and tired of defending myself. Just piss off, would you!’
