In a rather sad social survey of over-fifties, third in their list of things they regretted (after ‘not seeing enough of the world’ and ‘not appreciating their parents enough’) came ‘choosing the wrong partner’.
Oh Lord – what an incredible number of unhappy middle-aged couples there must be. Divorce statistics among all married age-groups are falling – save one. There’s a marked increase in sixty-plussers deciding to ‘go it alone’ after half a lifetime or more together.
Now, you know and I know couples of a certain vintage whose degree of mutual affection has fallen below freezing point. They live in a state of armed truce, but have settled for a civilised accommodation with each other in order to preserve the facade of coupledom
We recognise the signs. In company, he is surly or silent, she, over-animated to compensate for his charmlessness.
Conversely, he’s flirting with the ladies while she looks away, frozen-faced and drinks too much. They are dangerous guests, their apprehensive hosts waiting for the verbal barbs to find their target. “What’s behind it?” we speculate. Thwarted ambition? Unfulfilled dreams? She, disappointed in his lack of enterprise? He, jealous of her success? Maybe he’s controlling and dictatorial, or she, despite his best efforts, is perpetually discontented. Whatever the reasons, instead of growing together, they have developed in different directions. They’ve stopped putting each other first, stopped paying little compliments, stopped trying to please, stopped consulting on important matters, stopped ‘giving’. One or other of them is tired of trying – for there is always one who puts in more effort. They are two strangers living in the same house, treading on eggshells around each other.
Children reared and off their hands, their roles as mum and dad played out, they find themselves alone together – as the song says, “Darby and Joan who used to be Jack and Jill,” and they look clearly for the first time in years into each other’s eyes and wonder where the person they married went. Mutual friends ponder, “Why on earth did they ever get married?” To which the only answer can be, “It seemed the right thing to do at the time.'' But time does terrible things to some people.
Neither church nor state can legislate for love or its lastingness. Its longevity depends upon the integrity and commitment of both partners. The best one can hope for is to enjoy the ‘better’ and endure the ‘worse’. Who knows what binds or loosens a couple? Success or failure, tragedy or triumph, rivalry or mutual support, illness or ill-temper, diametrically opposing views or sweet concordance – “Two minds with but a single thought, two hearts that beat as one,” as the poet put it, (though I suspect the poet was single.)
Coincidentally, within days of the first survey, another was published – a stupidly vapid list of ten things wives find most irritating about their husbands. Predictable stuff – like never hanging up clothes, leaving wet towels on the bathroom floor, little jobs half-completed, arguments over which television programme to watch – ‘Borgen’ or ‘Love Actually’. (Why don’t they just get a second telly and shout endearments to each other from neighbouring rooms during the advertising breaks?) I must confess the Loving Spouse would’ve scored alarmingly high on all these grounds.
Today I come home to a silent house looking exactly as I left it. What I’d give for a wet towel on the bathroom floor, a scatter of newspapers on the sofa, a screwdriver on the coffee-table and his shoes sprawled inside the front door. I don’t know the secret of a happy marriage – but I had one. Like all men, the Loving Spouse was far from perfect, but I was selfish, he was selfless. He was my guide and my guard. He minded me like a china doll.
Why did I marry him? It seemed like the right thing to do at the time – and thirty-four years on it was still right.
