Meanwhile, despite generous links with my two daughters. I
now think as one again, finding myself on a lonely promontory leading into an
unwelcoming ocean. Occasionally I'm able to add a few paragraphs to my
long-lived novel and there's my weekly 90-minute singing lesson, but mostly
it's trivial drudgery: work so banal it deadens my mind.
My neighbours greet me with sympathy and I'm grateful for
that. On one occasion I had a long and eminently profound discussion with a
recently widowed dog walker whose husband had died recently. I tried to thrust
from my mind any consideration as to which of us had experienced the more
preferable conclusion.
But this post is about thinking as one or two. I realise
some couples live lives that are independent of their partner. Typically, there
are no conversational links between couples who separately take up, say,
gardening and golf. But I was lucky: both VR and I were avid readers, often of
difficult books. Our palates hardly differed. We enjoyed the same composers and
loved spending time in countries where English was not the first language. The
fact we were born nearly three hundred miles apart added just enough spice to
this marital sameness.
In certain instances thinking as two only occurs after some
hard work. I come from a male-dominated family, VR the reverse. That meant I
was ill-equipped to behave in fatherly fashion towards our two daughters. Once
I even smacked the elder daughter – then very young - on her thigh for arriving
home late in the evening. I know! Unforgivable! In my defence I can only cite
the intense stress her absence had created. VR would have been more
understanding.
Whereas… VR came from a family where cars were unknown and I
was able to provide some guidance relating to this arcane skill, especially
important in the US.
Each member of a married couple may well be able to fill in
blanks ($5-dollar equivalent: lacunae) in the other’s upbringing.
When I shopped for myself I was open to temptation; shopping
for my wife I stuck to the written list.
In choosing a new shirt I used to ask: would VR approve of this gaudy
plaid on me? I was aware of VR’s antipathies (eg, Michael Howerd, leader of the
Conservative Party in the early oughties) and quickly changed TV channels
whenever his simpering face appeared. Red/white wine? I’m even Stephen; VR
prefers red and I always made adjustments when studying the carte des vins.
It was as if a portion of my consciousness had been swapped
for a portion of VR’s thinking machine and vice versa. My imported portion was
always active. Even when I couldn’t sleep while VR gently snored, I restrained
myself from turning on the bedside light.
There was more, lots more. Often more subtle, often
counter-intuitive. Now, at midnight, alone in a four-bedroom house, I turn on a
movie I know VR would have hated... and the sense of betrayal is inescapable.
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