Monsters of Doubt

 “Oh no. George prefers red wine.”

“No, no, I'll try the white.”

“You never drink white wine!”

“Well I like to be able to change my mind.” George took the offered glass.

“You never drink white wine.” Marjorie huffed.

And it was true George never drank white wine, especially not the sweet white that the Abercrombies served. He disliked it intensely. He might be predictable, he might never change his habits but he wanted the freedom to do so if the fancy took him.

“No thank you,” he would say, if asked directly. “I prefer red wine, dry red wine,” he might add if there were any danger of Lambrusco.

“You made me look a fool,” Marjorie grumbled, “and you only do it to be cantankerous. You never drink white wine.”

“Why can't you let me speak for myself?”

“What difference does it make? Anyway you're getting deaf.”

“I am not and I am not an invalid. I don't need you to do everything for me.”

“You've always needed looking after. I don't know what you would do without me.”

George had that feeling again, as if the room were too small for all of them, too hot, too crowded and now, having rebelled against his wife, he had to sip this vile, sweet, white wine. He needed to go out and get some air but it would be a struggle to get up out of the armchair and what could he say? Where would he go?

It was an overcast December day shortly before Christmas, the air full of droplets, not rain exactly but water nevertheless that would soak you to the skin in five minutes. The Abercrombies had asked them over for pre-Christmas drinks. He should have refused. He knew what it would be like, but his wife had accepted and he had not been consulted. Of course they would have a drink with their friends and neighbours at Christmas. It was what they always did. They would invite the Abercrombies back before New Year, as they always did, every year.

George and Marjorie would have been married for forty years next April. They would celebrate of course, children, grandchildren, friends, neighbours. Forty years was a big celebration: ruby wedding, Marjorie would love that. People would congratulate them; they would receive presents,; people would stay, probably for several days. Marjorie would work hard because everything would need to be perfect. First of all there was the illusion of perfect cleanliness and tidiness to be maintained. He would not be allowed to throw his towel on the floor or leave his whiskers in the sink. He would have to put away his old anorak to make room for coats of the guests and would not be allowed to wear his comfy old slippers because he had dribbled porridge and tea on them. How had it got to this? Simple: George was lazy and Marjorie was not. George did not notice, did not see the way the wind was blowing until the debris had blocked his exit. Marjorie saw everything, predicted everything and was ready for anything.

They had met at work. He had been an engineer, she a secretary, pretty, lively, laughed a lot and didn't miss a thing. That had been useful. She could spot a manager from round a corner. When she became PA to the managing director, it had been even more useful. He started taking her out to get the lowdown which she gave freely, but only to him. That seemed to have made them a couple. Then they got married.

It had seemed inevitable at the time. George could not remember proposing, he supposed he must have. He could not remember ever saying, or even thinking, he was in love. His parents had been pleased. They liked Marjorie because they thought she was competent and of course she was; she turned out to be a good cook and an excellent home-maker. He never had to ask for clean underpants or an ironed shirt. They just materialised in his wardrobe.

Marjorie was a natural housewife, like a queen in her domain. The house sparkled, food was ready when he came home from work; there was always beer in the fridge, crisps in the cupboard, plenty of milk for his tea and a few biscuits to go with it. No wonder he had developed a paunch.

When they had guests, the men tended to talk to the men and the women to the women. There was no flirting, or if there was George did not notice. He realised he was no longer an attractive man but then he had never really noticed if he ever had been, and he was not much attracted to the wives of his friends. He knew Marjorie didn't like people poking around in her kitchen so he stayed at the table with the guests, keeping them talking, refusing offers of help and offering none himself.

He had appreciated her competence, considered himself lucky in the ordinary routine of life. There was the odd time though. If he wanted to do something unusual, book an unusual holiday or take up a strange hobby. Marjorie always dissuaded him, gently but firmly. She did not want mosaic shrapnel on her carpets or model glue on the table cloth. He could see the point. So he stuck to gardening. Marjorie liked the fresh veg.

Children had come along in due course: two boys, three years apart. Healthy and dim, sporty and trouble free. Like himself the boys tottered through life without complaint. They were Marjorie's responsibility when small, then suddenly they were grown up and working, then married. Then they came back with babies. Two dreary nonentities with plain, bossy wives and ugly babies.

In the last year George's manager had started asking if anyone wanted to retire early. The company was expecting a downturn in business as Britain came out of Europe and he wanted people to go voluntarily before he had to make anyone redundant. George was over sixty now and an obvious candidate.

It was while he was thinking about retirement that George became conscious of his life. He had woken up to the fact that the last thing on earth he wanted was to retire, to be at home all day long with Marjorie, to listen to her scratchy voice, to read the newspaper, watch television, to get away from her by mowing the lawn or disappearing to the pub, then at weekends to be visited by the sons he had no interest in and be annoyed by their charmless offspring.

But what could he do? He could not leave Marjorie; that was unthinkable. She had done everything around the home for him, he couldn't boil and egg or sew on a button. His clothes turned up washed, ironed, tea stains removed. His shoes were perpetually shiny with new laces when they became frayed. His suits and overcoats were cleaned and pressed with buttons replaced.

A colleague at work, Roland Simmons had lost his wife. Over the next few months he had started to look like a tramp, shirt collars all over the place, ties stained with unmentionable dribbles. His suit jacket smelled like cheesy onion soup and he had taken to wearing trainers when his shoes needed repair. George could moan about Marjorie but he depended on her. How had that happened? Well of course he had gone from home where he depended on his mother into marriage, without ever having lived alone. He had no experience of looking after himself and had, at the time, felt himself to be fortunate.

He told his boss he would give a definite answer after Christmas but sooner or later he would have to face the prospect and it would not get any easier. Perhaps that accounted for his little rebellion about the wine. It wasn't a plan. He had no idea what he was doing. He wanted to take back some of his life but had no idea how to go about it.

Later, at home he rebelled about the turkey. He didn't like turkey, couldn't they have something else? Marjorie got very cross. If he wanted something else why didn't he mention it earlier? All the Christmas orders had been made up weeks ago. She was to collect their turkey tomorrow. There would be nothing else available, and of course she was right. One can't just re-plan Christmas the day before Christmas eve and no they could not go away to a hotel, what would they do with all the food and the boys were coming with their families. She had filled stockings for the kiddies and bought presents to put under the tree. What was he thinking?

So another Christmas came and went. Nothing much was expected of George. The women organised everything and the men sat around, eating, drinking, talking about football and cars. His sons would end up the same as their father. Could he warn them or was it too late? He sat quietly for a little while wondering what he could possibly say to bring up the subject and decided in the end that it was quite impossible. They looked at him in a strange way.

“Are you OK Dad?”

“Yes, thanks, quite OK. I was thinking about retirement. You know my company needs to downsize.”

“Can't be far off anyway can it?”

“No, two or three years depending how strict they want to be.”

“Wow, I would jump at the chance,” said one son.

“Me too,” said the other. “If it wasn't for the money.”

“Yeah, we're slaves to the mortgage.”

“And the kids. I think Beryl might go university.”

“You have to keep them in education till they're eighteen these days anyway.”

“It's an expense. You can't send them out to work for you nowadays.”

“I know.”

George wanted to scream: “Stop it! Stop talking like robots. Think what you are saying. Think what you are doing with your lives. It'll soon be too late and you will never be able to change.”

But of course it was already too late, much too late: wives, mortgages, children. But it wasn't just the money, it was the rut they had worn themselves into, the dependency, the strait jacket they had all three so willingly put on, so that when they had time and money there would be nothing they could do with it.

Why should they have doubts, in any case? They were married men with families. They were what it was all about; what society was set up to deal with. They could tell people their problems and would be understood; there would be organisations they could go to. If they lost their houses they might get a council house. If they lost money they could declare bankrupt and claim benefit. In good times they had an easy life, boring but comfortable. In bad times they protected themselves and their families with insurance. What was wrong with him? It had been what he wanted or what he hadn't known he wouldn't always want. But suppose he was set free, suppose Marjorie were to drop down dead, what then? What would he do? Go trekking up the Andes? Go Dancing? Visit prostitutes? Lie in bed all day? Drink himself to death? Get depressed and end up on pills for the rest of his life? He would miss her horribly. His daughters-in-law would take turns to come round to help. The neighbours would help. They would all help to keep him in his place and make sure he never had to face violent, horrific change. He would never have to ask who he was or what he wanted. He should be grateful.

On the next day of decent weather George went out for a walk alone to think things over. He lived in an upper middle class neighbourhood of detached houses with driveways and several cars, neatly trimmed lawns and hedges and well-kept flower beds. It was a cut above what he had been brought up to, a sign that he had done well, moved up in the world. He had found it all a bit smug at first as if all the neighbours were rather pleased with themselves, as he was. He had to keep his house in good repair and manage his garden in order to avoid their disapproval.

Today he saw the neighbourhood differently. The square, neat hedges were not for privacy but to keep out danger. Hedges were trimmed, lawns mown and windows polished not to gain approval but as part of a magic ritual to ward off evil spirits. The world was a treacherous place. It could undermine your view of what life was all about, make you dissatisfied, confuse you, make you hate your life but not give you any idea what might be better. The neatness was there to keep chaos at bay, the flower beds for reassurance: your life is good, well-managed, not messy and uncertain. If anyone let his house or garden fall into disrepair the neighbours didn't disapprove, they were terrified. The monsters of doubt were in the offing, lurking behind shaggy hedges and untrimmed lawns, growing strong among weeds in the cracked driveway.

After Christmas George mentioned to Marjorie that he might take early retirement. She hadn't seemed too keen at first, talked about having him under her feet all day long. Then one of the daughters-in-law sent them a brochure about a cruise and Marjorie perked up.

“Wouldn't that be wonderful? The boats are huge and sail to Spain and the Canaries with sunshine all year round. I've heard there are about a thousand passengers, and they'll all be just like us, just like the people round here.”

“Yes, dear,” said George and took out his cheque book.