My phone is ringing. I hotfoot it into the kitchen, kicking off my gardening shoes and grabbing the receiver with a hand muffled in a pruning glove. Earth crumbles onto the kitchen floor.
‘I’ve emailed Jonathan that I want a divorce.’
Well, I suppose it’s better than texting.
My daughter Melanie is crying. Through the sobs, her voice has a hard edge to it. ‘I’ve really had enough. If he can’t see that he’s being selfish, then we’re finished.’
Selfish? He’s a man, isn’t he? What did she expect?
‘He’s arranged a weekend with his mates. They’re going off-roading.’
What’s off-roading?
‘He didn’t even have the courtesy to check with me, to see if it was OK. I need him here. He was going to mend the shed.’
Off-roading, whatever it is, sounds a lot more fun than shed-mending.
‘I’m telling you so that you won’t get a shock if he phones you.’
Why would he phone me? He doesn’t do talking. He’s the strong, silent type. That’s why there’s a breakdown in communication. Be careful. This could get tricky.
‘Well, if that’s how you feel.’
‘I do, I really do. I’ve had enough.’
‘Don’t do anything rash. Think it through. Where will you live?’
‘I thought I’d come back home.’
I was afraid of that.
‘Well, of course you can for a while . . . .’
‘And I’d be bringing the cats.’
‘Y-e-s – ’
‘He never helps me. He just sits there and reads the paper while I wash up.’
Sounds familiar.
‘He’s never been interested in the house. I’ve bought everything nice that we own. He’s selfish. Thank goodness we don’t have children.’
Yes, thank goodness. Where would I put them?
She is sobbing now, and I want to kill him. Is this when a mother says, ‘I never liked him?’ That what she wanted for her daughter was a fairy prince and not a mortal man. Men are trouble. Why can’t a man be more like a woman?
‘Perhaps you would be better off without him.’
This is bold stuff. Am I supposed to support her or am I supposed to support her?
‘I would, I definitely would, Mum. You should see the grass. It’s a mile high.’
I look out of the window. A man from ‘Lawns R Us’ is mowing our grass. My husband Henry is reading the paper.
‘And I came downstairs last night wearing that new bra I told you about and, well, I couldn’t have made myself any clearer . . . .’
‘He didn’t even look at you?’
‘He didn’t! He’s got another woman. I know he has.’
I’ll break his legs! ‘Was he watching Match of the Day?’
‘Natasha Kaplinsky.’
Real grounds for divorce, then.
I am tired and emotional, and now she is weeping again.
‘I’m not answering his calls. He’s not back till tomorrow. He’ll have to make some decisions.’
He will. But he’ll have to make the right decisions because otherwise I shall string him up by the you-know-whats and raid our retirement fund to get Heather McCartney’s lawyer on her side.
‘I’ll come over right away.’
‘No, no. I’m all right, honestly. Anyway, Marion’s coming.’ Marion’s the neighbour.
‘Keep me informed then.’
Selfish. Doesn’t help her round the house. Does his own thing and stays out with his mates. Takes her for granted.
I glance over at Henry. He has been golfing all weekend. And I mean all weekend. It has been pouring with rain and his golfing togs are soaked and hanging on every hook and handle in the kitchen, drying. He has eaten a roast dinner and happily let me load the dishwasher on my own. He likes Natasha Kaplinsky, but not as much as he likes Joanna Lumley.
Shall I tell Henry that his daughter is divorcing? So soon after he has finished paying for the wedding? I don’t think so.
I spend a sleepless night, during which I fantasise about telling Jonathan what I think of him for making my daughter cry. Marriage is a partnership, I’ll say, and there are only two of you (I hope) in this one. Therefore, if something needs to be done, and you don’t do it, she will have to. There are no magic household fairies. Love her!
Marriage doesn’t just jog along by itself, I’ll say, you have to help it. You have to do some things together before you can do things apart. Off-roading is dangerous. You have to keep on-road to get to your destination. How dare you make my daughter cry!
Melanie rings early next morning. ‘He sent me a text message. It says, “Dnt b stupid xxxx.� ’
‘Then he does love you . . . ?’
‘What shall I do, Mum?’
‘It takes two to make a marriage. You both have to contribute.’
‘I do my part.’
‘I know it’s not trendy, but there is an old saying about the way to a man’s heart . . . .’
‘I don’t like cooking.’
Nor do I. I didn’t like changing your nappies, either, or doing the housework. I don’t suppose I would have enjoyed spending my time hunting for firewood or berries in times gone by.
I don’t suppose Henry always liked going to work. I know I didn’t, even though I loved my job.
But you start to like the results. You stop feeling hungry and the house smells nice. You can pay most of your bills.
‘Try it,’ I say. ‘I’ll give you a recipe. A really easy, quick one, which tastes as though you’ve spent on day on it.’
He loves you even though you don’t cook. Make him happy. Value him for what he is and not for what he isn’t.
I look at Henry. There were times when I didn’t like him, and there were times when I was ready to pack a suitcase. I expect there were times when he didn’t like me. Yet here we are, come safely into harbour, rich with unexpected happiness.
I want this so badly for my daughter, but only she can decide.
My phone is ringing. I hotfoot it into the kitchen, kicking off my gardening shoes and grabbing the receiver with a hand muffled in a pruning glove. Earth crumbles onto the kitchen floor. 
