On 1 April, 11 years ago, I looked into my spare room to check that it really was empty. Yes, it was. My partner of 12 years had finally gone, and taken all his belongings with him: the floor-to-ceiling shelves and everything on them; the squillion books; papers; monster collection of photos and other bits and scraps – twigs, stones, “arrangements” and assorted waste material. Not a trace of him was left. The vacuum cleaner stood all by itself in the middle of the room. I was single again, at 62.
This was a situation I had feared for decades, for most of my life: being a single woman. Perhaps that’s why this separation had been such a long time coming. We’d been mouldering along for years, not really liking each other much, the household simmering with tension or flare-ups of loathing, squabbles, sulking and resentments.
Over the years he, my mother and my daughter had grown to dislike each other intensely. My mother was in despair. “Grant me one last wish as a dying woman,” she begged one of my closest friends. “Don’t let her marry him!”
Friends weren’t keen on him either. “Get rid of him,” they advised. One refused to visit, she was so sick of me moaning and doing nothing about it.
I had endless excuses, I was too busy; how could I pack up all his belongings and throw them into the front garden as instructed? There was too much stuff, crammed into his room, the whole basement and the attic. Or perhaps if we had a short holiday, or he got a long-term job, or my friends and family gave him a bit more of a chance, things might improve.
But secretly it was terror holding me back. I was scared stiff of being on my own, of being one of those pathetic creatures – a spinster, unlovable, who cannot sustain a relationship, who turns to dogs because no one else would have her. There was nothing rational about this fear. I knew it was rubbish, but still it was lurking, and had a paralysing grip on me until things reached a peak that even I could not tolerate He had to go.
It still took a few months of nagging, but eventually that room was empty, and instead of feeling scared, I felt great. Free, free at last, like a rat let out of its trap. I could do what I liked, when I liked. No tensions, no wondering whether this or that person would or wouldn’t get on with him, no lectures, no unenthusiastic mother and daughter, no crotchety friends, browned off with listening to my hours of repetitive bitterness-speak, no sullen presence casting a pall over daily life.
At teachers’ training college, when I was about 20, the principal had given all of the new students an introductory talk. “A pair is a stultifying unit,” he warned us. “Do not form a pair. Form a gang.” We thought him an idiot at the time, but now I see it, and I have my gang: daughter, friends, dogs. And most wonderful of all has been the discovery that it was very pleasant indeed to be alone. Solitude was not a desolate state. It was heaven, I found, and not scary at all.
I don’t want another partner, or relationship, physical or otherwise. I do not feel like an isolated capon. I’m fine like this. The only snag is that I bet most people won’t believe me. I can imagine those Trump-like voices from the wings saying: “She’s saying that because she just can’t get anyone. Who’d want to give her one, at her age, and with a face like that?” and suchlike. And the more I insist, the more I’ll probably be accused of protesting too much.
But I promise that I have found new happiness in being able to choose my own curtains, duvet cover, colour paint for the walls, kitchen surfaces or any bit of household decor without hours of consultation with him, hours of arguing, dithering, compromising. I could choose my own favourite plants for the garden, background music, wattage of light-bulbs, which parties, films, visits to go on, or whether the dog could sleep on the bed. I’d forgotten how lovely it is to make my own mind up about anything and everything. To not being sneered at for watching EastEnders. I wake up, and there is a cheery dog bouncing around rather than a silent, sulking hulk. Any friend can visit at any time, in a mellow atmosphere, with no tension, no rows. A life full of conversations dawned, rather than dronings and lecturettes. No more friends having to sit listening and nodding and trying to be polite.
I weedily used to think that there were certain household tasks that only a man could do: unblock the sink, mend this that or the other, prune the roses, put a washer on the tap, or even do the washing up. I would wait and wait for him to do it. Tonight, tomorrow, next week? If I asked, I was nagging; if I didn’t ask, it never got done. A lose-lose situation. Now I no longer have to live in this state of tension, waiting, hoping, wondering and fuming. Such a waste of time and energy, over such small things.
Now I can just call a friend, a member of my gang – usually Carol yes, a woman – who can build walls, clear out drains, prune trees, and she would come round and just get on with it. And now, under her tuition, I can also do most of these tasks myself, even mix cement and build walls. It might look like selfishness, having everything my own way, but I see it as a new independence. I can trust my own taste. I am not as incompetent as I thought.
Of course, it hasn’t been all plain sailing. It took me some time to get over this relationship. The rage lingered on. For months – years, really, if I’m honest. I would pointlessly mull and fume over those wretched years, and mainly I was enraged at myself: for my collusion, for letting it go on for so long, for being so wet, at the waste of energy, the guilt for making my mother and daughter endure such unpleasantness.
That’s gone now, because there is no point to any fury and regret. As a mutual friend advised me when I was still fuming, “Hate is corrosive.” Correct. And I feel that I’ve managed to stop the corrosion. My mind seems to have had a big clear-out, like that lovely, empty room. And there is something tremendously energising about a clear-out.
It certainly perked my mother up. She died a happier woman, free of her biggest worry. Then I finished a history degree, moved house, and wrote a book: “all by myself”. Which is what I used to say, my mother told me, when I was about three, and she was interfering. Because I could manage quite well on my own. And I still can, thank you very much.
