Ned (4)

4.

Robert and Helen timed their summit meeting to coincide with the girls’ summer brownie camp. Helen, armed with her notebook and wearing a thin, floral frock, sat down and began to regale Robert with her list of observations. Operative words – such a morbid, unbalanced, mid-life crisis, and underpants – flew across the room. At the end of her ten minute summary Helen slapped the notebook on the marble-esque coffee table and offered her piece de resistance, recalling the incident with the vending machine, Mrs Hipkiss, and Robert’s subsequent dismissal. Did Robert crumble beneath the weight of all these observations ? Did he fall to his knees and beg forgiveness for neglecting his duty to hearth and home ? Did he wail in disgust at his own wretchedness for having cruelly deprived his family of a wage packet and, it must be said, doing precious little to replenish the aforementioned wage packet in the intervening two months ? No. He did none of these things. He calmly told Helen to ‘lighten up a little’ which – as he suspected – merely provoked her even more.

   To Helen’s chagrin the smile that had decorated Robert’s face since the start of the discussion continued throughout his twenty minute response. Animated, evangelical in the certainty of his reply, he simply agreed with everything she’d said. How could he offer up a defence against her charges ? They were all perfectly true. Yes, a change had indeed occurred. No, he wasn’t the same man that he’d been twelve months ago. Yes, some mystifying psychosis had engulfed him…..carried him away…..severed him from his loved ones. He was well-aware that he’d spent the past two months ‘lounging around at home’ (Helen’s phrase) when any half-decent male would have long since dusted down his bicycle and waded into that swamp we call everyday life, kicking and scratching for a job – any job.

   He decided to give it to her straight.

   ‘Having considered everything that’s happened I’ve decided to fulfil a long standing ambition and become a full-time writer.’

   There was a long pause.

   ‘A writer ?’ Then, again: ‘A writer!’ Helen began to shake her head in a fevered manner.

   ‘Have you any objections to me becoming a full-time writer ?’

   ‘No…..no…..it’s just that…..well, it’s not the most secure of professions.’

   Robert blithely told his wife not to worry about him.

   ‘I’m not worried about you, Robert – I’m worried about us…..the girls…..’

   ‘You’ll manage’ he said.

   She looked – quite justifiably – dumbfounded. ‘What are you trying to say ?’

   Oh, what melodrama followed. Voices were raised to hitherto uncharted levels. Odd trinkets – the closest to hand – were thrown in each other’s direction. Tears, heartbreak, and tenderness so often and for so long denied was given and received. The dips and eddies in the ensuing conflict began to resemble a minor, somewhat sentimental, oft-staged operetta. Robert declared that his life had been governed by thoughts of security and domesticity. All of his energies had been invested in Helen and the children. Life was beginning to slip away from him. There was still so much to do – so much to see. He wasn’t immortal. Soon he’d be thirty six – thirty six! Half way through his earthly existence. Finally, he mumbled something about growth and space denied, and their slow, imperceptible drifting apart.

   But still all talk of hard-ons was avoided.

   ‘You need a holiday’ Helen said in a shocked, bewildered tone. ‘You’re still in denial following your dismissal. You’ve just got to weather the storm….see out this mid-life crisis.’

   Robert took exception to this. ‘I’m not in crisis! I’m undergoing a period of self-discovery.’

   He was beginning to sound like a new-age manual. Helen, of course, despised anything which didn’t warrant a nugget of empirical scrutiny without reservation.

   ‘If you want to grow and evolve then why don’t you go on a weekend retreat or something ?’

   They were, alas, still skimming the surface. No matter how hard they tried they both knew they were ignoring the key element to their marital discord. It had nothing to do with holidays or retreats. There was only one thing to do: Robert decided to bring his hard-on out into the open.

   Helen gasped and told Robert to keep his voice down. Remember, she said: it’s March – a warm day – and some of the windows are open. But once Robert started he couldn’t stop. He felt like an alcoholic who was at last coming to terms with his condition. He even stood up. ‘My name is Robert and I can’t get – perform, achieve - an erection’ he shouted.

   He had no idea what Helen’s reaction would be. Calm at first, her face turned a wretched pale. Then, as if stung by the sudden de-ossification of the subject, and as if she were about to be consumed by its mountainous wave, her eyes filled with tears and she ran out of the front door.