The Squashed Man Who Married a Dragon (4 page)

In Florence Nightingale mode this woman is lethal, she loves to be in charge, controlling not only the amount of pain she inflicts, but prolonging it by having me securely pinioned, so that I cannot escape. I had a thorn in my finger from battling with the berberis, so trying to get the thorn out myself – but, as ever, eagle-eye has spotted my efforts. ‘Come here' she commands ‘I'll get it out for you'! This is what I feared. ‘It's got to come out'. She tucks my arm round her middle, blocks me out with her body, so she can go to work – regardless of my objections or pleas ‘not to hurt'.

‘If it doesn't come out your finger will become septic and drop off' she crows with glee. For a moment or two she wheedles away – prodding and squeezing my poor finger. ‘No good, I'll have to get a needle' she says joyfully. I think of running but am not fast enough.

Back having selected one of the biggest and sharpest of needles, she throws me to the floor quickly getting the upper hand. Then using a sort of head lock, a second to reposition herself permanently, she has me in total submission. One knee in my groin, a delicate area; and an elbow is pressed hard to my throat – where an Adam's apple should be. ‘Don't move' she hisses ‘or it will take a lot longer', bolts of pain stab my poor finger – long drawn out bouts of agony follow. I can't speak or call out, no movement at all, even breathing is now difficult —— maybe I'll pull through but its touch and go.

Sitting up in the recovery position, wiping away some lingering tears, with thoughts of a cup of tea and a lie down passing through my befuddled brain, my mother, gentle soul, would perhaps have given me a small piece of fudge for being a brave boy, the dentist awards a cheap sort of paper badge for acts of heroism, but the Masai warrior just spits out ‘there you are – a tiny little splinter – what was all the fuss about'.

We got two donkeys, some geese, ducks, a cat and two dogs plus a second daughter Katy. Central heating and a d.p.c. were installed and for at least two weeks we had deep trenches dug everywhere in the house, through the stone slab floors, creating a real assault course.

The year brought a very dry summer that made the injection of a damp proof course of silicon liquid into the nearly three feet thick walls, a challenge. I worked on the principle that the more silicon that was injected into the walls the better the chance of success. So I bought in packs of beer, lager and cigarettes for the two man team of installers. The dry sandstone walls absorbed silicon in ratio to the consumption of beer, when their boss came out to check the finished job he was a bit upset at the number of empty forty five gallon silicon drums that were on site. But if a job's going to be worthwhile you can't be penny pinching – not on a fixed price contract! Over the years I think the beer money was well spent and until oil became too dear, we basked in the luxury of a warm kitchen and on occasion other rooms too!

By this time Vicki had a little Yorkshire terrier named ‘Yuk' which for its small size made a lot of noise and had an amazing amount of bravado. How often he'd go off visiting local farms, if there was a welcoming bitch around, and who do you suppose had to scour the countryside for this roaming romeo who was not for coming home either.

Now my dog was a bulldog, ‘Bumble', or as he was sometimes called ‘Humble Bumble'. A very strong, heavy good looking brindle dog. He was active and walked all over the fell with me. As a warm affectionate dog he was great, but so dense or strong willed, no amount of training made the slightest difference to him.

Bumble had two principle vices, which we could never change. The first was to catch you around the ankles as you went through a doorway. In particular he targeted Vicki, if she was answering the front door, Bumble obviously to protect her was anxious to check out the caller first. So he would run through her, shoulder charging her out of the way, this caused many furious reactions from a wild woman, who lashed out at him with anything to hand. You had to admire him, he never backed off or changed his ways.

Bulldogs tend to be sloppy eaters, so his large feeding bowl was kept in the back of the house, where he consumed vast amounts of food very quickly. Whenever he entered the kitchen, he always, always made a detour to check out Yuk's feeding bowl. Sometimes finishing off a small amount that Yuk had left for a later snack. This infuriated her ladyship, she would catch him out time after time whacking him with a rolled up newspaper, screaming at him. After a while he developed a sort of contrite cartoon style of shrinking into the quarry tiled kitchen floor and to please her even further he would wee on the spot in mock terror. These were some of the few occasions when I've seen her beaten, except I'd be the one to mop up the mess – but what a dog!

As he grew older he'd lie on the floor watching TV with us in the evenings and every now and then – very quietly he would drop an S.B.D eye watering……everyone would chorus ‘phew Bumble', he would raise an eyebrow and plead the Fifth Amendment.

I was content, reading my newspaper, at peace with the world, when I heard this wailing and crying. The front door flung open and in poured a very distraught young woman, all tears and sobs. ‘I'm sorry' she says which is in its self, very, very rare, throwing herself at me. I rose to the occasion, I was so noble, so gallant I put my arms around her, hugged her gently to me ‘What is it' I asked, ‘it can't be that bad'. She had only left the house a few seconds before off out to do a little shopping.

‘I backed' sob, sob ‘my car into your van' (crashed would have been a good word). ‘There, there' I said, stroking her lovely long hair and enjoying a brief moment of masculine supremacy. ‘As long as you are alright, sweet heart darling, cherub, angel flower, nothing else matters' I said. Really I was excellent, generous and kind. Precious one had reversed, without looking properly, her smart dark blue Vauxhall estate car across our small car park into my bright red van in broad daylight.

I dried her tears, kissed her better even though I knew the insurance policy wouldn't pay out on accidental damage on private land. Few women could have been treated better – no blame, no awkward questions – just pure affection.

I went downstairs before anyone else – quite rare I admit, and for some reason, perhaps it was the sunshine, I decided to have scrambled eggs on toast for breakfast. I was enjoying this when halfway through appeared Fate. She took one cruel look and exploded ‘Oh, no, you've used THE EGG! THE LAST EGG! You thoughtless, stupid, selfish man. You used the last egg, how could you? That's it, now we can't make cakes'. On and on she ranted.

I tried in vain to explain that there would be more eggs, hens will lay again, supermarkets will continue to stock eggs, I can go out and get any amount of eggs even on a Sunday. But nothing would stop the storm, once started it has to blow itself out. So much for equality of give and take. What a difference a night makes!

The storms of our married life are often, but thankfully they don't usually last too long. Soon she's tripping around, the sun is shining and she is looking great.

My misdeeds are filed away, ready to be produced should another war break out. It's amazing that next time – on a totally different topic – should a misdemeanour, no matter how small occur (and I'm not perfect all the time) out will come a barrage of past poisoned barbs – linked with always having to have the last word.

I've tiptoed through life always opening and holding the doors for sweetness and light, remembering to raise and lower the toilet seat, never, never, heavens no leaving skid marks inside the w.c. bowl, but put a used coffee mug on the wrong side of the sink and the sky falls in.

Somehow I don't get the respect and open-mouthed admiration that I thought was my due. My judgment is questioned and the fact that I am older and wiser counts for nothing. I get the sneaking feeling that being a husband, is perhaps not quite, all I had imagined it should be.

Country life suited Vicki, an old pair of jeans and a worn sloppy sweater – she looked a million dollars, that's not to say she didn't look even better in less. All the same this girl looks great working. I remember her climbing down from the loft in cut-off jeans and a small torn shirt thing, all covered in cobwebs – she'd been doing some wiring work. I let her do the electrical work, and anything else, that is dangerous. First it is to protect the breadwinner and second, it's good practice for her, to be competent and self-sufficient, in case anything happened to me. And thirdly there's something very sensuous about a dusty, dishevelled girl in old clothes.

Why, oh why, do women look at their most alluring when it's ‘not now time'?

Preparing to go out is another example of this, her in and out of the bath, trying on clothes, changing her mind, standing around in tiny underwear and high heels – whilst we make decisions, try this, try that but DON'T touch! Ah well, such is the life of a martyr.

She could wear anything and look great, from a black bin sack at a fancy dress party to a dress she made herself out of dish cloths and to torture me most of all, when we left, late as usual, we set off in the car, she would put a foot up on the dashboard and then cream her legs. How the car stayed on the road is a miracle in itself.

Which reminds me it is Saturday night – hooray!

The thought of doing naughties – although the spice of marriage – is fraught with disappointments and despair. It's like skipping through a minefield with a bit of plea-bargaining thrown in. How to arrive at a pre-planned ‘spontaneous moment of heaven' – without careful reconnaissance work is impossible. Even a ‘certainty' can become a ‘possible' and an ‘almost' can turn into ‘not a chance, NO!' in a split second.

Trying to tiptoe through the day, nose kept clean – until bedtime is almost an impossible task for me. I like to know ‘what's what' – not for me the timid hand sneaking off into the pitch black to find out what the state of play might be! Much better – go for it – with lights on, band playing on to glory mode.

So I have done the dishes, hoovered the carpets, put out the rubbish and it's still only eight thirty – time drags heavy for an eager lad! At the appointed hour – she deems to go upstairs, seconds later I race upstairs two at a time, zoom round the bathroom and triumphantly appear semi-naked, just a small strategically positioned towel and with a seductive waft of after-shave.

Without lifting her eyes from her book she says ‘do you have to wear that?' I drop the towel. ‘No, that after-shave – you know I don't like it', crushed I stumble to my side of the bed. ‘I won't be a minute – just finish this chapter' she says. Unrestrained passion and such eagerness are almost too much to bear.

So deep into Tolstoy, for the third time, I nearly missed the entrance of my goddess. For a riveting eternity, breathing stopped…while a gorgeous bare leg, silently coiled round the door…in comes my girl… just wearing that smile! Someone is playing with my emotions.

For a time it was trendy for London lovers to say ‘How was that for you darling?' in a strangled sort of way, after 15 rounds of grunt and squeeze – this was something we ignored as contrived and false, not for us at all.

Although for a very short while in our ultra polite period, we did try murmuring ‘Thank you darling' – ‘No, no, thank you sweetie darling' then we would give Greenshield stamps to each other.