The Squashed Man Who Married a Dragon (5 page)

Of course, I do the buying of goods where capital expenditure is involved, like building bits and the new bathroom suite. We discussed in a democratic way – white plastic/fibreglass bath, and ceramic w.c. and basin, etc. Off I went to Manchester, on my own, somewhere up Cheetham Hill, where the lowest cost/best buy bathroom suites were to be found.

After spending quite some time, checking measurements, P traps, flow angles and other technicalities, a very helpful salesman showed me how to save even more money. Hundreds of pounds in fact, by looking at this week's special ‘Special Offer'. The savings were phenomenal. True it wasn't quite white in normal colour range of things, a small matter, when looked at from the savings point of view; but THIS was also the new in-shade!

The reception I got when I arrived back with our new suite was less than I expected, and rather unfair after all my efforts. There is really nothing wrong with turquoise, or whatever it's called, and in our bathroom it looked okay. The Big Freeze lasted for some days, and cutting comments were made towards me, when introducing family and friends to the new fittings. As the months went by it looked better and better. The bath on one side boxed in with some shiplap timber. Plus bright turquoise and dark green wall paper with a matching green carpet was rather welcoming. Never was I allowed to forget going out for an agreed white bathroom suite and coming back with turquoise. It's amazing in a married life how often this subject is resurrected, so that I can be cut to ribbons and humiliated at the dinner table for the delight of others.

There I was, soaking in my turquoise bath, after a hard day in the garden; just like many macho men, I have a chink in my armour, nothing mean or lowly. It's just that I can't stand spiders, not at any price. I know they mean no harm, and are not a direct threat to life here in the U.K. but suddenly and without warning there they are, huge, black cardiac inducing.

I looked up and there on the low ceiling above my unprepared, unarmed and naked body was the one! When I pulled myself together I shouted for my guardian. In no time at all there she was in the bathroom – ready to protect me – wondering what small service she could do for me, that had caused her to drop the ironing, the half-prepared supper, her crossword and sprint upstairs to aid her man. Without thinking through her rescue mission properly, she lashed out at the spider with a cloth or something; it fell down, directly on to my exposed, defenceless naughty bits.

Panic then set in, me in a desperate self-mutilating fashion and she in an effort to remedy her first futile plan, adopted a milling and machinating action, both of us beating the hell out of my ‘delicados privados'

Much, much later in the fullness of recuperative time I got over the trauma, enough red wine, and some malt whisky, helped. I returned slowly to my near normal self.

Somewhere at the other end of the house, there comes a blood curdling cry, followed by shrieks of anger, like a howling tornado, this sound of fury is on its way. Seeking me out, hiding is now impossible, there is no safe place for me.

Death and destruction would be welcome, but first I must be verbally lashed to pieces, with cruel and cutting words. Reduced to a shivering, quivering wreck ‘for whatever I have done I am truly sorry', I say, hands clasped together in a timid kneeling position. The tide of hatred and venom, breaks over me a constant tirade. What could I have done? what crime? what thoughtless act? ‘ I'm innocent', I cry but no one cares.

This morning I went out and shot my mother in law, then I hocked the house and brought us to ruin with gambling debts, before assaulting fifteen women, in a drunken disorderly manner on the way home. These won't do…worse than that…much, much worse. I had somehow, accidentally, unintentionally left a tissue in my jeans or shirt pocket, then thrown the clothes out to be washed! The proof is there to see, as fallen snow, tiny bits of white tissue are the damning evidence, on the ground and on the clothes . ‘How many times have I told you to check your pockets?' ‘Why do you do this?' ‘What is the matter with you?' I pray for night time to come.

Dawn broke a beautiful new day, breakfast was battle free, mid-morning passed without a trace of war fare . Even lunch time…. no hostilities…. the truce is holding. Well on the way to a record breaking day, we decided to go out together. Throwing the last bit of caution to luck we left the house hand in hand!

Then out driving somewhere, I forget exactly where, but the sun was shining, birds were singing, and little white lambs were jumping up and down in the meadows. No, we have not argued or crossed swords at all. In fact beloved and I were, I thought, happily in tune with one another, one of those rare moments of marital bliss.

Driving through the country side with England at its best, when suddenly the most all mighty and horrendous smell of rotting manure filled the car. It was eye-watering and breathing almost stopped. After a few seconds ‘beloved' turned to me, and without a flicker of humour on her face, said ‘Have you brushed your teeth today?'

That's my Dragon for you…ever a kindly soul… as gentle as a chain saw!

And so it came to pass, after a goodly number of years she said, she had done her share of family planning arrangement, and from now on it was over to me. To keep a natural and enjoyable love life a little snip was needed. Said quickly it seems nothing, but they were giving radios away in India just to encourage this sort of thing. Here in the U.K. no man could do more on the altar of love. This is the big test, the cruelest cut.

So off I went to see our Doc, who recommended a fellow doctor as the master of the snip in our locality. An appointment was arranged for the early Friday evening, so that I wouldn't miss any work on the Monday.

On Black Friday (evening) I was there, ready and aware of the basics, the operation is one done under a local anaesthetic and is really minor surgery. You can watch if you like the Doc said…. testing me out. Being the man that I am, I said that would be interesting. So he produced a mirror for me to hold up and watch his handy work in action.

A nurse, the female sort, was in attendance so I had to be brave. The worst bit was the big needle to numb the parts, in exactly the area you definitely don't want any needle to go anywhere near. Still ever the brave man, there followed fifteen minutes or so, lying on the table, without trousers, making polite small talk to nurse and Doc, accompanied by sharp prods to see if the tender bits are sufficiently numbed.

I watched each and every step of the mutilation! As a very young boy I had often watched my father, a veterinary surgeon, perform many operations in his surgery. From spaying cats to removing tumours from dogs. So blood, gore, forceps, swabs, suture needles, clamps and waste bins over flowing with gory bits and pieces, blood-soaked cotton wool, etc…were nothing new – so it was now… I felt the actual ‘snip' like nipping through small plastic tubes. Irreversible, permanent disfigurement, another token in a life of self-sacrifice.

I drove home afterwards, like a surviving Roman gladiator, excused washing up or heavy lifting, I arranged myself carefully in my Parker Knoll reclining chair. The craftsmanship of the good doctor was nearly ruined by Katy, our younger daughter, going to bounce on to me in her usual fashion. We used to share this chair to watch Sesame Street and the Muppets on Saturday mornings. Luckily I didn't have to go into detail of why Dad was feeling a little fragile at that moment.

Quite how I survived these attacks, I can only put down to my upbringing, which must have trained me and toughened me to endure the many put-downs and verbal kickings of life, usually to counter the Queen of the Mays' evil outbursts.

An example of this training was the duffle coat – all the world and especially every boy at my school had one. A camel coloured, toggle fastened, hooded duffle coat. A most practical, and well-designed piece of clothing. Of course, I wanted to join the wearers of the duffle coat brigade, but when my mother and I toured the shops, seeking out a reasonably priced one, I couldn't help but notice the way my mother winced at the price, it was almost physical torture for her.

She counted the pennies, after years of rationing, war-time shortages had created ‘make and do thinking'. Plus the struggle, of my father buying the veterinary practice, made money tight. Savings were a must. At last we found a sort of shortened – cut down – without hood or toggles, sandy coloured…. thing. It was a donkey jacket, exactly like the Wimpey builders' jacket, but the right colour and a coat but most of all for less than half price.

This would do – my brothers who came after me were not so sensitive to mother's budgeting struggles – their jackets were probably ermine-lined, full length, deluxe duffle coats.

Wellingtons proved to be a similar problem, the world wore black wellies. We luckily found some half-height – WHITE surgical wellies, or possibly abattoir wear, a job lot, quality rejects – but for less than half the normal cost, a give-away, not-to-be-missed bargain.

When the whole school trudged off to support the first fifteen rugby team play a visiting school, all spectators were dressed like an army in duffle coats. Strong and powerful, in the correct ‘uniform'. Somewhere in there was a donkey jacket and white wellies. The target of every ridiculing remark, and unimaginable cruel jibe. I don't say it didn't hurt a bit – but it was character building – I could take it.

In a much nicer way I was in the second division in the smoking world. I had just about graduated from wild Woodbines to Senior Service, a much stronger and full sized cigarette. When I first inhaled a Senior Service, my head reeled, knees swayed, I clung to the wall behind the Odeon Cinema, eyes watering and nearly choking to death, in pure enjoyment! My close friend Tony had a solid silver cigarette case with built in lighter, on one side were ‘Passing Cloud' a very much upmarket oval shaped cigarette, on the other side were ‘Balkan Sobrani' the multi-coloured cocktail type. This sort of one-upmanship, I could take in my stride. I even tried snobbery once, having my mother sew an old ‘Watson & Prickard' label into a new blazer, bought from an inferior multiple store. It didn't impress anyone – in the end, not even me.

The search for a school-specified, standard grey sweater or semi-accepted cardigan was not what I wanted. We were out looking for an almost legal garment – but in some way special. A bit like the illegal coloured socks that Aunty Peggy had once sent me.

Mum and I searched the shops, very expensive and boring regulation ones were all we could find, until at last we spotted a hideous cardigan type thing – with two tone grey horizontal bars across the front; and a cheap metal zip. An absolute disaster as far as taste went, but very cheap. ‘Are you sure you can wear this?' my mother anxiously asked. ‘Not a problem' I lied.

Later back at school the true nature of this ghoulish and ghastly clothing hit home. Only on very cold days could I wear it, and then only under my shirt. During its short life, we had a large touring ‘X'-ray van visit the school. This was part of a mass ‘X'-ray health programme. Parked in the Quadrangle – the whole school, class by class, had to be X-rayed.

Take out money, wallets, watches, belts and braces with metal bits – apart from jackets, keep clothes on. Form up in lines – in SILENCE!, murmured to us by a loving Gestapo. This was a painless and out of class activity and quite interesting for a change.

The results later recorded – ‘one boy with a strong, metal backbone – a new species – a modern medical miracle perhaps. Those days and life like this prepared me to be lashed to within an inch of my life, castigated up hill and down dale ‘in a happy marriage'. I was born and trained to be a husband.

Some people are never wrong and that is fair enough but imagine never, ever, being wrong, for well over fifty years! If only by the law of averages you could be the slightest, teeniest bit wrong, occasionally. Vicki's reasoning is that she only ever argues when she knows she is right. So she cannot be wrong.

Now couple this, with being a razor-sharp mind in a family of six, and all refusing to be blamed for anything. Growing up like this makes them invincible, especially girls.

Noticing these freaky attributes in the ‘gentle one' and having studied firsthand the cunning and devious ways she has in her armoury for living a faultless, blameless, life, ‘the gift' stands out.

Such a gift has the daughter of darkness, that should she ever and this is almost unbelievable, make a mistake or even appear to have made a mistake, and this in itself is ultra-rare – pear-shaped or messed up THEN SHE evokes the Gift (Just like Monopoly's Get out of Jail card)

The key words – ‘I KNOW WHY THAT HAPPENED'. Once she has uttered these words, she is three quarters the way to absolution from any possible blame.

All that remains for her to do – is to explain the ‘true' facts of the situation – to those less perceptive than herself, she is then not only the innocent bystander – she also becomes the popular detective – on the side of everyone who seeks the truth. Magicians have the sleight of hand – Vicki has developed the ‘sleight of mouth'. Next, the all important ‘link' then is to establish the hidden, innocuous, root cause – that has brought about the accident. Now it is clear to everyone. Simple isn't it? but very effective.

To give an example of this:

If Vicki was carrying an expensive and rare Chinese ornament from the kitchen into the lounge – and somewhere on route the impossible happened. The ornament fell – smashed to a thousand pieces, family inheritance lost forever, quick as a flash – key words ‘I KNOW WHY THAT HAPPENED' a short pause to let the magic work in. Establish the Link – the ‘SMALL BUMP' under the carpet. The small bump caused her foot to rock – balance was disturbed and explains why her concentration was taken away, at the critical moment. This explanation is of vital importance.

It is almost impossible for me to adequately explain the workings and ramifications of such virtuosity, honed since her childhood, now perfected to such a degree that if she's after blood, and a sacrificial lamb is needed – she spits out ‘HE'……me, the unfortunate husband who, had he fixed the bump when instructed to do so early last year, of course, none of this would have happened! AMEN.

I am going to lie down now. But before I go, anyone would think that over 50 years of married warfare I would be right sometime, if only once. On the one occasion when it looked as though this might have happened, we had a replay, and on checking again, it turned out………that I was wrong yet again!