I Never Loved My Husband – A Life Lived Side by Side, Years Together Without Love, and How I Discove…

I never loved my husband.

How long were you together?

Well now, lets see We got married in 1971.

You never loved him?

On a bench near a grave in a little churchyard on the edge of a quiet English village, two women who barely knew each other sat talking. Theyd both been tidying different graves, and happened to fall into a conversation.

Your husband? asked the woman with the grey beret, nodding at the photograph in the headstone.

Yes. Its been a year now I still cant get used to it. I miss him terribly. I loved him dearly, said the woman, straightening her black scarf.

They were silent for a moment. Then the woman in the beret sighed deeply.

I never loved my husband.

Her companion turned, surprised. But how long were you married?

Well, as I said We tied the knot in 71.

Hows that possible, living so many years with someone you didnt love?

Spite, really. I was fond of another lad, but he went off with my friend, so I thought right, Ill get married first. Thats when Peter came along. He was always hanging about, trailing after me he liked me. So, one day I just agreed.

And?

Oh, I nearly ran from my own wedding. The whole village was celebrating, and I just sat there crying. All I could think was, Thats it, youths over. Glancing at the groom, I felt hopeless he was scrawny, going a bit bald, little sticky-out ears. His suit looked like hed borrowed from someone twice his size. Grinned like hed won the lottery, never took his eyes off me. My own fault, really.

So what then?

We moved in with his parents. They fussed over me, did everything his mum even washed my shoes! Id swan about, boss people about in their house, yell sometimes. Really, it was because I felt sorry for myself after all, I didnt love him. And how could his parents like me, behaving like that? They didnt.

One day, Peter said, lets move up north, find work, and set up on our own. I didnt care, anywhere else would do I just wanted to get away. Head in the clouds, as they say.

It was when they were encouraging young people to head up and work on the new developments. I wouldnt have done it myself, but Peter managed it for us got us on the list, and off we went, first to Manchester, then further up to the North East.

We travelled on separate trains women in one carriage, men in another. He ended up with nothing to eat because I had the food in my bag. But I didnt care. Made friends, had a laugh, shared out all the pies and sandwiches his mother had packed. When we stopped, he came running over, asking for food. I felt a bit ashamed, told him Id given everything away. He could see I felt bad, so he just smiled and said, Thats alright, everyones sharing in my carriage, too. Ive already had loads. Then he dashed back. But I knew he was just trying to make me feel better he was shy, quiet, not the type to ask for things from others. It was all for my sake.

When we arrived, they put all the women in an old boarding house thirty-five of us jammed into one big room, the men elsewhere. Promised wed all get a place, couples together, eventually. I didnt care. Whenever Peter tried to come near, Id turn away, pretend I was busy, ignored him. The other women nagged me, said he was my husband after all. Hed stand outside, waiting for me to look out the window didnt bother me a bit; I just wasnt interested.

After a couple of years with no children and still no love, I was ready for divorce. Only stayed with him a few times, out of pity.

Then Greg showed up. Tall, dark, full of life. Even though we worked ourselves to the bone I was mixing concrete, imagine! we had fun. There were plenty of supplies, good food, even Czech beer, oranges, things you never saw back home. They put on concerts, dances at the club. Greg stood out. The other girls liked him, but he was interested in me.

I fell head over heels. Passion, like Id never known.

Peter tried to talk to me. Pleaded. But my head was spinning. I said, Im divorcing you. By then we had our own little place, thin walls and all. Still, I stayed away.

Peter was always hovering, though. Hed follow me and Greg, always around. But I didnt care. I was in love.

The woman in the black scarf listened, spellbound.

So how did he put up with it all?

He endured it Because he loved me. Then Greg took up with Cathy, the bookkeeper started seeing her. When I told him I was pregnant, he turned nasty. Made out like Id thrown myself at him, that Peter was a weakling.

Word got to Peter people always gossip. That poor man, all his love for me must have drained his sense. He went after Greg got into a fight behind the station, I never knew until later. They brought Peter into hospital. I went to see him told the driver all the way he was a fool for picking a fight with someone like Greg. The driver just clammed up, judging me.

When I got to the hospital, I burst into tears. Peter was all bruised and swollen, didnt even look himself. His leg was in a splint.

Why did you do it? I asked.

For you, he said Only for you.

Strange, even then, I just felt sorry for myself. And being pregnant, theyd send women away from the site no children allowed. That meant going back to the village and explaining whose child I was having not even sure myself. Could have been either of them.

I visited Peter, brought food. Not out of love, just duty.

I remember one day, hed just got up on crutches, standing by the window in those old hospital pyjamas looked like a sorrowful old man. He said, Dont leave me, well go somewhere new, raise the child Ill be its father and no one elses.

Did I thank him? No. Just shrugged. Dont see why you want to.

Because I love you, he said.

I just walked away. Didnt look back. But in my stomach, butterflies happy not to have to go back to the village, glad, in a way, that I wouldnt be alone with a baby.

We moved to Aylesbury. Peter was so quiet, but somebody at work noticed him. Hed been to technical college for engineering, so it was useful. Became a foreman over the machinery, travelled about, always brought treats home anything tasty, hed save for me.

My wifes pregnant, hed boast to everyone. Id just look away. The council finally gave us a council house; I took a job at a local office.

When the baby was born, I knew he was Gregs a little dark-haired boy. Peter never said a word, just smiled and nearly cried when he fetched us from the hospital.

Matt was a difficult baby. Hard work right from the off well, conceived in sin, as folks would say. Sickly, crying. Peter wore himself out looking after him, falling asleep on his feet. Never complained.

A year later I had Mary, Peters own child, named for his mother. Only fair, after all I put his parents through. But by then, there was nothing between me and Peter not love, not hate. With two little ones, theres no time for anything. I just wanted help, and Peter gave it cleaned, tidied, let me sleep. I remember nearly wrestling a washtub out of his arms, telling him he couldnt go washing womens things, he was a manager! He said, Does it matter if my wife is ill with cold hands? Let them talk. I was livid; he acted more like a woman sometimes.

And his devotion, it started to get on my nerves. Too much sometimes.

Matt, growing up, got himself into trouble before he was even a teenager police got involved. I met the community officer down at the station, a decent man, single, who got on well with Matt; he never listened to Peter. Peter couldnt be strict, wouldnt even punish him. Me, I took to the strap. What else was I to do when Matt was out shoplifting? Peter always stopped me.

Then Peters work sent him for training in London by now, wed got a proper flat in Nottingham. He said, If you tell me not to go, I wont. He already knew things werent right between us. I said, You better go.

He left, heavy-hearted. That policeman Tom pressed me to leave Peter, said I didnt love him. And, well

The woman fell quiet, brushing leaves from the little table.

And did you? The other woman dropped the formalities, leaning closer.

She furrowed her brow, fighting with memories. I kept wondering and then Peter sent a letter have it to this day, nobody else knows. He wrote, said he realised hed made my life miserable, knew Id never loved him, only put up with him. He said, if I told him not to come back, he wouldnt. Promised to send half his pay for the kids, wished us happiness. There was no blame in it, no reproach he put all the pain on his own shoulders and only wished me well.

A golden autumn breeze rattled more leaves onto their table. The sky glowed blue over the churchyard. The woman with the black scarf swiped away tears.

Why are you crying? asked the storyteller.

It just gets to you, you know? Lifes like that think about it, it brings tears. But go on Did you leave, did you go to the policeman?

Oh! I spent many sleepless nights. Matt was going off the rails, my life was a mess. I turned that letter over and over. At the factory, there was a woman foreman, bit older than me. She said, Youre a fool, Liz! Men like your Peter are worth their weight in gold.

One morning I woke up, chilled to the bone, suddenly thinking what am I doing? This man has lived for me his whole life, and … what have I done?

I remembered everything. The way he followed me, the way he helped. When I ended up in hospital, needed an operation, it all went wrong. Honestly, for a while I thought Id die. And Peter, quiet old Peter, made a fuss of everyone, sat all night by my bed, hired help, found the medicines. Without him I dont think Id have made it.

There was another time the post got muddled after a storm, we ended up with someone else’s food parcel. Peter insisted on taking it to the next village through the snow. Nothing would stop him people were waiting, he said. He came back with frostbitten cheeks, caught pneumonia…

Thats when I saw: I didnt need anyone, except him.

Could I write a letter, say all that? After years of making him feel like nothing? How do you express something like that?

I realised… hed probably made up his mind to leave me. Decided I must love someone else.

Autumn, just like today, I remember it well. Sorted the kids, settled the work situation, and made for Kings Cross to catch the train. Off to London I went to fetch him myself. The train felt impossibly slow, all for wanting to see him. I kept picturing his face, that homely, comforting face. I even found I loved his balding head, his sticky-out ears, his little pot belly honestly, I loved the whole lot.

At his address they told me he was at his course. I took the tube, searched for him everywhere with my eyes. They wouldnt let me in, so I waited on the steps. Watched everyone and didnt even recognise him at first. He came out with his group, looking smart in his flat cap and new coat, files under his arm. I froze struck dumb by how much I loved him.

They were walking past and I didnt call, just stared. They got almost out of sight before I found my voice and shouted.

He turned, stopped dead, staring at me. We just stood there, looking at each other, leaves swirling down all around us. His mates looked on, bemused. Then together we ran to each other, papers spilling everywhere, grabbed each other in a hug, and couldnt say a word. What is there to say at a time like that?

His friends laughed, said, Thats real love been together a lifetime and still meet like that.

The womans handkerchief was soaked. She blew her nose.

So you stayed together in love till the end, then?

Till the end? she echoed.

The other woman nodded at the nearby grave. Thats your Peter, isnt it?

Oh no. Thats Matt our son. He died young, not even forty. Took the wrong road in life. Ended up in prison. We suffered for years, then he drank himself away.

So your husbands alive? the woman said, sounding almost hopeful.

Oh yes, the widow crossed herself, Thank God! He only drove me here to tidy up, then went off to do his own errands. We help our daughter now. She glanced around, smiled, Ah, there he is, coming for me. Weve chatted away ages. Would you like a lift anywhere?

No, thank you, Ill pay my respects to a few more family graves. Thank you, though.

A sturdy, round-faced man in a black jacket and leather flat cap walked over. He still had a gentle, friendly look. Greeted his wife warmly.

Tired, Pete? Rushing about again? She dusted something off his coat.

He packed up all the cleaning tools while she insisted on taking the heavy rubbish herself worried about his back and together they set off down the golden, leaf-strewn avenue, arm in arm.

At the corner, the woman in the grey beret turned and waved, and her husband cheerfully waved after her.

Left alone, the woman gazed at her husbands portrait etched in the stone, and thought: happiness doesnt just exist by itself it only lives where its been welcomed into your heart.

Theres really only one kind of happiness in the world: to love, and be loved in return.