The Man Who Forgot His Wife

by John O'Farrell

  One month after my fugue I was self-consciously launching Vaughan 2.0. Yes, there had been teething problems with the operating system, and sure the memory was limited, but this model would look cleaner and sleeker; it would have a more user-friendly interface; it would not emit smoke or cause battery problems. My hope was that it would be exactly the sort of hardware that someone like Maddy, for example, might find desirable and, before long, indispensable.

  ‘There you are, sir!’ said the shop assistant, passing over the suits in big, expensive-looking bags. ‘Special occasion, is it?’

  ‘Sort of. I’ve just met my wife.’

  ‘Congratulations! When are you getting married?’

  ‘Well, let’s not get too hasty,’ I said, popping the receipt into the bag. ‘I’ve got to divorce her first …’

  Chapter 11

  TODAY IS THE first day of the rest of your life, said the greetings card with the cute seal looking up at the camera. It made me feel optimistic about my own situation. I opened the card to see a Canadian seal clubber waiting a few yards away, with the caption: Oh, and it’s the last day of the rest of your life too.

  I browsed along the shelves of over-priced cards, bewildered at the endless but empty choice. Did Dillie like cute animals? Did she like photos of cool older girls? Surely she was too old for Disney princesses? I so wanted to get it right. Here was one specifically for me. Sorry I forgot your birthday … I opened it up to read the punch line: I was having a bad hair day. I examined the front of the card again. It featured a dog with scruffy fur. I read the punch line again: I was having a bad hair day. My amnesia must have wiped the part of my brain that would have got this joke. There were quite a few cards that said, Sorry I forgot your birthday, but none of them went on to say, because I suffered an incredibly rare neurological disorder known as a psychogenic fugue.

  I wrote in Dillie’s card that I would like to take her out and buy her a birthday present, but this was only after I had spent hours walking up and down the aisles of a toy shop seeking inspiration. Inside her late card, I placed a small passport photo so that the kids would not be too taken aback by the image of their beardless, suited father. And also just to make sure that they really did know what their dad looked like. Part of me couldn’t quite believe that they had ever met me before.

  When I came back from the post office, Linda had returned from work and was in the kitchen stirring a saucepan. She looked round, let out a startled scream, then fought off this approaching stranger by striking me with a wooden spoon covered in leek and potato soup.

  ‘Linda! It’s me!’

  ‘Bloody hell, Vaughan – you look completely different.’

  ‘You’ve got gunge all over my new suit!’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t recognize you. Where’s the beard? And you look so smart! Well, you did anyway …’ She took my jacket and was wiping it clean as Gary wandered in.

  ‘All right?’

  ‘Well?’ she said to her husband expectantly.

  ‘Er – new frock?’

  ‘Not me – what about Vaughan?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s shaved his beard off!!’

  ‘Oh yeah, that’s what’s different. I thought he’d just washed or something.’

  ‘And the suit?’

  ‘Oh yeah! Of course, it’s the big day on Monday, isn’t it? First day back at work …’

  I had indeed resolved to return to my former workplace; some instinct had told me that sitting around Gary and Linda’s flat all day was not doing anything for my fragile sanity.

  ‘You didn’t tell me that, Gary,’ snapped Linda, sounding increasingly dangerous. ‘Why didn’t you tell me that? You never tell me anything.’

  ‘Well, that’s not actually possible, is it? If I never told you anything, you wouldn’t know my name or anything about me …’

  The sirens sounded and the crowds rushed towards the shelters. A massive marital row was coming. The man who had just given me the theory on marital arguments was now going to demonstrate the practical. It was bound to happen. If I was going to be the house guest of a married couple, sooner or later they would attempt to jog the memory of my break-up by thoughtfully having a massive bust-up right in front of me.

  There are few things quite as embarrassing as being stuck with a husband and wife having a bitter, personal argument. The only possible course of action is to stare at the floor pretending you can’t actually hear it, saying nothing, even though at every turn you are thinking, ‘Ooh, I wouldn’t have said that,’ and then, ‘Ooh no, but I wouldn’t have said that back in return either – that’s only going to make it worse!’

  Every marriage has its own San Andreas Fault running right underneath, and even the slightest rumbling or tremor can be attributed to that basic fracture deep below the surface. The fault line might be ‘You only married me because I was pregnant’ or ‘You’re never there for me when I really need you’, but most of the time these powerful forces remain suppressed. But then, from nowhere, the crockery starts to vibrate and a family picture will smash on the floor, and before you know it the subterranean tectonic plates have collided and the screaming measures 8.2 on the Richter Scale.

  It wouldn’t have taken a professor of advanced psychology to work out that the central tension underlying Gary and Linda’s marriage was their differing levels of enthusiasm for Baby/the baby. There were men in history who had looked forward to a baby less than Gary. King Herod springs to mind. But although every argument was really about this, they almost never argued about it directly– as if the seismic forces were too powerful ever to disturb.

  ‘You’re so bloody wrapped up in yourself, you don’t ever tell me anything. You don’t even notice Vaughan’s shaved his beard off. And stop fiddling with your bloody iPhone!’

  ‘I’m not fiddling. I’m activating the Voice Record app.’

  ‘YOU ARE RECORDING OUR ARGUMENT?!!’

  ‘Yes, because you always misquote me afterwards, or twist my words around, or just make up stuff I never said.’

  ‘Oh, not this again! You always bloody say that—’

  ‘No, I don’t – and I think if you listen back through the files, you’ll find I said it once, tops.’

  ‘You mean you recorded other fights too??’

  ‘Yes – I told you that ages ago—’

  ‘No, you didn’t.’

  ‘Yes, I did – hang on, I’ve got the recording on here – you can listen back to it yourself.’

  It transpired that Gary had a definitive record of all their marital disputes, dated and filed in chronological order. At some point he was planning to cross-reference them by subject index as well. Sometimes a fight might look like it was building, and he’d activate the Voice Record application only to feel a slight sense of disappointment when Linda said something conciliatory and then he’d have to delete the file.

  This was the only relationship I had witnessed first hand since my memory loss, and it perplexed me that this must be a stronger marriage than my own failed one. What had been the ancient fault line that eventually ripped Maddy and me apart, I wondered; what was it that had ultimately brought our house crashing down?

  That night I could hear the noisy love-making coming from the next room and wondered if Gary recorded that on his iPhone as well. They were as emphatic in their love-making as they were in their fighting; one minute they were screaming in anger, the next in ecstasy. Gary and Linda seemed to have a bipolar marriage.

  I resolved that as part of my mission to seize control of my life, I would eventually have to move out of Gary and Linda’s house and find somewhere more peaceful. Basra, perhaps. Plus, I worried that I was outstaying my welcome. Earlier in the day Linda had been hoovering in my room when she suddenly came into the living room looking very agitated. ‘Why is there a huge electric hedge trimmer hidden under Baby’s cot?’

  ‘Oh, that? Oh, yeah, there’s a perfectly simple explanation—’

  ‘It’s a yard of razor
-sharp steel! What if Baby had crawled on to it?’

  ‘The baby,’ said Gary without looking up.

  I felt Linda’s scenario was a little unlikely. ‘Well, to be fair, the baby isn’t actually going to be born for quite a long time—’

  ‘What if Baby had plugged it in and played with it?’

  ‘The baby.’

  With their new arrival now only six months away, I felt it was time to give the parents a little bit of space to shout at each other in peace. It had been a few weeks since the debutant Vaughan had first been presented to society and already I was gaining in confidence. To begin with I had felt like a gatecrasher at my old life. And not just some uninvited student at a chaotic corridor party, but worse than that – like a stoned Hell’s Angel with mirror shades gatecrashing a genteel dinner party in the Home Counties.

  I had, however, found that I had quickly developed a new skill: I could measure the degree of shared personal history on a new face. All these people were strangers to me, yet their eyes revealed different levels of expectation. Those who had known me for years seemed to plead for some sort of recognition or acknowledgement, whereas the indifferent glance of casual acquaintances demanded nothing in return.

  ‘Hello, Vaughan, you look well. Great to have you back,’ said the receptionist at my old school as I walked into the building, and I could judge exactly how well she had known me. Rather helpfully, Jane Marshall wore a card around her neck that told you her name, her job and that the school needed to invest in a better digital camera.

  I had made sure I knew the principal’s name before I came back to the school, but now I didn’t know whether to call him ‘Peter’ or ‘Mr Scott’. He had personally undertaken the job of welcoming me back and talking to me about my ‘reintegration into the school community’. The two of us were walking around the corridors, giving me a chance to meet staff and ‘refamiliarize’ myself with the building. Everyone was behaving so normally, they’d obviously had a serious talk about behaving normally. In the school office, one administrator hurriedly removed the sign above her computer saying, You don’t have to be mad to work here, but it helps. Each of them smiled and proffered a warm hello as I passed, and then got back to pretending to work. And in the background was the sound of furious keyboard tapping – the office communication system must have nearly crashed with the weight of gossipy messages flying back and forth about whether I was faking the whole thing.

  I had been paid in full for all the time I had been off on leave, and today there would be a meeting at which we’d discuss what work I might realistically be able to undertake.

  ‘I’ve been re-reading the syllabus – I’m keen to start teaching as soon as possible,’ I declared.

  ‘No hurry,’ said Peter, or Mr Scott, regarding me with some surprise. ‘You take as long as you need.’

  ‘No, really. If my classes are being covered by supply teachers, I feel I owe it to the students to get back to work a.s.a.p.’

  ‘Goodness. You really have forgotten everything, haven’t you?’

  And two pupils disappearing round a corner shouted ‘Oi, Boggy Vaughan! Where’s your bog-brush?!’ and then ran away laughing.

  ‘Boggy Vaughan?’

  ‘I’m sure it’s just a very small minority of students who call you that. You’re known for many other things here. Apart from the one time you cleaned all the toilets.’

  ‘All right, Boggy? Good to see you,’ said a dinner lady, walking past us.

  ‘Why did I clean all the toilets?’

  ‘To set an example to all the students about “declining lavatory standards”. You got a bit of a bee in your bonnet and made a big announcement. I wouldn’t have held up a toilet brush in assembly myself, but you got their attention, I suppose.’

  ‘Hey, Boggy Vaughan’s back!’ came a voice from the atrium as we passed.

  ‘Oh, well, I’m sure it’ll blow over …’

  ‘Maybe. It’s been a couple of years now. To be frank, Vaughan, you seemed to lose your confidence around then. I know you were having problems at home, but you stopped loving your job as well. And kids can always tell.’

  Perhaps I wasn’t quite ready to face the students just yet. I explained to Peter, or Mr Scott, that I had further appointments with the neurologist, so they agreed that I might perhaps start with a little administration in the school office. This would be made official by the Occupational Health Officer as soon as he was back from sick leave. But I was starting work again! This was my place of work. I popped to the toilets on my way out. ‘These are disgusting!’ I thought. ‘Why can’t somebody just clean them?’

  Although there was part of me saying, ‘Well, I wouldn’t be starting from here’, I was still excited to be accumulating the attributes that made up a whole person. I had a job, a family; slowly I was groping my way towards some sort of purpose. Today really was the first day of the rest of my life. I still didn’t have a past, but like everything else in the modern world, you simply had to look it up on the internet. I had forced myself not to look at my online memoir for forty-eight hours, but that evening I logged on to see that the picture had changed completely. A second email to everyone requesting that they write something had obviously had some effect, as now my life story was filling out. Although not everyone had entered into the exercise with the strict neutrality or serious academic rigour that I had hoped for.

  Jack Joseph Neil Vaughan, commonly known as ‘Vaughan’, was born on 6 May 1971. His father Keith Vaughan became a senior officer in the Royal Air Force while his mother had worked as a bi-lingual secretary. With his father being posted overseas, Vaughan spent his childhood in many different parts of the world. He attended Bangor University where he got a 2.2 in History, unlike his friend Gary Barnett who got a 2.1 (and a distinction in his dissertation). The two friends played football together, although Vaughan soon became a substitute while Gary became the top scorer for two seasons in a row and was runner-up as the player of the season.

  In his first year at Bangor, he met his future wife, Madeleine. (MORE HERE PLEASE) Maddy is hot, she is a MILF. Hands off! She’s my secret fantasy, not yours, you perv, even if she’s like 35 or something.

  Vaughan and Maddy have two children: Jamie who is 13 and Dillie who is 11. In 2001 Mr Vaughan began teaching history at William Blake Secondary School in Wandsworth, which became Wandle Academy. Last year he got to go on the history field trip despite a superior application from another teacher who had actually achieved better results than him. His nickname is ‘Boggy Vaughan’ because he loves cleaning the bog. He is the Bogmeister General, Bogimus Maximus, the Boginator. Boggy! Boggy! Boggy! Oi! Oi! Oi!

  Vaughan was a speaker at the ‘Lessons Worth Behaving For’ Conference at Kettering and was very boring. Like, dull, dull, dull. Not content to just drone on about a load of deadly dull data, he did a PowerPoint presentation where he had written up all the deadly dull data, and then at the end handed out a printout of all the same deadly dull data. Boggy Vaughan’s all right coz he didn’t tell the police when we nicked that llama from the City Farm.

  Mr Vaughan’s home is four doors down from Mr Kenneth Oakes, one of Britain’s leading exponents of Close Magic, member of the Magic Circle and popular choice for corporate events and family parties; ‘a great traditional magic act’ says The Stage. Vaughan plays 5 a side football every Tuesday night and has all the grace and skill of a pissed ostrich. Vaughan lives in South London. His birthday is May 6th. Hello, Vaughan, long time no see, mate! Sorry to leave this message here, but Gary said something about you wanting everyone to write stuff about your life and shit – he was trying to make out you were off your nut or something which I knew must be one of his wind-ups! Anyway, tell us where you want people to write stuff and I’ll give it a shot! Cheers, mate! Karl

  I went to bed that night telling myself that the past was past and there was nothing I could do to change it. Apart from deleting the bit about how boring I was at Kettering – I could change that bit. And quit
e so many references to how bad at football I was – it didn’t need all of those. Or even one reference really; it was not worth mentioning. Did the high level of sarcasm and mockery demonstrate affection and confidence in a shared sense of humour? And why did they call Maddy a ‘MILF’, whatever that was?

  I later Googled the word on Linda’s computer. That left me with some explaining to do.

  Chapter 12

  IT IS THE early 1990s, and Madeleine and I have been a couple for less than a year. Maddy has gone to Brussels with a friend. When she checks in at the hotel, the concierge says there is an urgent letter already waiting for her. She opens the envelope to find the battered postcard of the leprechaun still raising a pint of Guinness to her. I imagine her laughing, and maybe explaining the context to her bemused friend. But she never ever mentions it to me.

  Many months after that, I receive a huge mystery parcel in the post. I set about cutting through the excessive tape, only to find that inside is another, slightly smaller, cardboard box. Inside that is some packing material protecting a posh presentation case. I open this to find a gift-wrapped present. After a dozen layers, I finally get through to a small embossed envelope, and although by now I realize that someone is playing an elaborate joke on me, it still has not occurred to me that I am about to get back the ludicrous postcard that I was supposed to have sent to Great-auntie Brenda.

  And so the iconic symbol was passed back and forth down the years, with neither of us ever mentioning the game to the other. That had quickly become one of the unwritten rules. The recipient would never ring up and say, ‘Oh, you got me there!’ I would simply smile to myself at the ingenuity of my partner, hide the card away and then bide my time as I plotted an even more elaborate and surprising way of placing it back into Maddy’s custody. Receipt of the card meant that it was now that person’s responsibility to remember to post this bloody thing to Great-auntie Brenda, even though Great-auntie Brenda had long since died and the address on the card was now occupied by a family from Bangladesh – the task was still effectively the custodian’s responsibility unless it could be planted on the other person when they least expected it.