by Simon Bourke
She sat down beside him, the bench rocking gently from the added weight, and studied him closely. He was still as handsome as ever: deep brown eyes, that strong jawline she so admired, and the thick black hair which showed no sign of greying or receding as he entered his thirties. But he looked different; she could see it now. This was probably the first time in months she’d looked at him, really looked at him. He looked tired, but it was more than that; it was as if the life was being sucked out of him, his essence draining away, leaving nothing behind but the shell of a man. How had she not noticed this before now?
“Is everything okay, Malc?”
Again her words barely registered. A shiver ran down her spine; she was really worried now.
“Why don’t you come inside, Malcolm? Spend some time with Jonathan?” She took his hands in hers, looking him up and down, hoping for clues, a sign, anything to help her understand what was happening.
“I – ” he began.
“Yes, love, what it is? You can tell me anything, you know that.”
He paused, overwhelmed by the enormity of his feelings. He turned to look at her.
“I ... I ... I can’t take it anymore, Margie. I just can’t bloody take it.”
Tears welled in his eyes. As his face seemed about to collapse he buried his head in her chest, directing his sobs there instead. Margaret’s maternal instincts, by now well-sharpened, kicked in. She took him in her arms, gently stroking his hair as she tried to pacify him.
“Whatever it is, we’ll get through it, don’t you worry about that,” she said reassuringly over his muffled cries.
But what the hell was it? What couldn’t he take anymore? It was her fault. She should have seen this coming, noticed the changes in his behaviour, but she couldn’t remember the last time they had talked – really talked. Yes, they spoke to one another, but only casually, and as for sex: she vaguely recalled a drunken coupling on New Year’s Eve, but nothing since. She had neglected her husband and now here he was, like a child in her arms. This was what happened when men were left to their own devices.
She brought, almost carried, him inside and laid him down on the couch. He was deathly pale and trembling all over. Margaret covered him with a blanket and put the kettle on before returning to his side.
“Malcolm, dear, you must try and talk to me. I’m getting worried now. What is it?”
He lay there, curled up in the foetal position, his teeth chattering as he shivered.
“Will I call the doctor?” she asked.
“NO! No doctor,” he shouted, suddenly becoming animated.
“Well, what can I do, then?” She touched his brow; it was thick with sweat.
“I’m not well, Margie. I’m not well,” he said with an effort.
“You’re ill? What is it?” Her concern heightened as she imagined cancer and other fearsome, terminal illnesses.
Malcolm gritted his teeth and gathered himself before he spoke again. “Yes, I’m ill. I’m so fucking ill I can’t even provide for my own family, that’s how ill I am.”
Margaret was shocked to hear him speak this way. She rarely swore, but she was a potty-mouthed heathen compared to her husband.
“You’re not making any sense, Malcolm.”
He looked at her sadly, with pity, then with great effort he pulled himself up to a seated position. He drew his knees in front of him, wrapped his arms around them and perched his head atop them so that he peeped out at her like a child.
Margaret squeezed in beside him and began gently rubbing his shoulders. She would wait for as long as it took. After a time he seemed to come round, the worst apparently past.
“A drink of water,” he croaked and she rushed to the kitchen to get one. It was only then she realised she hadn’t thought about Jonathan once during this entire episode. That must have been how Malcolm felt every day: of secondary concern, a mere distraction while the more important family member was tended to.
When she returned, he had squatted down beside his son’s playpen.
“Here’s your water, dear.”
He thirstily gulped down the entire glass before going to the kitchen to fill another. Then he took Margaret by the arm and sat her down on the couch.
“Margie, we need to talk.”
*
It all came tumbling out. It was work, just work; nothing else. She was relieved, imagined it had been something worse, something much worse, but it was bad enough.
He had worked for the same company for the past twelve years: Betanide, one of the region’s largest providers of pharmaceutical goods. Starting out as a warehouse hand, he had worked his way through the ranks. He had taken extra training courses, availing of whatever was on offer, and eventually elevated himself upstairs with the suits. His progression continued, moving through customer services to sales, and even getting his own office. That had been the end of the line as far as he was concerned; he had no desire to move further up the chain. The money he earned was excellent, and with what Margaret earned from her job in the florists they brought in more than enough to live a life of relative luxury. That had all changed when Jonathan arrived. Margaret gave up her job to become a stay at home mum and suddenly he was the sole breadwinner. He still earned enough for them all to live off comfortably but things were different now; he wasn’t working so they could afford a holiday to the Maldives, he was doing it to sustain a new life, to ensure this little person they’d brought into their lives was cared for.
Suddenly there was all this pressure, all these responsibilities. He thought he’d been ready, had presumed he’d just adapt to fatherhood and that he’d thrive in his new role. But it was just the opposite; he felt trapped, cornered into something he wasn’t prepared for. His job, which he’d once enjoyed, now became a grind. He toiled his way through the days, getting through them with grim determination and not much else. He was used to clocking off at five in the evening and forgetting all about work until the following morning, but he was providing for a family now and couldn’t afford to be so lax. He had to be on the ball, make sure his standards didn’t slip – one mistake, one cock-up, and it would all go pear-shaped. How would they survive if he got sacked? On the dole?
His mind was constantly on his work. He arrived home each evening to his wife and son, to the perfect family he’d always dreamed of having, but all he could think of was meeting his targets and getting that next big bonus. And he couldn’t switch off. Even at night, while he slept, he thought about work. He had nightmares: disastrous scenarios where he was sacked for losing an important client; no severance pay, no references, just get out and don’t come back. He didn’t realise that the reality was completely different. He had become so dedicated to his work, so determined to improve his sales figures, that his superiors had taken note. They summoned him to their offices, congratulated him on his stellar work, and asked whether he would be interested in a new role: Chief Operations Officer. It sounded terrifying. He didn’t want it; all that extra responsibility, more hours. No, thank you, he was quite happy where he was. But then he thought of his family, his new son and his wife. Wouldn’t they like it if Daddy made more money? They could get a new car. Jonathan could go to the very best schools, have piano lessons, whatever he wanted.
He took the job. It wasn’t even up for debate. He told his wife about it over dinner that night; told her rather than asked her. He knew it was a decision he had to make by himself. Naturally she was thrilled, but it wasn’t the joyous occasion it would have been a couple of years previously. Already he could feel the pressure intensifying, the walls closing in around him. He’d hoped it would be a cushy number, that he could be one of those middle-management types who spent half their time dining out, enjoying liquid lunches. But those hopes were dashed from day one; the hours were long and the work demanding. Not only was he worrying about his own targets and his own goals, he was now worrying about everyon
e else’s too. He had become a company man; someone who checked the stock exchange to see how the business was faring, someone who lived or died by this institution into which he had become embedded. No longer was he a cog driving a small part of the wheel onwards; now he was a large rivet upon which the whole wheel depended, and without his input it would grind to a halt. This had never been what he’d wanted.
That wasn’t even the worst of it. He now had to make decisions which affected members of staff, those who had once been his colleagues but were now mere underlings, dispensable components of the wheel. He was a suit now, no longer one of the lads. His friends avoided him at lunch, found excuses to sit elsewhere, leaving him with the other executives. He had nothing in common with those people, though, cringed when they used phrases like ‘touch base’ and ‘close of play’. He had no desire ever to touch base or close any play; he just wanted to be back at his old desk at the nine-to-five. A drone, that’s what he was by nature. That was all he’d ever been cut out for.
But there was a child to think about now. He was building a future for them all, and he couldn’t deny that the money was great. Only the best for our Jonathan, he’d remind himself as he drove to work on the brink of tears. He couldn’t tell anyone how he was feeling, least of all his wife. She was the happiest he’d ever seen her, and how could he spoil that for her? So he struggled on, growing more miserable by the day. His sleep suffered, and so did his work. He began to suffer from chest pains, palpitations and dizziness. Was he on the verge of a heart attack? Maybe that would be for the best; at least then he wouldn’t have to endure this hell for a moment longer. He should have gone to a doctor, but he couldn’t afford to take the time off. It was a busy time of the year, they needed him. Instead he decided to self-medicate. He’d only ever been a social drinker, but alcohol seemed a viable solution at this point. Bottles of vodka were spirited into his office and carefully poured into the hip flask he kept hidden in his breast-pocket. It helped, a bit. Allowed him to relax. The targets, the goals and the pressure were all still there; he just didn’t worry about them like he used to.
But his bosses weren’t stupid. They noticed the change in the bright go-getter in whom they had placed so much faith. Where once he’d been assiduous and alert, he was now lackadaisical and slovenly. His performance suffered, and in turn the company suffered. A few careful chats seemed to clear the air. Come to us, they said, if there’s anything troubling you then we need to know about it. But he could never tell them. What would they think? He’d barely been in the job a month and already he was falling apart. They’d demote him, maybe even fire him, and what would happen then? His child would starve to death, that’s what. So he muddled on as best he could. He tried to control his drinking, aiming at relaxed merriment, but sometimes he went too far; it became obvious to all but the most myopic of observers that he was drunk at work.
The tone of the chats changed. The friendly one-to-ones were replaced by stern reprimands and written warnings. He promised to improve, told them he was just going through a rough patch, but it was all just words; what he really wanted was to be put out of his misery. He would gladly have accepted a public flogging, a beheading, whatever dastardly method of punishment they could come up with. Instead they put him on gardening leave, told him to get some help and that his job would be there if and when he was ready to return. That had been three weeks ago, and Malcolm hadn’t told his wife. He’d just carried on as normal.
Every morning he’d gone through his usual routine; reading the paper over breakfast, spending a few precious minutes with his son, before pecking his wife on the cheek and cheerily heading off to work: a promising young executive with a bright future ahead of him. Then he would drive to the park, find a nice bench and take the hip flask from his pocket. As soon as the acrid warmth hit his stomach, he felt better; his head would begin to clear and his thoughts form more readily. He found ways to rationalise his behaviour, told himself that this was just a temporary state of affairs and that he’d go back. By the time the pubs would open at noon he’d be already drunk. He’d found a watering-hole suitable for his needs: a quiet spot in a quiet part of town, where the barman didn’t ask questions and the clientele kept to themselves. All the regulars knew him by now; they would nod a greeting as he arrived at five past the hour, and then leave him to his own devices. They understood; it was that kind of place. He would take his seat – he had his own – and nod to the barman. Fill her up and keep them coming until I say otherwise. And when the time would come to leave he’d swap double vodkas for strong black coffees in a desperate, futile attempt to sober up. He’d drive home way over the limit, almost asking to be caught, and carefully turn the key in the door, hoping to disappear up the stairs without being seen. He’d crawl into bed and fall into a fitful, fevered sleep, not waking until his wife joined him hours later. Then he’d creep downstairs, search out the lovingly-cooked dinner prepared for him some hours earlier and eat it, alone and ashamed. Still, it was another day done and his wife was none the wiser.
But he couldn’t hide the truth forever and on this day he had finally succumbed. Sitting in the pub surrounded by fag smoke and broken dreams, he had risen silently from his seat, paid the barman and walked out the door. As he’d driven the short distance to their three-bedroom suburban paradise, he’d felt a strange sense of liberation. Whatever lay ahead could not be any worse than this; the deceit, the shame, the waking nightmare his life had become. Like a man preparing to meet his maker, he’d been ready. On the drive home he’d carefully planned his speech; he would spare her the worst of it, tell her there’d been some trouble at work and he was taking some time off. He’d be intentionally vague; there was no need to worry her. But when he’d seen her coming to greet him, ready to tell him about their son’s latest miraculous feat, he’d folded. He hadn’t been able to do it. He’d retreated to the back garden, hoping she would come to him, that she would somehow save him. And when she had come to him out of love, concern for his well-being, he had crumbled. It had been so long since she or anyone had shown him affection, he had been powerless to resist. Her mere touch had sent him over the edge, all the pent-up emotion rolling out, the floodgates opened.
His initial plan to ‘spare her the worst’ had been quickly forgotten. Now he told her things he had never even admitted to himself: how he sometimes felt jealous of Jonathan and yearned for those summer days when it was just the two of them, how he’d considered ending it all one morning as he drove to a job he hated. He opened up his soul, exposing his darkest, deepest secrets. Through it all she remained silent, staring at him intently and lovingly. Not once did her face betray any sign of disgust, although she must surely have felt some. He had gone beyond caring; let her be disgusted, he deserved it after all. Malcolm purged himself until there was nothing left and he had bled himself dry. Do what you will with me, I am at your mercy.
“God, look at the time,” said Margaret. “You must be starving!”
He looked at his watch: half past ten. Was this still the same day? Had he really begun it on a park bench? He couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten, but he wasn’t particularly hungry.
“How about a fish supper with mushy peas and the works?” she asked, holding the phone, waiting for the go-ahead.
“I can’t think of anything I’d like better,” he answered. It was true; the words ‘fish’ and ‘supper’ resonated in his brain and his stomach rumbled in response.
He listened as she called in the order, hoping she would collect it. He wasn’t ready to face another living soul just yet.
She returned from the hallway and stood over him. Here it comes, he thought, eat your fish supper and get the fuck out of here, you pathetic excuse for a human being. But she cupped his face in her hands, bringing it close to hers.
“We’ll get through this, Malcolm, I promise you.”
“But ...”
“No ‘buts’, we’re in this together. St
arting tomorrow, we’ll look into getting you some help and go from there. Okay?”
He didn’t get a chance to respond. She was gone again, out to the kitchen, rattling knives and forks, cursing the vinegar for being so far back in the cupboard.
“Let’s have it in here, shall we? It’ll make a nice change.” She set down the cutlery on the coffee table, briefly looking in on Jonathan as she went.
“I can’t go back there, Margie; you know that.”
She paused and returned to his side.
“You don’t have to go back there, Malcolm. A man of your skills shouldn’t be wasting away inside an office compartment. See this as a beginning, not an end.”
His collapse had reinvigorated her. She still wanted nothing more than to climb into Jonathan’s playpen and settle down for the night, but now she understood that there were two men in her life. It wasn’t enough to be a mother, she had to be a wife too.
They stuffed themselves on crispy haddock, soggy chips and mushy peas and then went to bed, exhausted from the evening’s events. For the first time in months, Malcolm slept; not the febrile, disturbed sleep of recent times, but a deep slumber full of vivid, dramatic dreams. When he awoke the next morning she wasn’t there, and for a brief second he thought she had left him; drugged him and crept away in the night, never to return. But as he shuffled down the stairs he heard the sounds of mother and son at play. His family was still intact, at least for today.
“Oh, hello, sleepyhead. You finally decided to join us, did you?” His wife smiled up at him from her position on the floor with Jonathan.
“Can’t remember the last time I slept like that,” he said, as much to himself as to her.
“Will you take over here while I get your breakfast?” she asked, going to the kitchen to cook a full English.
Malcolm surveyed the mass of brightly-coloured bricks spread out all over the floor. “What are we doing here then, Jonathan?”