When John at last found the courage to tell Mary that he was having an affair with Jane, her reaction shocked him. He of course had no idea that she had known about the affair for months. ‘What?’ he asked in astonishment. ‘Yes, that was what I said,’ said Mary calmly. ‘I said, Go ahead and marry her. I’ll give you the divorce. She’ll make you much happier than I ever could.’ There was no hint of the old sarcasm that she had honed to an art. The statement was as astounding for its lack of emotion as for the unexpectedness of its message.

He could only stare at her. It was surreal—the quiet agreement that he could only have dreamt about, freeing him forever, instead of the screaming, tears, hysterics, he had expected and braced himself for. He had in fact planned and rehearsed for that dreaded moment with extreme care—the confession, the begging for forgiveness (he was prepared to kneel before her), the request for a divorce, in that sequence. Then, in as even a voice as he could manage, he would make the offer of a most generous settlement, far more generous than any shrewd lawyer could wangle out of an errant husband for his wronged wife, in court. But there she was, sitting before him, her eyes downcast, her hands folded on her lap, looking just a little tired and sad, promising him she would co-operate all the way.

It unnerved him, throwing him completely out of gear. Now he was floundering, unsure of what was happening.

‘But why?’ he asked at last.

‘Why what?’ she said dispiritedly, raising her head to look at him.

‘I mean, I expected you to be shocked, to be angry with me, and rightly so, for I’ve done wrong by you, I’ve—’ He almost shouted out: ‘Scream at me, curse me, that would make me feel better!’

She put up a feeble hand to stop him. ‘No, please,’ she said wearily. ‘I don’t want to hear all that. It’s no use now. You have always been a good husband, I wish I had been a better wife to you, I’m just so sorry—’ Her voice trailed off in what sounded like a sob.

Now was his turn to stop her. ‘No, don’t say that, please don’t say that,’ he cried in anguish, suddenly shocked by the double perfidy of his position: he was the sinner transformed in an instant into the sinned, receiving praise when it should have been blame, receiving an apology when it should have been the wildest imprecations hurled at his faithless self.

He wanted to tell her that he too wished he could have been a better husband to her, that he had been unhappy for some time, but it was not her fault, it was all his, he should have been more open with her, more attentive, should have communicated more; that he had been struggling with depression, that he even had suicidal thoughts …. And then he had met Jane.

He had dreaded her asking about Jane and their affair, and yet had wanted it, for the whole truth to be out, for a once-and-for-all unburdening of the secret that had been building up in him, even if it pained her. He wanted her to know above all else, that he could not live without Jane, and therefore divorce was the only way out for both of them. He was ready for a storm to break over his head, and when it was all over, there would be the practical business of the divorce, the legal procedures, the representation by lawyers, the proper closing of their fifteen-year, childless marriage, and the opening of a new phase in life for himself as well for her: she had always wanted to start a real estate business with some family members, and the settlement would more than provide for that.

But instead of the bruising, cleansing storm, there was only a vague, grey miasma that followed him everywhere, suffocating him. Each time he tried to talk to her about the matter, she silenced him, always shaking her head and saying, ‘What’s the use? I told you you could go ahead with the divorce proceedings. I won’t kick up a fuss. I promise you I won’t. That’s the least I can do for not having been a good wife.’ And then he had to assure her that that wasn’t at all true, hating the feelings of guilt that sickened him to his stomach, hating her for causing them, hating himself for hating her, caught in an impossible maelstrom of bitter confusion that threatened to suck him into its toxic depths.

The confusion was all the greater for her redoubling her efforts to be a better wife. She did it in small ways, such as taking over the ironing of his shirts from the maid because he had once complained that they weren’t properly ironed, and staying up very late one night to make him a special herbal brew because of his persistent sore throat and quietly leaving it on his bedside table before she went to her own room. He had just returned home from his mistress’s bed to be greeted by this act of wifely devotion, and could only mutter a shamefaced ‘Thank you’. In a dream that night, he had flung the bowl of brew at her and shouted, ‘Leave me alone!’; it hit her on the forehead.

One day as he was leaving the house for the office, he told her as matter-of-factly as he could that he had already instructed his lawyer to start the divorce proceedings. She said nothing, and he thought he saw her lifting her face and holding it up for a full minute for only one evident purpose: to prevent the tears from flowing down her cheeks. In the car, hardly listening to the chauffeur who was telling him something, he tried to rid his mind of the image of that resolute face, white as a sheet, the eyes wide and unblinking, to hold back the rapidly forming tears. He hated himself and her, more than ever then, and when he reached the office and had a call from Jane asking why he hadn’t returned her call, he felt some relief in shouting at her, something he had never done before.

He came home that evening to find his wife applying some cream on an apparent injury on her arm, that she didn’t want him to see, because as soon as he came into the kitchen, she turned her back. ‘What’s that?’ he demanded. It was a bad burn; she had been careless with the pot of herbal soup that she had been boiling for him. He said between his teeth, ‘I don’t want that damn stuff,’ and she said quietly, ‘You need to take it for a week for that sore throat to be healed completely.’ He wanted to take her to the nearest clinic to see about the burn, but she insisted she was all right. ‘Do as you wish,’ he said and stormed out the room.

‘I have made an appointment for you with my lawyer,’ he told her one evening shortly afterwards, not wanting to look at the ugly burn mark on her arm, an angry, raw, disfiguring splotch on her fragile skin. He softened the apparent harshness of the statement by adding, ‘You can of course make known your wishes to him, and he will ensure that they are granted.’ The formality of tone needed more softening, but he wasn’t sure of what next to do or say, and left the room abruptly.

The next day, he found her crumpled on the bathroom floor, a bottle of pills in her hand. With a horrified gasp, he wrenched the bottle from her and found, to his relief that it was some medication prescribed by the family doctor. ‘What’s it for? How long have you been taking it?’ he demanded. Slowly, he forced the details out of her. She had been diagnosed with what could be a liver ailment. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he said severely, and was filled with self-reproach for the unreasonableness of the question: he had been too busy in these days of finalizing the divorce to listen to anything she might have wanted to tell him.

On the day she was to have put the final signature on a document prepared by his lawyer, she suddenly collapsed as she was leaving the house. A neighbour called an ambulance, and she was rushed to hospital. He was only informed by the neighbour when he returned home. ‘Why didn’t you—’, he exploded, and the neighbour said nervously, ‘She told me not to. She said it wasn’t anything serious, and not to disturb you.’.

He called Jane that night to say that he had instructed his lawyer to withdraw the application, until his wife was out of hospital. She shouted, ‘You fool! You know what? It’s all a ruse! Can’t you see—’ He shouted back, ‘Look, my wife’s in a bad state, everything’s a mess, so don’t make things worse for me by talking that way!’ and slammed down the phone.

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About Vignettes...

A continuing flow of little, readable pieces that will constitute what I feel is an important 'legacy of values' to leave behind. Read more about Vignettes...