a conversation that was making him a shade uncomfortable? Well, he might prefer to live in his own little Noddy world in which no one – not even his father’s most recent victim – had the temerity to point out that the man was rude; but I’m on the planet too, and I didn’t see why I had to sit beside him in the car all the way home, forbidden to speak of what was uppermost in my mind, or talk about the visit properly. After all, it would have been
interesting
. Had Geoffrey’s father’s behaviour been unusual for him? Or was that always the sort of thing he dealt out to strangers? And, if it were, then when did he turn that rude? Who let him get away with it till it became a habit? Did he have any friends? I would have loved to hear Geoff’s views on why his father acted the way he did.
But Geoff preferred not to think about it. And that, from his point of view, was that.
If he’d been stupid, I am sure I could have let it go. I might even have been able to bring myself – by Doncaster , say – to come out with something emollient: ‘I’m sorry what I said about your dad upset you so.’ (The weasel marital apology: not sorry I said it – just sorry it upset you.) But anybody who can fix a jammed photocopier must have a working brain. So I was just annoyed at Geoff’s sheer stubbornness. I knew from the clipped way he brushed aside my questions on our choice of route that he was trying to make me feel like a naughty child who’d gone too far. And that led to our next argument.
‘Can we change places?’ I asked him after a while.
‘I’m quite all right,’ he said. ‘I’m fine.’
‘I expect you are. It’s just that I would like to drive for a bit, please.’
‘Tilly, we’re nearly there.’
‘I’d like to drive, please. Would you stop the car.’ As if the very road were on my side, up popped the sign for a lay-by. ‘That will be fine,’ I said firmly.
‘Tilly—’
‘It is my car, Geoffrey.’
He’d forgotten that. And, interestingly, that is what swung the matter. He started moving towards the inside lane. In the lay-by, the two of us switched places without exchanging a single word. I know what I was doing. I was refusing to be driven a single mile further by someone who wouldn’t talk to me. It’s a control thing, like picking up the bill after an argument in a restaurant because you can’t bear to be beholden to someone whom you’ve decided you don’t like.
Not speaking seems a whole lot loftier when you are busy changing lanes. After ten miles or so, Geoff started talking. Not about his father. (That would have been too much of a climb-down – not to mention a topic of real interest.) About something utterly bland and forgettable, like weather or cars. But the message was definitely: end of sulk.
Still, I kept concentrating on the road. And when, as we unpacked the car, he tried to wrap up our holiday by saying something really nice, I hurried out of earshot. When he came up to bed I was already pretending to be asleep, though I was back to planning my escape. I lay there with the ‘Sorry, Geoff, this isn’t working’ speech echoing round my brain, and ran through the pros and cons of selling the house and moving to a flat in the city. Finally I dozed, but only as lightly as I could, since I was determined to beat the alarm clock and switch it off before it woke him. In the morning, I didn’t even make toast in case the smell floated up the stairs. And I was safely outside on the doorstep a full ten minutes before the taxi arrived. I was determined not to hear a single word about our future till I had had the time to tell him that we didn’t have one.
I flew up to Aberdeen with every nerve end charged for parting. So I blame the North Sea. Lean with your arms stretched flat along a railing, and stare out. From a rig deck there’s nothing to distract you: no strips of sand, no walkers on the beach, no rocks on which the breakers slap, and slide back down again
interesting
. Had Geoffrey’s father’s behaviour been unusual for him? Or was that always the sort of thing he dealt out to strangers? And, if it were, then when did he turn that rude? Who let him get away with it till it became a habit? Did he have any friends? I would have loved to hear Geoff’s views on why his father acted the way he did.
But Geoff preferred not to think about it. And that, from his point of view, was that.
If he’d been stupid, I am sure I could have let it go. I might even have been able to bring myself – by Doncaster , say – to come out with something emollient: ‘I’m sorry what I said about your dad upset you so.’ (The weasel marital apology: not sorry I said it – just sorry it upset you.) But anybody who can fix a jammed photocopier must have a working brain. So I was just annoyed at Geoff’s sheer stubbornness. I knew from the clipped way he brushed aside my questions on our choice of route that he was trying to make me feel like a naughty child who’d gone too far. And that led to our next argument.
‘Can we change places?’ I asked him after a while.
‘I’m quite all right,’ he said. ‘I’m fine.’
‘I expect you are. It’s just that I would like to drive for a bit, please.’
‘Tilly, we’re nearly there.’
‘I’d like to drive, please. Would you stop the car.’ As if the very road were on my side, up popped the sign for a lay-by. ‘That will be fine,’ I said firmly.
‘Tilly—’
‘It is my car, Geoffrey.’
He’d forgotten that. And, interestingly, that is what swung the matter. He started moving towards the inside lane. In the lay-by, the two of us switched places without exchanging a single word. I know what I was doing. I was refusing to be driven a single mile further by someone who wouldn’t talk to me. It’s a control thing, like picking up the bill after an argument in a restaurant because you can’t bear to be beholden to someone whom you’ve decided you don’t like.
Not speaking seems a whole lot loftier when you are busy changing lanes. After ten miles or so, Geoff started talking. Not about his father. (That would have been too much of a climb-down – not to mention a topic of real interest.) About something utterly bland and forgettable, like weather or cars. But the message was definitely: end of sulk.
Still, I kept concentrating on the road. And when, as we unpacked the car, he tried to wrap up our holiday by saying something really nice, I hurried out of earshot. When he came up to bed I was already pretending to be asleep, though I was back to planning my escape. I lay there with the ‘Sorry, Geoff, this isn’t working’ speech echoing round my brain, and ran through the pros and cons of selling the house and moving to a flat in the city. Finally I dozed, but only as lightly as I could, since I was determined to beat the alarm clock and switch it off before it woke him. In the morning, I didn’t even make toast in case the smell floated up the stairs. And I was safely outside on the doorstep a full ten minutes before the taxi arrived. I was determined not to hear a single word about our future till I had had the time to tell him that we didn’t have one.
I flew up to Aberdeen with every nerve end charged for parting. So I blame the North Sea. Lean with your arms stretched flat along a railing, and stare out. From a rig deck there’s nothing to distract you: no strips of sand, no walkers on the beach, no rocks on which the breakers slap, and slide back down again
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