Over our bedtime cocoa, my wife Margaret and I often used to discuss what each of us might do if our jobs as writers were to dry up. How would we live? How would we earn money?
I used to say I would have a market stall somewhere, buying and selling, starting off with selling my own collections of things. Margaret said she would go out and be a cleaner. There is always work for cleaners, especially someone so quick and efficient.
She was not a slave to cleanliness, did not pride herself on all the nooks and crannies being dust-free, all the paintwork spotless, unlike some of our dear neighbours, but the house always looked clean and bright — mainly because it was colourful and artistic and interesting. That was all her doing. I have no artistic leanings and am colour-blind.
During these past three years, since Margaret’s death in February 2016, it has been one of my biggest struggles, the cause of endless groans and moans, keeping on top of this house, trying to keep it reasonably in order.
She never had a cleaner, even in the years when we had three young children, a large house and she was struggling to write her novels. She always said she did not want to boss any other woman around.
I never realised how much time Margaret spent behind the scenes, just keeping the house ticking over. I also now know how boring it is. I scream with the utter tediousness of it all.
Shiny clean dishes gleam in a dishwasher that has been properly operated
THAT’S IT. I am never using the dishwasher again. Her instructions listed three things I have to shove in at various times: a tablet, rinse aid and some water softener. I opened it and could not work out which were the correct orifices. Or what the flashing lights meant. It would be easier to operate a spacecraft. Not my fault. Her instructions were rubbish.
What is the point of having a dishwasher anyway when I am on my own, eating on my own, usually using the same plate, mug, knife, fork and spoon?
Margaret also pinned long and elaborate instructions over the top of the washing machine, which, of course, I ignored, as I ignore most instructions, convinced I know how things work.
The first time I did the washing I opened the washing machine door, thinking the cycle was finished, and water and wet clothes flooded out, not just over the floor of the downstairs lavatory but right along the hall to the front door. Oh God, how stupid.
Her fault, her rubbish instructions. When you are on your own you can blame anyone. They don’t answer back.
Then I did some ironing, which was a right battle. I could not open the ironing board, so I did the ironing with the ironing board flat on the kitchen floor. My back was aching like hell, with all the bending over.
Yes, I know, it is all pathetic. Even more pathetic and reprehensible is that during more than five decades of marriage I contributed eff-all to our domestic life — neither washing nor wiping, cooking nor cleaning.
My defence, such as it is, is that when we first got married we had divvied up the domestic load and I got, well, very little. Yes, I did the driving, looked after bills and finances, attended to jobbies when things went wrong in the house, which mainly meant ringing a plumber or electrician.
Till my knees went, I did climb up on the roof once a year and check the slates. I cleared drains, mended leaks, shoved black tar stuff on cracks.
And I did the garden — not very well, but I did it.
Young men may do their own ironing these days, but reprehensibly in five decades of marriage I contributed eff-all to our domestic life
When we got married in 1960, it was still that period in social history when men did not do cooking or cleaning or changing nappies. That was my excuse, which I clung to for 55 years, despite the world and my own family moving on.
All that has changed, of course. My son Jake does the cooking in his house and my daughter Flora’s husband is the main cook in their house. My older daughter Caitlin and her partner Nigel take it in turns. I would have called them soft 50 years ago, muttering about them not being real men.
One of the many things Margaret provided for me in our married life was to bring me tea in bed every morning. She would appear, as if by magic, when I was still half asleep and lean over and put the radio on for the Today programme, for I do find putting on the radio terribly exhausting.
Then she would switch on my bedside light, carefully place my mug of tea in the correct place at the correct angle, then just as carefully exit the bedroom, ever so quietly, and close the door.
I would then hear her downstairs, grinding the beans for her cup of coffee. Oft times I can still hear her downstairs when I wake and am still in a half-dream, grinding her coffee. I even imagine I can smell it. Which is mad.
But the best, most lovely thing she did for me, and which I miss terribly, was to run my bath. Oh, I did so love going straight to have my bath, getting in without having to run the water.
Today, it is probably the single most annoying thing that hangs over me every day. The moment I get my eyes open, check I am still alive, then roll back under the blankets again, it then slowly dawns on me that I will have to run my own bath. Oh God.
Our boiler is a right pain. The hot water in the bath tap seems to have a life of its own, suddenly running cold for no reason, turning itself off, or it is suddenly so scorching hot you can’t touch it and have to have the cold on as well to get it right.
Margaret was quite content to sit there, for the whole five or six minutes it takes, to stare out of the window, keeping an eye on the water to regulate it till it was perfect. I don’t do sitting. I don’t do waiting. I have no patience. I have gone through life always in a hurry.
For weeks after she died I tried to sit there stoically, waiting in the bathroom for the bloody bath to fill up. Then I decided to go off and do some little household jobs, rushing back and forth to see it had not run cold.
I come home, go into the kitchen, look in the bread bin and think, What should I make for supper? I know, I will just have some toast
Now I seem to have got some sort of system, setting the hot and cold taps at the right level, then rushing downstairs, opening the curtains, getting the paper out of the front letterbox, putting my muesli into a bowl.
Then I rush back upstairs to the bathroom, check the water has not overflowed, altering the cold tap if necessary.
I then rush into my office and turn on the computer, look to see if any interesting messages have come in overnight.
Sometimes I get distracted if they are too interesting, forget about the bath, then belt like mad to the bathroom to find the water up to the top, which means I can’t get in without flooding the floor. Or behind my back the bath has filled itself with totally cold water.
The worst thing of all is cooking for myself. I hate it.
I come home, go into the kitchen, look in the bread bin and think, What should I make for supper? I know, I will just have some toast. Toast is nice. Toast is good for you. Toast is easy. Finally, when I open the fridge, thinking, No, I can’t make toast for myself yet again, there is often something lovely inside, which wasn’t there before, left by the food fairies.
My three children, and also two of my neighbours, have keys. When they have made something for their evening meal they often do an extra portion — of lasagne, bolognese sauce, quiche, stew, nut roast, or whatever it is they are having. I usually eat half for my meal that
