Not a mean bone

Robert Dalvean

Really, I never had anything to complain about. Jim was the perfect husband. For thirty years, he looked after me as if I were his daughter rather than his wife. But I was not only his wife; I was his friend. Actually, he had very few other friends. His temper was a little too sharp for friendships to last long. I ought to know.

Jim was a strict disciplinarian. He used to say, "The Calvinists were right. Spare the rod and spoil the child." I never quite knew what that meant. Certainly, he didn't spare it whenever I went wrong, and oh, how often I did that! I could never get things right. I'd burn the potatoes or forget to put the garbage out. And not only small things like that. Once I rolled our car and was never again allowed to drive it. Another time I put four blankets in the washing machine at once and burned out the motor.

Jim always forgave me, after a time. He hadn't a mean bone in his body. Having been a bricklayer all his working life, he had very powerful hands. His fingers were like sausages. But he never, never hit me with those hands - well, not the whole hand. Instead he'd correct me when I went wrong by flicking me across the cheek with his huge fingers. Not a backhander, you understand. Just a flick. And when once he broke my cheekbone, well, we both knew it was an accident.

Of course, the accidents became more frequent as we grew older, and so did the . . . corrections. The children never understood. They both left home early. Our daughter Katie wouldn't speak to her father at all, and our son Frank used to ring me up and say such things as, "Has he killed you yet?" They never understood. He corrected me because he loved me. That was his way.

As the years passed, something very strange happened. Jim lost all his power. Not only did he stop correcting me but also he himself came to need correction. He would wander and forget and use the wardrobe for a toilet. God forgive me, but the only way I could control him was to give him a sharp slap. The first time I did it, I wanted to rush to confession, but you get used to everything in the end.

And then a day came when I decided to give Jim one last gift. He fell asleep in the backyard amid the roses. I found him and did not wake him. What I did came very naturally. I went into the house and found a long, sharp skewer. Then I went back to Jim, knelt beside him and slid the skewer into the nape of his neck. He was gone in less than a minute. It was the least I could do for a man who, as I said, hadn't a mean bone in his body.