John Suchet - My Bonnie - How dementia stole the love of my life

I said she doesn’t settle. It is strange, and at first—for some time, in fact—I found it irritating and rather wearying. Why don’t you sit down, love? Sit in an armchair and relax. All right, she would say, and continue her gentle pacing. Do not try to take her outside her world. So now I say nothing. She is content. But I do have the power to alter things. If I close the computer now, get up, say I have finished writing, and go and sit in an armchair, she will come and sit in an armchair with me.

She has been patiently pacing for the last couple of hours while I have been filling you in on my unillustrious past, so the time has come to stop and give some time to her. So if you’ll excuse me…

My first wife Moya and I had a volatile, combustive relationship. Although from totally different backgrounds, our temperaments were rather similar. We were both highly strung, emotional, quick to judgment, with a temper. She came from a Scottish family and was proud of her Celtic blood. I came from, er, lots of different places. Yet we were both, to simplify, ‘artists’ rather than ‘scientists’. We liked books, theatre, films, music. Only problem was we liked totally different books, theatre, films, music to each other. There would be fierce argument about the merits or de-merits of a particular work of art, with measures of intolerance and ridicule thrown in. There was rarely a meeting of minds.

I was 19 when we met and 24 when we married. Ridiculously young, really, but I was the product of a ‘boys only’ education. At prep school the most popular boys were the ones who had a sister who just might come to visit, which would mean a rare sighting of a sublime creature with long hair wearing a skirt and maybe—god, the thrill of expectation —a touch of lipstick. At public school we were expressly forbidden from talking to girls who lived in the town. A boy who had the temerity not only to do that but to date her as well, was expelled between making the date and keeping it. How then to get to know these wonderful creatures? How to approach them, what on earth to say to them? For me even at 18, girls were mysterious and desirable creatures from another planet. I had no idea how to talk to one, let alone how to embark on anything more daring. And so practically the first girl who (finally) allowed me to kiss her became my wife.

My parents could see that, in marrying Moya, I was about to make the mistake of my life. Both tried hard to talk sense into me, to make me change my mind. Does a very young man who has secured an Honours degree in Political Science and Philosophy, who has landed the job of a lifetime at the first attempt, listen to his parents? Some may, but this one did not.

Problem was, Moya knew full well the lengths my parents had gone to in their attempts to stop me marrying her, and so once we were married she insisted I was to have nothing more to do with them. Nothing. I wasn’t to see them, or try to make contact with them in any way. I had a new life now, with her. Even I could see that was a bit extreme, but I let it go. Emotions were running high. I thought in time they would settle on both sides, and life would get back to normal. But it didn’t. She really meant it. I soon learned that even to mention my parents was to invite trouble. Still I did nothing to correct the situation. The birth of our first son, Damian, did little to calm things down. I threw myself into my work, and when we moved out to Henley it put physical distance between me and my ‘old’ family. Always at the back of my mind was the belief that one day matters would correct themselves, but in the meantime it simply became easier to carry on doing nothing. It made for an easier life.

Two more sons, Kieran and Rory, arrived, but I wasn’t allowed to tell their grandparents, never mind take them for a visit. How much longer would this new way of life last? I clung to the belief that it might end at any moment. My worst nightmare was that one of my parents would die before it was rectified. I felt guilty that I was allowing it to happen, but couldn’t think how to resolve it without damaging my increasingly strained marriage.

Meanwhile, my attention had been caught by the young blonde woman who lived in the house at the top of the slope. I had found out her name was Bonnie. She was stunningly beautiful and around her shone an aura of calm. Even before I had exchanged anything more than social pleasantries with her, I knew profoundly, totally, with not a shred of doubt or hesitation, that this would be my ideal woman. Sadly, a woman who could never belong to me. Too bad. I wouldn’t be the first man to find himself in such a position. At the very least, I thought, I would enjoy getting to know her, and derive pleasure from that.

Dreams are cruel and memories hurt. Just before waking this morning, I had the most intense dream about Bonnie. The old days were back. You can imagine. I awoke to feel her getting out of bed and knew I would have to lead her to the bathroom. Black dog depression on my shoulders. I got her dressed, and saw hanging up one of her favourite tops, colourful, beautiful, elegant. Boy, she used to turn heads when she wore that. It has been untouched for years. There is no point in reminding her of it—she would just smile and say yes. I touched it, as I used to, and stroked the buttons I was once so expert at loosening.

At breakfast she stood and walked to the kitchen door. She chuckled and said in a mock Cockney accent, ‘Is that your car?’ ‘Sorry?’ I asked. She repeated it, adding, ‘You know, that’s what those people say, those people, you know the ones, they just came in.’ I laughed and agreed. In fact, it is an annoying ad running on UK television at the moment, and she has memorised the catchphrase.

Good start to the day, triple whammy depression. I snap myself out of it, repeating the mantra—no self-pity, John, no self-pity. But it is so difficult. Here she is again now, just walking in and out of the séjour, while I tap-tap away, conjuring her up in my mind as she was in those long-gone, distant days, when I responded to her every word, every casually administered gesture. In my mind there is one person, in front of my eyes another, different person. It is impossible to stop the tears.

Bonnie and I met socially over the years, as neighbours do. When we were together my senses were heightened, my brain was more alert, my wit quicker, my conversation more sparkling (at least I thought so). She would respond with a serene and gentle smile, and softly spoken words. I thrilled at her accent, the anglicised American tones, the long ‘a’s and audible ‘r’s. Nothing dramatic or obvious. With Bonnie, everything was soft, gentle, subtle. Later, I would relive every word she had said to me. Was there a message, a sign? Was she trying to tell me something secret and important? Of course not, you fool.

At a dinner party at her house some time in the early to mid seventies, I saw a framed photograph of her with three smiling young men. I asked who they were. ‘My brothers,’ she replied. At the back of the group, the tallest had a strikingly handsome face, prematurely greying hair and neat beard. ‘You look so like him,’ I said. Her face lit up. ‘That’s Bob, the eldest. I’m next.’ ‘Nice looking,’ I said, ‘you all are.’ (Bold, I remember thinking, maybe too bold.) To my delight she began to talk about her family. She told me that her father was an executive with US Steel, which had meant moving the family across the US. She told me she had been born in Jersey City, but had lived in Maryland, Alabama, California. ‘In fact, it’s quite sad about Bob,’ she continued. ‘He really loved it in California. We lived in Whittier, just outside Los Angeles—’ ‘Nixon,’ I interjected, ‘he came from there.’ (Shut up, you fool, let her speak.) She nodded. ‘He was doing so well in school, he was academically bright, he was captain of the football team, he had a lovely girlfriend. But then US Steel wanted Dad to come back east. It was a huge wrench for Bob. He kind of gave up, he stopped trying. But he’s fine now. He’s got a lovely wife. In fact, one day you must meet my brothers. They’re bound to come over sooner or later.’