Douglas Kennedy - A Special Relationship

As we toured the area, and seemed to be passing a nonstop procession of pushchairs and strollers and Volvo station wagons with baby seats, we started shooting each other glances of amused disbelief... as if to say, 'How the hell did we end up playing this game?'

'It's bloody Nappy Valley', Tony finally said with a mordant laugh. 'Young families indeed. We're going to seem like geriatrics when we move in'.

'Speak for yourself', I said, nudging him.

When we reached the house, and met the estate agent, and started walking through every room, I watched him taking it all in, trying to gauge his reaction.

'Looks exactly like the house I grew up in', he finally said, then added, 'But I'm sure we could improve on that'.

I launched into a design-magazine monologue, in which I painted extensive verbal pictures about its great potential once all the post-war tackiness was stripped away.

It was the loft conversion that won him over. Especially after I said that I could probably raid a small stock-market fund I had in the States to find the £7000 that would pay for the study he so wanted, to write the books he hoped would liberate him from the newspaper that had clipped his wings.

Or, at least, that's what I sensed Tony was thinking after our first two weeks in London. Maybe it was the shock of doing a desk job after nearly twenty years in the field. Maybe it was the discovery that newspaper life at Wapping was an extended minefield of internal politics. Or maybe it was his reluctant admission that being the Foreign Editor was, by and large, an 'upper echelon exercise in bureaucracy'. Whatever the reason, I did get the distinct feeling that Tony wasn't at all readjusting to this new office-bound life into which he'd been dropped. Anytime I raised the issue, he would insist that all was well... that he simply had a lot on his mind, and was just trying to find his feet amidst such changed circumstances. Or he'd make light of our newfound domesticity. Like when we repaired to a wine bar after viewing the house, and he said, 'Look, if the whole thing gets too financially overwhelming, or we just feel too damn trapped by the monthly repayment burden, then to hell with it - we'll cash in our chips and sell the damn thing, and find jobs somewhere cheap and cheerful, like The Kathmandu Chronicle'.

'Damn right', I said, laughing.

That night, I finally got to show my husband off to my one London friend - as Margaret invited us over for dinner. It started well - with much small talk about our house-to-be, and how we were settling in to London. At first, Tony managed great flashes of charm - even though he was tossing back substantial quantities of wine with a deliberate vehemence that I had never seen before. But though I was a little concerned by this display of power drinking, it didn't initially seem to be impeding his ability to amuse, especially when it came to telling tales about his experiences under fire in assorted Third World hell holes. And he also kept everyone entertained with his own wry, damning comments on Englishness. In fact, he'd won Margaret over - until the conversation turned political and, shazam, he went into an anti-American rant which sent her husband Alexander on the defensive, and ended up alienating everyone. On the way home, he turned to me and said, 'Well, I think that went awfully well, don't you?'

'Why the hell did you do that?' I asked.

Silence. Followed by one of his languid shrugs. Followed by twenty additional minutes of silence as the taxi headed east to Wapping. Followed by more silence as we prepared for bed. Followed by the arrival of breakfast in bed courtesy of Tony the next morning, and a kiss on the head.

'Drafted a little thank you card to Margaret', he said. 'Left it on the kitchen table... post it if you like it... okay?'

Then he left for the office.

The card was written in Tony's illegible hieroglyphics but after the second go, I was able to crack the code.

Dear Margaret:

Wonderful meeting you. Splendid food. Splendid chat. And tell your husband I did so enjoy our head-to-head on matters political. I do hope it didn't get too heated for all concerned. I plead 'in vino stupidus'. But what is life without a spirited argument?

Hope to repay the hospitality soon.

Yrs...

Naturally, I posted it. Naturally, Margaret rang me the next morning when it arrived and said, 'May I speak my mind?'

'Go on...'

'Well, as far as I'm concerned, his note gives new meaning to the expression "charming bastard". But I'm sure I've spoken out of turn'.

It didn't bother me. Because Margaret had articulated another emerging truth about Tony - he had a cantankerous underside... one which he largely kept hidden from view, but which could make a sudden, unexpected appearance, only to vanish from view again. It might just be a fast, angry comment about a colleague on the paper, or a long exasperated silence if I started going on a little too much about house hunting matters. Then, a few minutes later, he'd act as if nothing had happened.

'Hey, everyone gets a little moody, right?' Sandy said when I told her about my husband's periodic dark moments. 'And when you think of the changes you guys are having to deal with...'

'You're right, you're right', I said.

'I mean, it's not like you've discovered he's bi-polar'.

'Hardly'.

'And you're not exactly fighting all the time'.

'We rarely fight'.

'And he doesn't have fangs or sleep in a coffin?'

'No - but I am keeping a clove of garlic and a crucifix handy under the bed'.

'Good marital practice. But hey, from where I sit, it sounds like you're basically not doing too badly for the first couple of months of marriage... which is usually the time when you think you've made the worst mistake of your life'.

I certainly didn't feel that. I just wished Tony could be a little more articulate about what he was really feeling.

Only I suddenly didn't have enough time on my hands to consider my feelings about our new-fangled life together. Because two days after the dinner with Margaret, our offer on the house was accepted. After we paid the deposit, it was I who organized the housing survey, and arranged the mortgage, and found a contractor for the loft and the extensive decorative work, and chose fabrics and colours, and did time at IKEA and Habitat and Heals, and also haggled with plumbers and painters. In between all these nest-building endeavours, I also happened to be dealing with my ever-expanding pregnancy - which, now that the morning sickness was long over, had turned into less of a discomfort than I had expected.

Once again, Margaret had been brilliant when it came to answering my constant spate of questions about the state of being pregnant. She also gave me the low-down on eventually finding a nanny once my maternity leave was over and I was back at work. And she also explained the workings of the National Health Service, and how to register myself at my local doctor's office in Putney. It turned out to be a group practice, where the receptionist made me fill out assorted forms and then informed me that I had been assigned to a certain Dr Sheila McCoy.

'You mean I can't choose my own doctor?' I asked the receptionist.

'Course you can. Any doctor in the surgery you like. So if you don't want to see Dr McCoy...'

'I didn't say that. I just don't know if she's the right doctor for me'.

'Well, how will you know until you've seen her?' she asked.

I couldn't argue with that logic but, as it turned out, I did like Dr McCoy - a pleasant, no-nonsense Irish woman in her forties. She saw me a few days later, asked a lot of thorough, no-nonsense questions, and informed me that I would be 'assigned' an obstetrician... and if I didn't mind crossing the river into Fulham, she was going to place me under the care of a man named Hughes.