Open Writing

Murmurings of “Brave man. Brave man,” had been audible as they’d walked down the aisle at their wedding, I remembered. But here they were, twenty years later, sat at our dinner table, still laughing with each other and sporadically displaying unconscious, subtle touches of affection. Was he a brave man or had he simply been a wise man in choosing a strong woman who was not afraid to speak her mind to be his wife? After all, Cat Stevens famously sang, “Give me a hard headed woman – one who’ll make me make my bed.” In taking her on though, he had needed to be a confident man with all his self-esteem in tact; able to give as good as he got.

Part of their secret to a lasting, fun relationship seemed to be communication. At the dinner party, they were the two sparking witticisms off each other. At one point he even licked his forefinger and chalked up a notch in the air, a victory. He had not been threatened by her sarcastic, spot on observation, merely challenged to outsmart it. Mind you, they were always careful to never accuse each other of anything directly, retaining the other’s dignity and respect at all times. It was the three or four things that they deliberately did not say to each other each day which helped maintain the friendship. Clever banter seemed to keep the marriage from becoming a monotonous monogamy.

I couldn’t help contrasting this with another couple sharing our meal. He had been showing signs of becoming an entrenched bachelor but his mother had had other ideas and she had arranged for him to marry a Yugoslavian girl, who spoke almost no English and whose visa was about to expire if she didn’t find a man with an Australian passport. He had been most compliant about this as he was already in his mid thirties and had not had many takers as his social skills had been severely stunted by being sent off to boarding school when he was five years old. He seemed content enough as he now had someone to cook his meals and keep him warm at night but communication between them was inevitably extremely basic. Still, I thought to myself, seeing as how little some couples communicate even when they do speak the same language, perhaps they are better off. If one is not able to express one’s expectations then perhaps there is less opportunity for disappointment and as a result, more harmony. Each to their own.

It could be argued that it was Bruce from next door who had the best communication skills of all. Certainly his wife was left in no doubt as to exactly what he required of her. Rocking back on his chair and taking a swig of his beer, Bruce summed it up for us in his ocker fashion. “Mate, I reckon my ideal woman is someone who takes out the garbage and has a vow of silence in front of the cricket. Strewth, even if you are married to a nagger, at my age changing partners is like changing phone companies – too much hassle.”

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