There is a page in each one that is for the mother to write on and it is blank in both and it is going to stay blank, and when they ask me about that I will tell them the truth, which is that I did not think it was mine to fill in.
PART 3 — THE DOCUMENT
In the September of this year Darcey Odell married Marek Thane at a place out past Hollowfield with about two hundred people there.
I knew it was happening. Draymoor is not a big town. Two separate people told me in the same week and both of them were careful about it, which was worse than the news.
I did not care. I want that down plainly because of what comes next.
I had not cared since about the spring of 2023, which is roughly when I stopped waiting for a telephone call and started sleeping properly.
What happened in the October is that a woman called Loreen who does payroll where I work put a form on my desk on a Wednesday morning.
Standard thing. New pension provider, so everybody had to redo next of kin and marital status.
Four boxes. Married. Single. Divorced. Widowed.
And I put the pen on divorced and stopped.
Because I did not actually know.
I sat at a desk in an office at about half nine in the morning with a biro in my hand and could not have told you, under oath, what my own marital status was.
That is what three years of two children under four does. There is a layer of your life that simply does not get processed, and you find out which bits are in it at random moments, usually when somebody hands you a form.
I took it home. I did not look for four days.
Then on the Sunday night, with both of them down, I sat at the kitchen table and looked it up.
Eleven minutes and eleven pounds.
I had assumed. For three years I had assumed, the way you assume, that at some point there had been papers and I had signed something in 2022 when I was signing about forty things, and that it had gone through.
So I went and looked.
It took eleven minutes online and cost eleven pounds.
Darcey Odell and I are married. We have been married since the fourteenth of July 2018 and we have never stopped.
There is no decree. There is no petition that completed. There is nothing.
And on the ninth of September this year, at a venue in Hollowfield, in front of two hundred people, she married Marek Thane.
Both their names, side by side, on a register entry.
I sat in my kitchen with that on a screen at about eleven at night and I did not feel triumphant for one second.
I felt sick, and then I felt something much worse, which took me about four days to identify.
Because the first thing I thought was not she’s committed an offence.
The first thing I thought was: she never even did that.
She could not be bothered to finish it. Three years and she could not be bothered to finish the one piece of paper that would have made it official that she had gone.
PART 4 — PAGE NINE
There was a petition.
She filed one in the November of 2022, seven months after she left.
And it stopped.
I have seen the file now, because I am entitled to and because my solicitor asked for it in the November.
It stopped at the children’s section.
There is a part of that process where you set out the arrangements for any children of the family. Where they live. Who they live with. What contact there is. It is not an interrogation. It is about a page and a half.
She started it twice. There are two attempts on that file, three months apart, and both of them stop at the same place.
Name of child. Date of birth. Current residence.
She got as far as writing Iris and stopped, in the February of 2023.
My solicitor is a woman called Olalla Ferrán who has been doing this for twenty-two years.
She had the file on the desk between us and she turned it round so I could see both attempts, and she put a finger on the second one and did not say anything for a moment.
I said, “Why would you start it twice and stop in the same place twice?”
And she was very careful. She did not tell me what to think about it and she has never once in a year offered me an opinion about that woman.
What she said was: “It’s not unusual. In my experience it’s almost always the same thing.”
“Which is what?”
And Olalla Ferrán said: “Filling that page in means writing down, in a court file, with your name at the bottom of it, what you have actually done. Some people can do the thing and not the sentence.”
Some people can do the thing and not the sentence.
I have thought about that about four hundred times.
Then she said one more thing, which was not comfortable.
She said: “Mr. Odell, I’d point out that you have also not filed, for three years.”
And I said, “That’s different.”
And she said, “Probably. I’d still like you to think about why.”
Darcey did not avoid divorcing me because she wanted to stay married to me.
She avoided it because divorcing me meant writing my daughters’ names on a form and then answering a question about where they live and why.
She could leave two fourteen-month-olds in a house with a note. She could not write it down.
And now mine.
Because I did not file either.
Three years. I had grounds, and a solicitor from the February of 2023, and the money from the January of that year, and about nine people told me to get on with it.
Olalla sent me a client care letter in the March of 2023 and I did not answer it, and she rang in the June and I said I was not ready, and she left it, because that is her job.
I was not waiting for Darcey. I want to be very clear about that, including to myself, because for a while I thought I might have been.
I was not. I had a counsellor for eleven months in 2023 and that is the one thing we got all the way to the bottom of.
The reason I did not file is that a divorce creates a document, and that document says, in a court’s words, that their mother left.
And it sits on a file for ever. And one day they are nineteen and twenty-three and curious, and they go and look, because that is what people do, and they find it.
And I did not want to be the one who had put it there.
So I did not do it, and she did not do it, and for three years and five months the two of us stayed married for exactly the same reason, from opposite ends of it.
Neither of us was willing to be the person who wrote their names on a form.
Hers was cowardice. Mine was, by about the second year, cowardice wearing something nicer.
Because the practical effect of my not filing is that my daughters had no maintenance order, no settled contact arrangement, and no legal record of where they lived.
I protected them from a piece of paper and left them without four others.
PART 5 — THE DOOR
I drove out to Hollowfield on a Saturday in the November with the certificate in a folder on the passenger seat.
It is a large house with a gravel drive and a gate that was open.
I did not rush and I did not rehearse, and I had already decided in the kitchen two nights earlier what I was and was not going to do, and I did not change my mind in the car.
Marek answered the door.
He has got heavier. He looked at me and went through about four expressions in a second and a half and landed on something I had not expected, which was relief, as though he had been waiting three years for this and was glad it was finally happening.
I said: “Is she in?”
He said, “She’s at her mother’s.”
And I said, “Right.”
And then I gave him the folder.
I did not go in and I did not raise my voice and I did not say one of the eleven sentences I had composed in 2022 in a chair at four in the morning.
I said: “This is a copy. Yours is the entry from September. Mine’s underneath. We’re still married, Marek. She never finished it.”
And that man stood in his own doorway in a jumper on a Saturday morning and read two pieces of paper.
He read the top one twice. Then he moved it and read the one underneath, and then he went back to the top one again.
It took about ninety seconds and neither of us said anything for any of it.
There was a dog barking somewhere inside and he did not turn round.
Then he said: “This is a mistake.”
And I said, “It isn’t.”
“There’ll be something that—”
“Marek. I’ve had a solicitor on it for three weeks.”
And he looked up from the paper then, and I watched the whole thing land on a man’s face in about four seconds, which is a thing I have now seen twice in my life and would be happy never to see again.
Then he said: “Does she know?”
And I said: “She knows. She started it twice and stopped both times.”
I turned round and went back to the truck and he came out onto the gravel after me, which I had not expected either.
And he said: “Raff. I didn’t know about the note.”
And I said, “I know you didn’t.”
Because I do. I have known since about 2023. Darcey told him she had agreed it with me. She told him I had asked her to go, which is the version he has had for three and a half years and which he has now had taken off him in a doorway on a Saturday morning by a man standing on a gravel drive.
He is not a good man and I am not making him into one. He took my wife while I was in a hospital in another country and he did not ring me once.
But he did not know about that note, and he did not know about the loft, and he did not know that the woman he married in September was married to somebody else.
I did not do anything else.
I did not ring the police and I did not ring anybody at that wedding and I did not put it on the internet.
What I did on the Monday was ring Olalla Ferrán and tell her to file, and she said, “Finally,” and then apologised for saying it, and I told her not to.
Darcey rang me on the Sunday night. Her number, after three years and seven months, at twenty to eleven.
I looked at that phone going on the kitchen table for about nine seconds and then I picked it up.
I had thought about that call for three years. I had about eleven things.
And what actually happened is that she said, “Raff,” and I said, “Yeah.”
And she said: “Why now?”
Not how are the girls. Not their names. Not one word about either of them in a call that lasted four minutes.
Why now.
And I said, “Because payroll gave me a form.”
She did not believe me. She thought it was a line. She said something about how I had waited and planned it and picked the worst possible moment, and I let her finish because there was no way of explaining a biro and four tick boxes to a woman who had spent three years assuming I was out here thinking about her.
I had not been thinking about her. That is the thing she could not have and I was not going to give it to her by arguing.
At the end she said: “What do you want?”
And I said: “I want it written down.”
And she said, “Written down,” like it was nothing. Like I had asked for a cupboard back.
And I said, “Yes.”
And then I said goodnight and put the phone on the table, and I stood in my own kitchen for about a minute, and then I went up and checked both of them the way I do every night.
It is going through. It is not dramatic. The marriage in September is a matter for other people and I have given a statement and that is the end of my involvement, and what happens to Darcey about that is not mine to want things about.
What I did ask for is the thing I should have asked for in 2023.
A child arrangements order, so that where my daughters live is written down. Maintenance, which I had never once pursued. And her name on a file as a person who has not seen them since the nineteenth of April 2022.
That last one is the piece of paper I spent three years refusing to create.
Iris and Senna are four in February.
They know they have a mother and they know she does not live with us and they know she went when they were babies. That is all they have asked and I have never put one word on it beyond what they asked for.
Iris asked in the summer whether she was dead and I said no, she lives about forty minutes away, and Iris said “okay” and asked for a yoghurt.
That is the whole of it so far. There will be more and it will be harder and it will probably be at fifteen and not at four, and I will still be here.
My mother is sixty-four and lives eleven minutes away and comes on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
She has never once said a bad word about Darcey in front of them. Not one, in three and a half years, and I have heard her swallow it about forty times.
Give me that, you’re not doing that at the table. Nobody fills those in.
She said that at a christening in the July of 2021 with about twenty-five people in the room, taking two baby books out from under my hands while I was writing in them.
I was nine days from deploying. That is what I was doing with those books and she knew it and so did everybody else at that table.
They went in the loft, and she left them there when she took everything else out of that house, because a loft full of old paper is not worth the trip.
They are in the kitchen now, on the shelf by the door, and they are nearly full.
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And there is one page in each of them that nobody is ever going to write on, and my daughters will work out why on their own one day, and that will be theirs to make of what they like.
THE END
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