Divorce is such a painful business – I’ve always thought of it as something for the young. I mean, if you’ve lived together for yonks, why would you wake up one morning at the age of 70, throw back the blankets (if you can do that without throwing your back out) and shout, “That’s it! I can’t take this anymore! I want a divorce!”
You can get married for next to nothing – you don’t need a venue, or a reception, or a suit or a wedding dress or a ring or a place to stay or anything. Its all optional. You just make an appointment with the local Marriage Officer (you’ll find him at the local Magistrate’s Court – and in fact, in small towns he’ll probably be the local Magistrate), and you make sure to get there on time with your intended spouse and anyone else that you want to tell about it (and conversely, without anyone you don’t want to tell about it), and in ten minutes, Bob’s your uncle! You’re married!
And later you may get to this (play it, Guns N' Roses!):
Used to Love Her
Ok, it's like, it's bitchin', fussin', cussin'
I used to love her but I had to kill her
I used to love her, oh yeah, but I had to kill her
I had to put her six feet under
And I can still hear her complain
I used to love her, oh yeah, but I had to kill her
I used to love her, ooh yeah, but I had to kill her
I knew I'd miss her so I had to keep her
She's buried right in my backyard
Oh yeah
Ooh yeah
Whoa-oh, yeah
I used to love her, but I had to kill her
I used to love her, ooh yeah, but I had to kill her
She bitched so much, she drove me nuts
And now I'm happier this way
Whoa-oh, yeah
Take it for what it is
I used to love her, but I had to kill her
I used to love her, ooh yeah, but I had to kill her
I had to put her six, ooh, feet under
And I can still hear her complain
- Lyrics by Axl Rose of Guns ‘N Roses
But more likely the years will roll by and then one day you’ll say, “That’s it! I can’t take this anymore! I want a divorce!”
A marriage requires just a marriage officer – but a divorce requires a High Court Order given by a judge, with advocates and attorneys, and it takes months, and if you have children there’s someone called the Family Advocate who also has to have a say in it. And it costs a shit-load of money – fasten your seatbelt because you’re in for a bumpy ride – it’ll cost you somewhere between fifty thousand and three hundred thousand Rand. You can do what’s called a “do it yourself” divorce, as long as the two of you agree on everything. But its unlikely that you will agree on everything.
So one fine morning I’m in my office and the receptionist calls to tell me there’s a gentleman who has dropped in without an appointment but would I be able to see him? Yes, I could.
This craggy old bugger plonks himself down in a chair on the other side of my desk, baggy grey flannel trousers, slightly moth-eaten checked sports jacket, scuffed black shoes, reddish-grey moustache with a yellow streak from cigarette smoke (God, I hate moustaches – the last refuge of dying respectability). He’s wearing a brown leather finger-stall on his right thumb and his jacket has brown leather elbow patches. He regards me glumly out of watery grey eyes that were probably blue once upon a time. I know what he’s thinking. He’s not happy about the little shit of a child-lawyer that he sees in front of him but he needs to go cheap and I’ll have to do.
There’s a silence and then he says to me, “I want to get divorced!”
To say that I was surprised would be putting it mildly, but I keep it calm.
“Right” I said, “let’s just get some basic facts down, shall we?”
So I began taking down names, dates, addresses, telephone number, etc., and I made a copy of his marriage certificate and ID.
It was really all just smoke and mirrors, what I really wanted was his date of birth, to see exactly how old he was:
Seventy. Bang on!
He had been married – to the same woman - for more than half his life. And now, suddenly, he wants his freedom.
To do what? – I thought.
He was rattling on about what a terrible person his poor old wife was, and how she irritated him – it was all such petty shit.
I ran out of patience.
“Look,” I said, “people don’t get divorced at seventy” (what I had wanted to say but succeeded in stopping myself was, “one of you will be dead before the case is finished”) – so, callous as I was, I could have done worse.
“The main reason for people to get divorced is so that they can be free to marry again. Do you intend to get married again?”
“No – but – I just – I can’t stand her …”
“Then just move out” I said. “You don’t need to get divorced. Just move out” This was a challenge, not a realistic suggestion
“But I don’t – I mean, I don’t have enough money to live on my own” he blurted out.
Ah, I thought – that’s the whole point, isn’t it? You can’t really go anywhere, you are a prisoner of your meagre finances, you really just want to hurt her, but you haven’t thought about what’s going to happen after that – you’ll probably have to continue living together in the same little flat anyway!
“Look” I said, “go home. Go and think about this some more. Perhaps go away on your own for a day or two to do some thinking. I suspect that it will all go away”
I knew that he wouldn’t actually go away on his own. It would probably be a luxury that he couldn’t afford, but it sounded good.
“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation“said Henry David Thoreau. OK, so your situation is not perfect. But is it unbearable? And, realistically, what are you going to do about it?
The things which you could change when you were twenty, or thirty, or forty – can you still change them at seventy?
He had a kind of a relieved look on his face, and when our eyes met again, I realised that he now had a shadow of a smile. I had already decided that I wasn’t going to bill him. He couldn’t afford my fees anyway. He’d had had his fantasy moment and now it was fading.
I said goodbye at the door. I knew that I wouldn’t see him again. I hope he didn’t go “lawyer shopping” to find a lawyer who agreed to do the divorce for him. I hear (this isn’t a scientifically researched statement – at least not for me) that old men do not generally live very long on their own: old women do better.
© Harry Friedland MARIMBA November 2022
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