I sit by the river. I do not know the time. I guess it matters little. The moon rests low on the January horizon, not yet disturbed by the sun or the waking animals, yet I know it will soon be daybreak. These days, I always wake before daybreak.
I do not know what has drawn me here, to this river, after so long apart. It runs across the bottom of our property, fenced off years ago from the adjacent fields for the safety of our children. It lies to the West, the opposite end of the spacious acres to the chicken coops and stables I visit on my daily morning rounds. There, I can be useful, providing life and subsistence to the animals who rely on me. Here, by the babbling water, I provide no use to anybody.
I always find myself journeying here when I think about him. Maybe it's the coldness of the water against my fingertips that remind me of his kisses, or the grassy moss floating atop the stream that reminds me of his bright eyes. Or is it the azure, blue haze of the water that reminds me of his eyes? Once, I knew the exact shade they were. These days, I can only guess.
We were married in 1977. Childhood sweethearts, teenage parents, lovers in their early twenties. We already had three children by then, but somehow, life was easier in the seventies. Blissful. Peaceful. Loving. Magical, to quote Roger's wedding vows. The gap between the birth of Athenais Victoria in January 1977 and the release of Jazz in 1978 were the happiest days of our marriage. Sure, Queen had been propelled to Rockstar status with the success of A Night at the Opera and A Day at the Races, but, somehow, the touring was more manageable back then, the bursts of time my lover was separated from me much shorter. The tours, I could handle, their proximity a month or two, five at most. Recording, done in the UK, close to home. Summers, designated, in part, for time with his family. A fragile peace, but one with the illusion of being long-lasting.
That fragile peace was shattered irreparably by the success of News of the World and Jazz. Two record-breaking albums, back-to-back. World tours, sell out arenas, months morphing into near years away. The press intrusions. Recording in foreign studios. Promotional tours. Music videos. Award shows. New management, hostile to children in the studio, in fact, the idea of family time at all. The drinking, for Roger, at least. The knowledge that this was our new, dystopian norm.
Our relationship was already on the rocks when I fell pregnant with Titus. The last straw was when Roger missed the birth, too busy partying in Munich, under the guise of recording The Game. Celebrating the release of his first solo album, rather than the birth of his son. The vinyl he sent me, I sent back in pieces. Shattered, like the remains of my heart. We split not long after that. I never truly understood how far his desire to get rid of me went – that troublesome wife who couldn't just stay quiet as Veronica did, or at least make arguing fun, as Chrissie always seemed to – but the word divorce was tossed around at least once. If Brian is to be believed, Roger met with the lawyers. I still don't know if I believe that.
And then, Roger's mother's illness became terminal. It was so sudden, so final. I could tell he wasn't prepared for it. We'd known she was ill for quite some time, her condition deteriorating every time we saw her. Still, the discovery that she only had weeks left destroyed Roger. I was left to pick up the pieces, patching him back together as best I could. Moving the children back to London to be close to him. Cradling him as he cried, ignoring all my own feelings to deal with his. Sometimes wrestling the bottle out of his grasp, if that's what it took. Making sure he didn't disappear completely.
The band returned to London to finish The Game and Flash Gordon. It made sense, seeing as Roger wanted to spend every free moment with his mum. Still, it has never sat well with me how easy it was for him to change his plans in those moments, to be close to her, when he was unwilling to do that for me during my fourth and most difficult pregnancy. I know that's unfair, that you can't compare a person's behaviour when they are losing their mother to their everyday actions, but still, it hurt.
