1979 saw the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan; 1981, the threat of the Falklands War. These years brought Titus and Orla, respectively. They were marked by bloodshed. Perhaps the 1970s were too. No doubt, if I searched hard enough, I would find a conflict somewhere on the globe in the years my other children were born, some other terrifying act of violence, but such things did not concern me then. I always have, and always will, viewed the 1970s through rose-coloured lenses.
1979, and the dawn of the 1980s saw the birth of my complicated relationship with the radio. Once, the celebrated device had brought the music of my love to me whenever we were separated, but as Roger and I inevitably drifted apart, the channel was more often than not deliberately changed, the focus of the device shifting from music to commentary on the world. Sometimes, it was nice just to have voices not belonging to the children in the background as I awaited the elusive phone calls from the band, to have another adult in the room, a friend of sorts. An increasingly morbid friend, but a friend, nonetheless. It was only when I had fallen into the dangerous habit of falling asleep and waking to the damn thing that I realised just how damaging an effect the constant drivel of war and depression was having upon my mental state. The anxieties it placed upon my children's future. Violence. Gangs. Suicide. Warfare. Global Warming. Car-jacking. Drugs. Loveless marriage.
"That's enough of that" Roger sighs warily, leaning across the worktop to click the aging radio off, just as the monotone voice begins riling off updates on the latest global crisis. I blink, strangely grateful for his presence in the kitchen. One of the virtues of having him home; there is no longer any need for the radio.
One of the virtues. Just one. The virtues are too numerous to count, even I know that. Mostly, his presence prevents that overwhelming feeling of being alone. Circumstances have dictated that he, Deaky, and Freddie are my only friends.
It is for this reason that I cannot bring myself to believe those promises he whispered outside, those promises I wish to be carried away by the wind. It is for this reason I know I will eventually surrender to him, allowing myself to be dragged into that wonderful dreamland where I can believe Roger Taylor deeply cares for me, and that everything will be okay. I do not know why I always fight that oblivion so hard, when we both know I will always end up back there. The moments I allow myself to drift into the deception are euphoric.
"I never did understand why you always insist on listening to the news in the morning" Roger chuckles, fondly shaking his head as he takes the seat beside me. He presses a mug of hot chocolate into my hand, which I greatly accept. Seated here, on the small, compact sofa, watching the sun begin its ascent into the morning sky, it is almost possible to forget that I hate him. As he lifts his arm, and I fall into the side of his body, his arm wrapping protectively around my shoulder, the hatred dissipates. I surrender completely.
"What are you thinking about?" Roger whispers, his voice slicing through the dawn like a knife. Just the feeling of him so close to me produces shivers. It has been months since I've had someone to talk to in the dawnlight. He sounds inquisitive, as though he actually cares. His body shifts, as he lovingly strokes my cheek. He appears almost to get lost in my eyes. If the gesture is merely a masque, it is certainly a convincing one. My heart falters.
"War and loveless marriages" I answer truthfully, although, to Roger, this must appear a somewhat elusive answer; he clearly wanted to know what I made of his earlier proposition to be a better husband. He clearly didn't understand the link drawn by my conflicted ego. "You know, all the dreary things you hear on the news" I chuckle, attempting to turn it into a joke. Roger merely looks perplexed.
"You didn't listen to the news that much in the seventies" His statement sounds more like a question, but for once, his recollection is correct. I shake my head wearily.
