I was in a café with Mr Gunn when he reached across the table and took a chip from my plate. He did this without interrupting what he was saying about the car. Apparently it had developed a noise which occurred only when we went over a particular sort of bump. He described the bump. He described the noise. He took another chip. By the time we had established that it was probably nothing to worry about, I was beginning to worry about my lunch.
He had ordered a sandwich. It was a perfectly respectable sandwich, with a small salad and a tomato cut into a flower. I had ordered fish and chips. He had been offered chips with his sandwich and declined them. This is a decision Mr Gunn occasionally makes in the firm belief that he will subsequently be sitting opposite somebody who has ordered them.
“You said you didn’t want chips.”
“I didn’t want a whole portion.”
“You could have asked for a small one.”
He took another. “Marriage half.”
I moved the plate towards the middle of the table and considered the mathematics. We have been married a long time, and I have yet to encounter a marriage half which could be explained satisfactorily to a child doing fractions. A child who divided twelve sweets according to the arrangements in our house would be kept behind after school.
I do not remember the marriage half being mentioned at our wedding. There were promises about several other eventualities, but nobody explained to us that we would acquire a continuing interest in anything the other one had. A box of chocolates addressed to me would be ours. A book bought for him would be his until I wanted to read it, at which point we would take turns reading it, with separate bookmarks. Marriage involves quite a lot of saving money on things the other person has already.
I should probably mention a box of chocolates from early in our marriage. They had been given to Mr Gunn, but he opened them after supper and put them between us, which I took as an indication that he had considered his position and reached the correct conclusion: they were our chocolates.
We had half each. The little paper cases remained in the box because people who design chocolate boxes apparently feel we should be able to review our progress. I had eaten my share by the time the television programme finished. Mr Gunn had eaten a few and saved the others. He has always been capable of doing this. He can look at a perfectly good chocolate, know that it is there, and decide to experience it on Thursday. But chocolates that are not eaten on the same day the box is opened move into another realm – the marriage half. It happens at precisely midnight. The following day, when he opened the box, we could have half each.
“Those are mine,” he said.
“They’re our chocolates.”
“You’ve had yours.”
This was true, but we were married now, sitting beside a box of leftover chocolates. It seemed silly to begin discussing chocolates which no longer existed. I explained this as clearly as I could. Mr Gunn looked at the box, then at me, and said that apparently he was being penalised for not eating quickly enough.
I could see that he had a point, and he could see that I had a chocolate.
Unfortunately, once you have explained a principle to a man who remembers things, it remains available for him to use. Mr Gunn now maintains that the marriage half begins again whenever he finds something I have not finished. He can discover half a scone beside my cup and regard it as the opening of a fresh opportunity. I have tried explaining that this is the half I was keeping. He regards this as reassuring. It establishes that nobody has eaten it yet.
The arrangement became considerably more ambitious when we bought a bookcase. Until then, our books had been distributed around the house according to where somebody had last become interested in them. There were books beside chairs, books on tables and a stack in the spare room which had gradually become tall enough to be considered furniture. We decided that a proper bookcase would bring order to the situation.
It had six shelves. Mr Gunn counted them, which seemed unnecessary until he announced that we could have three each. This struck me as admirably straightforward. We spent a Sunday afternoon bringing books through and putting them away. His books went on three shelves. Mine went on three shelves. For a brief period, we were two people who had successfully bought an appropriate quantity of furniture. Then I remembered the cookbooks.
There were a dozen of them, all substantial. I brought the books through and began making room for them on his shelves.
“Those are yours,” he said.
“So I can cook for us.”
“They belong to you.”
“They’re ours.”
He considered this. Then he went into the other room and returned with the books about household repairs. These included instructions for dealing with several things I had been quite content not to know could go wrong. He put them on my shelves. I asked why. He explained that they concerned our house, in which I also lived.
This was a rather more energetic acceptance of my argument than I had anticipated. To make room for the shared books, we began taking other books off the shelves and piling them on the table. The gardening books followed. The bird book could hardly be assigned exclusively to Mr Gunn without suggesting that I should stop recognising birds. I fetched the dictionary.
“Who’s having this?”
He considered it. We both used words. There were some he used more often than I did, generally while looking for something, but separating them would have involved a great deal of work. I suggested we put it with the other shared books we had not assigned. He looked at the table. The table had disappeared.
By then we had established that an astonishing amount of our personal property was communal. We sat down with tea and looked at the books. Eventually we bought another bookcase.
The marriage half also entitles you to half the credit for everything. I make dinner, but by the time the guests arrive, we’ve made dinner. He plants bulbs for me, but once they’re in bloom, we’ve planted them. Over the years, we have claimed joint credit for a great many things only one of us had the slightest interest in doing. Thanks to my marriage half, I have changed the oil, repaired pipes and installed a new roof, all without having to learn how. Mr Gunn, meanwhile, has decorated cakes, prepared five-course meals and kept the pantry stocked.
The marriage half comes in handy when things won’t divide evenly, too, provided you claim it first. Announce that you’re having your marriage half and you can take the last cup of coffee, the last slice of cake or the last of the Christmas stash of 1901 Irn-Bru. You can even give your marriage half away, passing your spouse the gift card that was meant for both of you, or letting them take the only decent suitcase still in one piece.
I have often joked that, had we ever divorced, I would have taken the marriage half. Mr Gunn replies that, had he ever won the lottery, he would have kept it.
The marriage half isn’t an exact amount. It can’t be calculated, and neither of us could give you a satisfactory definition. But anyone who has been married long enough knows that it belongs to both of you.
(This article has been written by Mr Gunn).
