Chapter Five A Danish Marriage
Though the weekend shifts could be gruelling, Danny didn’t mind being busy that Friday night, hoping it would distract him from his persistent melancholy thoughts – that he was somehow incomplete.
Back in his twenties these feelings of incompleteness in part explained why Danny had trained to become a nurse.
As a career it had not been his first choice.
He had studied theatre at the University of Essex, not acting or directing but the stagecraft, lighting and sound design, arriving in London with dreams of creating fantastical worlds from nothing more than plywood, paint and nails.
However, his graduation coincided with a recession and soaring unemployment, one of the worst times to be looking for a job, let alone being a young man with no connections or professional experience.
Many West End productions were closing, only the biggest shows survived the downturn, such as Starlight Express and Cats.
Living on bowls of cereal for breakfast and dinner with cups of bitter black coffee to suppress his hunger, Danny hauled himself from theatre to theatre, becoming numb to rejection, his hope dropping close to the minimum threshold required to climb out of bed in the morning.
To make ends meet he found work as an usher at the hit show Jeffrey Bernard Is Unwell, playing on Shaftesbury Avenue and starring Peter O’Toole.
Earning three pounds an hour, he sold two-pound tubs of Jersey ice cream to some of the most important people in the entertainment business.
Rather than living his dream, he was dream-adjacent, figuring that proximity would sustain him until he found a foothold.
Night after night he watched the sallow figure of O’Toole ridicule the concept of settling down to an appreciative audience that had, by and large, settled down.
Wearing a clip-on bow tie that never stayed straight, berated by customers outraged that the ice-cream queue moved too slowly, Danny wondered whether he was pursuing a true calling in life or whether he was here because, at school, the only gay teacher had run the theatre department.
Looking back could his career have been different if his science teacher hadn’t mocked his voice, or the sports coach ridiculed his run?
It seemed that his life’s journey had been shaped by avoiding other people’s animosity rather than having any kind of plan, leaving him unable to answer the question of whether he had made his way or whether his way had been made for him.
One evening after work he caught a late-night television interview with Peter O’Toole and presenter Melvyn Bragg.
It was a discussion about alcohol, addiction and acting.
Midway through, while demonstrating how to hold his drinking glass, Peter O’Toole described Jeffrey Bernard’s way of drinking as ‘poofy’ to laughter from the audience and no admonishment from his host. The next day Danny returned his usher’s bow tie – and the dream with it.
He began studying for a nursing degree at King’s College London, eager to play some part in society in a measurable way.
And Danny took pride in being a nurse, able to tolerate the long hours for the belief that he mattered.
He had worked at hospitals across the city, ending up at St Thomas’ on the South Bank where he had cared for several prominent politicians, some of whom he helped return to health only for them to cross the river and vote against his rights.
For a long time, he had life figured out.
He was living with a man he loved, in a place of their own, able to walk to work, often early in the morning, catching the sun rising over the city he had come to call home.
Danny had carved himself a groove. He was happy.
Fundamentally he was a happy guy, which made this feeling of incompleteness all the harder to comprehend.
It wasn’t the deafening sadness of his early twenties; it was faint, like the mutterings of a conversation he couldn’t quite hear.
Passing the patient discharge lounge Danny noticed an elderly woman struggling with the remote control to the television, her fingers too stiff to operate the buttons.
Normally there was a nurse supervising the room, but unable to see anyone on duty he stopped by to help.
She explained that she didn’t want to watch the news and Danny was about to change channel when the bulletin began a report from Copenhagen where gay marriage had just been made legal.
After pioneering the framework of registered partnerships for gay couples back in 1989 Denmark was, after twenty-three years, allowing them to marry.
The law had passed the Danish Folketinget on 7 June, was signed by Queen Margrethe II on the 12th and come into effect today – Friday the 15th.
Seizing the opportunity a businessman named Stig Elling had married Steen Andersen, his partner of twenty-seven years.
When asked by a journalist how they planned to celebrate, Stig answered, ‘With champagne and a good dinner.’
Danny was so engrossed in the story of their marriage that he forgot to change the channel.
Looking down at the woman, he smiled sheepishly as if caught out, hastily flicking through soap operas and quiz shows.
When she told him to go back to the news he said that it wasn’t necessary, he’d seen enough.
But she insisted. Danny obliged and the two of them watched the footage of Stig and Steen being photographed by the world’s press, a modest couple perplexed by the global interest in their love story.
The segment concluded, moving on to coverage of the London Olympics.
Touching her wedding ring, the woman said, ‘I lost my husband last year. We exchanged our vows in Lewisham’s register office when I was twenty-four years old, which was considered old back then.
It’s not the prettiest of places but it did the job.
Afterwards we went to the pub. There were twelve of us.
We ate cottage pie and apple crumble. I drank a half-pint of Guinness.
To this day, I still regret not organizing a proper wedding.
We should’ve celebrated. We should’ve danced.
That wasn’t how it was done back then – well, not by people like me.
Big weddings were for people with money.
But I should’ve stood firm. It’s one of the few days you remember for the rest of your life. Take it from me.’
She concluded, placing her frail hand on top of his, ‘There aren’t many of those.’