THE MORE THE MERRIER

Getting divorced doesn't always mean your children will suffer, says STELLA RUSSELL, who has been married four times. It can also give them richer and more varied lives

When I married at the age of 21, I never imagined it would be the first of many weddings. People either burst into laughter or look at me as if I'm a British Zsa Zsa Gabor when they discover how many times I've walked down the aisle. They also ask how on earth my two children coped. I always find this last reaction faintly insulting. After all, I was there for them throughout all my marriages and, anyway, I believe they even gained from my having married so many times.

When my first husband and I separated after five years, the children were so young - only four years and 20 months respectively - that they barely noticed. It was only a few years later, in the 1970s, when we were embroiled in a custody battle, that they became truly aware of what had happened. This, admittedly, wasn't entirely ideal - during the court case my daughter developed a facial twitch at the sight of a social worker - but the court decided in my favour.

I strongly believe this was a favourable outcome. Their father and I split up, which saved them from witnessing any arguments or living in a hostile environment, and they didn't have to divide their time between the two of us. Children being shared by parents, and having to pack their little suitcases for overnight stays with daddy and his new girlfriend trying to play mummy, is a grotesque set-up. They should stay in the safety of their own home, with their own mother.

The three of us lived a close and happy few years together until I met husband No 2. He was wonderful with the children, reading them bedtime stories without waiting to be asked. The children were thrilled when we married. They played a key part at the wedding, so they felt the three of us got married that day. My daughter referred to it as the day "we married Paul". We went to live in Scandinavia, so they attended a British school there and met children of every nationality. They travelled, learnt to ski, and became much more independent. We would have still been living in an isolated farmhouse in Suffolk if I had stayed married to my first husband.

I also insisted before I married Paul that I wouldn't have any more children. I felt it was detrimental to have children with subsequent husbands - your love is shared, thinned, and the new father may feel more love for his own offspring.

Sadly, however, things began to go wrong. Paul started to act very strangely. We returned to England - the children were now teenagers - and his behaviour became ever more bizarre. He would roll up his trousers to his knees and, sitting with legs wide apart, roll his eyes in front of the children's friends. He used to disappear for whole days without any explanation and, without warning, become incredibly rude to me. After the occasional energetic outburst, he would fall asleep in his chair, snoring loudly, in front of whoever happened to be there. Again, I decided it might be better to leave him than have the children brought up in this strange atmosphere, but luckily the decision was taken out of my hands. He died, at an appallingly young age, of chronic alcoholism. After the shock, all my son and I felt was relief, although my daughter, who was very fond of him, missed him dreadfully.

Still, it was for the best. Both children did well in their A-and O- levels that year, and the three of us settled down to the life we knew best - just us. And even though they were going through the terrible teens, the worst they presented me with were appalling hairstyles and questionable clothes. Other friends who hadn't been divorced were having a much worse time with their teenagers: truancy, drugs, dropping out of courses. I was always there for my children, and we were incredibly good friends. I was lucky to have private means, which meant I had no mortgage and didn't need to work.

Ever the optimist, there was eventually a husband No 3. The children were as keen for this marriage as I was. They said it was fun having new daddies and moving into new bedrooms. Ian was exciting, intelligent, stimulating and eccentric. The children, in their late teens, were hooked.

But over time his behaviour became increasingly strange, too. Perhaps it's an effect I have on people. After a few months he was helping my son with an English exam and decided to demonstrate various grammar points by playing golf on the hearth rug in the garden. Eventually he decided to live in the garden shed, picked up dead rabbits from the road and skinned them, and spent much of the night running around the surrounding lanes, hallucinating.

Tragically, he was soon diagnosed as a manic depressive. I knew the children were not at risk. They were never frightened; they only felt sad. But after many years, living with him became truly impossible. He had a tremendous influence on all our lives, and still does. I think our separation was the saddest day of the children's lives. Even though the marriage failed, they still gained a good friend, and they have grown into adults with compassion for the mentally ill.

My last and, I hope, final marriage didn't take place until recently and the children were both grown up. It was this one, though, that they objected to the most. They were angry and said, "No, not again." My son only visited me when my husband was away on business. Emotionally, it didn't affect them at all, they just resented going through the motions of something they didn't think would work. And they were right. It lasted less than two years. The divorce delighted them and they soon used the whole episode as perfect material for funny stories to tell at dinner parties with their friends.

I know they had a bizarre childhood, but I can honestly say I don't think the number of marriages was a problem. A strong bond between a mother and her children, and the security of loving grandparents, can protect them against most storms. They both appear to have grown into well- adjusted adults. My son now has two children of his own, and my daughter - although a little aggressive with men, perhaps - is both strong-minded and independent. Their childhood was stimulating and never dull. We had wonderful dinner parties, with actors, artists and writers. They absorbed many different cultures, and learnt different things from my different husbands.

Today, now that I'm determined to remain single, my children probably find me quite boring for the first time. No more raucous dining out at my expense, relaying their mother's latest antics. No more weddings to choose yet another outfit for. No more sitting at wedding breakfasts hearing yet another man declare everlasting love for their mother. Variety might be the spice of life, but no more spice in mine, please.