Soldiers' Wives

by Fiona Field

  ‘Fair enough, sir. I think the wife’ll be more understanding if that’s the reason.’

  Seb hoped for Perkins’ sake she was. Somehow, from what he’d read, and heard on the grapevine, he doubted it.

  11

  After duties that evening, Lee walked slowly back to his quarter, wondering how on earth he was going to break it to Jenna that he was off to Afghanistan in a few weeks’ time for at least three months, maybe longer. He had really mixed feelings about it, but he didn’t think Jenna would see anything but the downside of it all; that they’d only been married a few months, the army had dragged its heels over giving them a quarter, and now they had they were being split up again. How were they supposed to make a go of married life with that sort of shit going on? She wouldn’t listen to what he said about it being important that he did an operational tour if he wanted promotion. He couldn’t expect her to understand that – she was a hairdresser not a soldier. Thank God she had a job, he thought. At least that would give her a focus each day – something to think about, other than what he might be getting up to and what he might have to face.

  He’d already decided to play down that he was quite excited about the prospect of going out there. Combat – that was what he’d been trained for, that was what he’d joined the army to do; but all the same, now the reality of actually fighting was right there, it was a bit of a facer. He knew it wouldn’t be the same as playing soldiers on the DCCT range or having a shoot-out on Call of Duty – there was no reset button out in Afghan, no extra lives to be had at the click of a mouse button. And it didn’t help matters that 2 Herts had had so many casualties so far. It made you wonder, he thought, whether they were unlucky or careless. Christ, he hoped it was the former. He really didn’t relish being in a multiple with some moron for a boss, who had no idea about tactics or risk.

  He walked past the turning to the bigger, swankier officers’ quarters with the cherry trees on the lawns that fronted the houses and with the Land Rover Discoveries, the Passat estates and the nippy Minis parked in the drives, and continued along the main drag through the garrison to the smaller, shabbier houses, where the soldiers lived, the ones with the Corsas and Mondeos outside.

  How, Lee wondered, had Jenna ever thought they would get a house on Omdurman Avenue? But if she’d seriously thought she was going to live in a gaff like Captain Fanshaw’s, no wonder she’d been disappointed when she saw their final allocation. She’d get used to it – it wasn’t so bad, and it would be better when she’d made friends with the other wives.

  He arrived at his house. There was a white van parked outside. What was going on? He was just about to put the key in the latch when a bloke in brown overalls barrelled out of the door, almost knocking Lee down.

  ‘Sorry, guv, didn’t see you there,’ was all he said, before he jumped into his vehicle and sped away.

  ‘Jenna,’ called Lee as he went inside.

  ‘Hi, babes,’ she said, coming down the stairs.

  ‘Who was that?’ Lee pulled his beret off his head and dumped his combat jacket over the banisters. Jenna picked them both up and hung them on the hooks behind the front door.

  ‘Just the plumber,’ said Jenna.

  ‘What’s wrong? The housing commandant didn’t tell me there was a problem. Well, except for those shelves.’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing, just routine maintenance. Just as well I was in, really,’ she said lightly.

  ‘Yeah.’ But he wasn’t really listening. He was still wondering how to break the news to her. ‘Look, Jenna, how about we have a cuppa?’

  Jenna gave him a hard stare. ‘Something up?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘If it’s about that kid yesterday, it wasn’t my fault.’

  ‘Kid?’

  ‘Oh, it was nothing. A woman and a toddler came round and the kid got its fingers in the way when I shut the door. I said sorry.’

  Lee shook his head. What was she on about? ‘No, it’s nothing like that.’ He moved into the kitchen and filled the kettle. ‘It’s sort of bad news.’

  ‘Not your mum?’

  Lee shook his head. ‘No, me mam’s fine.’ He busied himself getting a couple of mugs out of the cupboard.

  ‘Then what is it? Spit it out.’

  ‘I’m being posted.’

  ‘Posted?’ Jenna’s voice reflected her opinion – she was not happy. ‘They can’t fucking post you. We’ve only just got a house. They can’t expect us to move out when we’ve only just moved in.’

  Lee put a hand on her arm. ‘You can stop here – we’re not going to have to move house. I’m going to Afghan.’

  ‘Afghan,’ Jenna whispered.

  ‘Yeah. The lot out there – 2 Herts – are having a hard time; you’ve seen the news.’

  Jenna nodded.

  ‘Well, they need a few extra guys to make up the numbers, like. And I’m the one. I’m going.’

  The kettle boiled and clicked off, but they both ignored it.

  ‘Why you?’

  ‘I wasn’t with 1 Herts when they did their last tour. I’m one of the few guys who’s not been, which makes it my turn.’

  ‘But we’ve only just got married.’

  ‘That’s not the army’s fault.’

  ‘I won’t let you go.’

  ‘Jenna, love, it’s me job.’

  She turned away from him and got the tea bags, chucking one into each mug, then she poured on the water. Suddenly she slammed around. ‘Why aren’t you fighting this, Lee? Why aren’t you telling them to go and pick someone else?’ She stared at him. She held his gaze for a few seconds, then she said, ‘You want to go, don’t you?’

  ‘Jenna, I said it before, it’s me job. It’s what I do.’

  ‘You’d rather fight the Taliban than live with me. That’s it, isn’t it?’ Her voice wobbled.

  ‘Don’t be daft.’ He took her in his arms and gave her a cuddle. ‘And I’m not going tomorrow.’

  ‘When, then?’

  ‘After Christmas, they reckon.’

  The fight seemed to go out of Jenna. ‘I suppose we’ve got a bit of time together before you go. And Christmas.’

  ‘That’s the spirit, lass. We’ll get me mam down from Newcastle, we’ll get your mam and the rest of your family over, and we’ll have a right good time.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  Lee gave her a kiss. ‘Now, let’s get that brew sorted.’

  ‘What’s up, Seb?’ asked Maddy, when Seb finally came through the door at gone seven. He looked careworn.

  He gave her a kiss on the cheek as he shed his combat jacket and beret. ‘Same old, same old. How’s Nate?’

  ‘Same old, same old,’ retorted Maddy.

  ‘So is he in bed?’

  Maddy pointed at the clock on the hall wall. ‘What do you think? Gin?’ Even if Seb didn’t want one, she was gagging for a drink.

  ‘Please. I am going to have to learn to escape from the office earlier, if I want to see him before we pack him off to boarding school.’

  Maddy thought about suggesting he gave up rowing at the weekends, but knew she’d be on a hiding to nothing there. Sometimes, she thought crossly, as she sloshed gin into two glasses, she might just as well be a single mum. And if she was she wouldn’t have to cope with all the army crap on top of everything else. She followed the gin with tonic and sighed. She was being unfair – again. But she turned to Seb, handed him his drink with a smile, and said, ‘Well, that’s something to hope for.’

  They went into the sitting room, cleared of Nate’s toys and tidied ready for Seb’s return, and snuggled on the sofa while they both sipped their drinks.

  ‘Something smells good,’ said Seb.

  ‘Chicken in barbecue sauce and mash.’

  ‘Hope there’s lots. I’m starving.’

  When wasn’t he? ‘Heaps.’

  Seb lapsed into silence and looked glum again.

  ‘Come on, Seb, you look like you’ve got the world on your shoulders.’
/>   He sighed. ‘Not really, just I had to make a tough decision today.’

  Maddy waited from him to continue, but the silence stretched on. Finally she said, ‘Is it a state secret, or can you tell me?’

  ‘No, it’s not a secret, and I expect you’ll find out soon enough – the patch grapevine being what it is. It’s your mate Jenna Perkins’ husband.’

  ‘She’s not my mate,’ said Maddy swiftly. ‘Just because she did my hair doesn’t mean we’re best friends.’

  Seb gave her a look which seemed to imply he didn’t quite believe her, but Maddy ignored it. Least said, soonest mended and all that crap.

  ‘Anyway,’ continued Maddy, ‘what about him?’

  Seb told her what he’d done.

  ‘Bugger,’ said Maddy quietly. ‘That’s not going to go down well. Why him?’

  Seb told her.

  ‘Even so – they’ve only just started married life.’

  ‘Shit happens, Maddy.’

  ‘Jenna isn’t going to like it.’

  ‘But it isn’t up to her, is it?’

  No, thought Maddy. Wives just don’t enter into the army equation at all.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Seb, ‘I’ve got a letter for you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Think it’s an invite.’ He fished in a pocket in his combat jacket and pulled out a cream envelope. ‘Here you are.’

  Maddy took it and ripped it open. She scanned the contents.

  ‘And?’ said Seb.

  Maddy sighed. ‘Susie wants us to go round to hers for supper.’ She turned to Seb. ‘I suppose we’ve got to go, haven’t we?’

  Seb nodded. ‘When?’

  ‘A week Saturday. Whoopee.’

  October morphed into November, Christmas trees began to appear in shop window displays in the local town, festive songs were back on radio station playlists, the weather took a turn for the worse and the annual call for volunteers to be on duty over the impending holiday was met with the same annual silence. Everyone knew that any soldier who misbehaved over the next few weeks would get awarded extra duties, which would be scheduled into the roster for the crucial period, thus neatly sparing anyone else the bother. And, consequently, the RSM had his eagle eye open to nab anyone who so much as breathed out of turn.

  It was Immi who first fell foul of the RSM. It was one of those ridiculously balmy late autumn days of blue sky, full sun and no wind. The sort of day that, in spring, makes everyone think that summer is just around the corner and, at the end of the year, makes everyone rush out in shirtsleeves for one last chance to grab some rays before wanting to hibernate for months. Immi had sneaked out of the back of Battalion HQ for a crafty ciggy and was leaning against the wall of the office block, eyes shut, relishing the sun on her face.

  She was brought back into reality with hot breath on her face and a voice yelling at full blast, ‘Whatthehelldoyouthink you’redoingyouhorriblesoldier?’

  Aghast, she snapped open her eyes and stood up straight; she knew that voice. And there was the RSM, his puce, angry face inches from hers, his piercing eyes screwed up in rage.

  ‘Sir?’ squeaked Immi, dropping her fag on the ground in shock.

  ‘Pick that up,’ he screamed.

  She did.

  ‘I’ll have you for littering and being improperly dressed,’ he hollered, his face still uncomfortably close to hers, his pace stick now being jabbed into the ground.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘What do you think you’re doing, outside, without your beret on?’

  ‘Having a smoke,’ said Immi, before she could stop herself.

  ‘Are you being insubordinate? I can see you’re having a smoke.’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’ Immi was at a loss what to say. Tell the truth – she was doomed. Say nothing – she knew it would be even worse.

  ‘Dispose of that,’ the RSM jabbed at the nearly burnt-out cigarette, ‘and report to my office in five minutes, in the correct uniform.’ He stormed off.

  Immi sagged. Jeez, just her luck. She took a last, deep drag on her ciggie, resisted the urge to light another one to steady her nerves, and returned to the office. Feeling wobbly, she grabbed her beret and made her way to the RSM’s lair at the end of the corridor.

  Timidly, sick with nerves, she knocked on his door.

  ‘Enter.’

  She did, marched in front of his desk and marked time, till he told her to halt. She hoped he couldn’t see that her legs were trembling as she stood rigidly to attention.

  ‘Cooper, you’re a shambles.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she answered, although his accusation made her livid. She always looked immaculate in uniform.

  ‘Outside, headdress off, lounging against a wall, smoking.’

  OK, she’d been on NAAFI break so smoking was allowed, but she was guilty of lounging. And she hadn’t been wearing her beret. But he was still well unfair.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I can put you on a charge and your platoon commander will make a decision as to your punishment, or you can accept mine.’

  Immi knew her military law. The worst she could expect was seven days’ restriction of privileges, or possibly an admonition from Lieutenant Bates, whereas the RSM would award her extra duties – and she knew what that meant. With bravado belied by her shaking knees, she said, ‘I think I’d rather go in front of Sir Bates, sir.’

  The RSM leaned across his desk. ‘Really. So I prepare the charge sheet and I say you told me to “fuck off”. That’s gross insubordination, whichever way you look at it. And no extenuating circumstances. Sir Bates can’t deal with that, can he? So then you’d be on OC’s orders and it’d be an entry on your regimental conduct sheet, and that wouldn’t be good for your promotion prospects, now, would it?’

  Immi swallowed. ‘But I didn’t say that, did I, sir?’

  The RSM raised his eyebrows. ‘Got a witness?’

  She was beaten. She knew where this was going. ‘How many extras, sir?’

  ‘Let’s be fair. Let’s call it four.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, very fair.’ Immi blinked. She was not going to cry in front of this bastard.

  ‘So you’re volunteering to be duty clerk from the twenty-third of December to the twenty-seventh. Dismissed.’

  Struggling to control her tears at the absolute sodding unfairness of it all, Immi returned to her desk.

  12

  Despite the fact that, for Immi, Christmas was effectively ruined, she had plenty of events prior to the actual holiday at which she wanted to look good and the first of these was Remembrance Sunday. While it could hardly be classed as a social occasion, just about every soldier in the garrison would be present for the annual parade which was held in the huge sports hall. And if she was going to be there with around the best part of one thousand soldiers it stood to reason she needed to look her best, so she booked an appointment with Jenna. Anyway, given the timing, her roots should last for most of the rest of the party season and she could have them touched up over what remained of the Christmas break, ready for the New Year, and unless the odds were totally stacked against her, she wouldn’t be on duty for that.

  As Jenna started painting her hair with the gloopy dye mixture, Immi asked her about her quarter.

  ‘It’s pretty minging,’ Jenna admitted, ‘but Lee says that once he starts getting promoted, we can expect something better. On the bright side,’ she added, leaning into Immi and lowering her voice, ‘I reckon I’ll be able to run a nice little business from it.’

  ‘But you can’t do that – there’s regulations.’

  Jenna stopped slathering dye into Immi’s hair. ‘Don’t you start. Lee and I pay rent, it’s our house, we can do as we like. Especially if my customers don’t go bleating to the authorities.’ She stared at Immi in the mirror. ‘Anyway, I’ll be able to do your roots there for half what it costs here.’

  Which Immi found quite tempting. Not that she minded paying to have her hair look good, but no one in their right mind would pa
ss up a bargain.

  ‘So will you work here still?’

  ‘I think I might have to.’ She started painting the dye on Immi’s roots again. ‘Dunno how many clients I can take with me. I mean, I expect my regulars to follow me.’ She gave Immi another significant look. ‘I’ve already had a couple of plumbers in, to give me quotes for installing a backwash unit in the bathroom.’

  Immi couldn’t keep a look of utter bewilderment off her face. ‘But what if the battalion gets posted? I mean, you might have to move at any time, and it’ll cost a fortune to put it back how it was.’

  ‘Pah. Move? Why would the army want to do that to us? It’ll just be like a game of musical chairs. If they move 1 Herts out, someone else’ll just have to be moved in here, so that’d be bonkers, wouldn’t it? Anyway, as soon as I’ve made a decent wedge, I’m going to open my own salon proper.’

  ‘But what about Zoë’s? I mean, if you’re in competition…’

  ‘What about this place? Honestly, I mean, look at it. Who the fuck still thinks that wood-panel effect wallpaper is stylish?’

  Immi looked around the salon. Maybe it was pretty dated, but the quality of the styling was good, which was what counted.

  ‘A bit of competition would shake this place up no end,’ continued Jenna. ‘Just because she’s got a captive market, Zoë has stopped caring. Well, I’m about to change all that.’

  Immi didn’t doubt that Jenna would, but she had a horrible feeling that it mightn’t end well, for neither Jenna nor Zoë. She changed the subject. ‘What are you and Lee doing for Christmas? It must be quite exciting having the first one in your own house.’

  ‘We’ve got Lee’s mum coming down.’

  It was obvious from the look on Jenna’s face that she wasn’t wildly enthusiastic about this.

  ‘Problem?’

  ‘She doesn’t like me – doesn’t approve.’

  ‘That’s tricky.’

  ‘It’s ’cos Lee is an only. He could have married Pippa Middleton and she’d have still had an issue, the mean old cow.’

  ‘That’s going to make Christmas interesting.’

  ‘It’s going to be a ’mare. I’d have me mum over to give me a bit of support but what with her, Pete, Shona and the twins there’s no way we could fit them in, not for a sit-down meal, so Christmas Day it’ll be me, Sonia and Lee, God help me. Of course, we’ll see my family Christmas Eve. We’ll pop over to take pressies and have a drink. Anyway, nuff about my plans, what are you doing?’