Soldiers' Wives

by Fiona Field

  She hung up her coat and went to find Seb, hauling Nate’s buggy over the thick pile of the dark maroon carpet, past a couple of chocolate labradors sprawled under a side table and onwards towards the hubbub. That level of noise had to indicate the bar, which was where she fully expected her husband to be. This was her first visit to this mess and she felt a little nervous.

  She found an open door halfway along the main corridor and the volume of noise climaxed. She peered in, looking for Seb or any familiar face. Maddy wasn’t normally shy but she felt out of her depth in this gathering of uniformed officers and smart wives. She spotted Susie and – oh, bugger – Susie spotted her. And Maddy still hadn’t written a ‘thank you’ letter for that dinner party. Her face flared with guilt over this social faux pas. She resolved to rectify things as soon as she got home.

  ‘Maddy,’ she called. ‘Do come and join me.’

  Another order, thought Maddy. She parked Nate’s buggy in a corner, unclipped his carry chair and headed over. Even as she arrived she got the distinct impression Susie was looking past her, to see who else was entering the room.

  Maddy was about to gush something appropriate about the lovely dinner party when Susie said, ‘Drink?’

  ‘What? Oh, yes, please.’ She would have liked a good belt of Dutch courage, but she decided that, on balance, keeping her wits about her on this first foray into the mess might be a good idea.

  With a deft wave of her hand Susie signalled to a mess waiter.

  He looked expectantly at Maddy. ‘Orange juice, please,’ she said.

  ‘And your husband’s mess number?’

  ‘What?’ said Maddy.

  ‘For his mess bill,’ said the steward.

  Maddy shook her head.

  ‘Put it on Major Collins’s,’ said Susie. ‘Number seven.’

  ‘Very good, ma’am,’ said the steward as he left.

  ‘As a rule, battalion officers don’t buy each other drinks,’ said Susie, ‘but we can make an exception in this case. No Seb?’

  We? Did Susie think she was a battalion officer? ‘He said he was going to meet me here,’ said Maddy. ‘Can’t think what’s happened to him.’ The steward reappeared with her drink on a silver salver, and she grabbed it gratefully.

  Susie’s eyes, she noticed, continued to flicker over her shoulder while they made small talk. At least, this time, the small talk didn’t seem to involve laundry or the thrift shop, thought Maddy. Naughtily, she began to play Officer’s Wife Bingo and ticked off the conversational topics she’d come to recognise: house moves, tick; boarding schools, tick; housing standards, tick; and ‘when we’ – as in ‘when we were in…’ plus the name of a previous posting. Oooh, Cyprus, double points scored for that one. She was just about to award herself full marks when Seb appeared.

  ‘Sorry to have been so long,’ he said, after he’d greeted Susie. ‘Got caught by the CO.’

  ‘I am so sorry,’ said Susie, looking relieved, ‘but do excuse me. There’s someone I must see. Been trying to catch her all week.’

  ‘No, please…’ murmured Maddy. As Susie left, she watched her make a beeline for Julia Frenchay, the garrison commander’s wife. At which point, Caro, Will, Philippa and a bloke Maddy could only assume to be Philippa’s husband all pitched up too. It was almost as if they’d been waiting for Susie to push off.

  ‘How about we make up a table together?’ said Seb. ‘That’s OK with you, isn’t it?’

  ‘Fantastic,’ said Maddy.

  ‘Glad to see you getting on with Susie,’ said Seb.

  ‘Which reminds me, Susie paid for this.’ She waved her half-empty glass at Seb. ‘Or, at least, she put it on her husband’s mess bill.’

  ‘It’s probably a drop in the ocean on Major Mike’s bill,’ said Caro.

  Maddy remembered the empty bottles, lined up after the dinner party. ‘Well, I suppose all that entertaining, the dinner parties…’

  The others in their group fell about.

  ‘God, no, that’s not that reason,’ said Caro. ‘It’s Susie. Unless the rumour mill is completely wrong, she gets through a couple of bottles of gin a week, at least. Don’t ever ring her up after seven o’clock, if you want a sensible answer.’

  ‘Or you can,’ said Philippa, with a naughty giggle. ‘It’s quite funny.’

  Maddy stared at them, astounded. ‘But… but I thought she was the perfect army wife.’ And then she remembered the glasses of wine Susie had had at lunch after the babysitting meeting and the kitchen cupboard stacked with tonic water and the fact she’d forgotten to put the rice on. Suddenly, what Philly had said made sense.

  ‘Oh, she is… up till tea time,’ said Seb. ‘Want another?’ He looked at Maddy’s now empty glass and beckoned to a steward.

  ‘You’ll be pleased to know this is neat orange. I won’t let you down and get a reputation – well, not today, at any rate.’

  ‘Believe me, sweetie,’ said Caro. ‘You’re really going to have to go some to get into her league. And that’s why she tries to be so fucking perfect before the sun goes over the yardarm – she’s got to redress the balance.’

  The steward appeared and took the order for the drinks for the group, before sliding away again, through the press of mess members crowded into the room.

  After he’d gone, Maddy stared at the others. ‘But… I mean, what about Mrs N? Surely, if Susie’s trying to be the perfect wife…’ But then she remembered that Mrs N had also been pretty pissed at Susie’s dinner party.

  ‘Mrs N’s not much better,’ confirmed Caro. ‘Army wives tend to get driven to the bottle.’ She turned to Will. ‘Don’t we, darling?’ Will didn’t answer but gave everyone a wink. ‘Anyway,’ continued Caro, ‘Susie can be relied upon not to get pissed in public, only in the relative privacy of her own home, which is all that matters, as far as the army is concerned. Of course, if that changes, Mike’s career…’ She drew the side of her hand across her throat. ‘Or, he’ll dump her.’

  Maddy’s eyes widened in horror. ‘Really?’

  ‘Why do you think the army’s divorce rate is like it is?’ asked Philippa. ‘Wives either get fed up with the moving, their crap job prospects, sending their kids away to school, the shit housing, the separation and the rest and kick it into touch, or their husbands get fed up with their wives bitching about it and kick them into touch.’ She made a meerkat squeak. ‘Simples.’

  The steward reappeared with a tray of drinks.

  ‘So drink up,’ said Seb when everyone had got one. ‘Gin makes it all seem so much better – unless you administer it in industrial quantities.’

  ‘Cheers,’ they all said as they clinked glasses.

  Maddy glanced across the room at Susie and Mrs N. Who would have guessed? And yet another path trodden by some army wives she’d do well to bypass herself.

  Maddy stared at the battalion’s forecast of events which Seb had brought home the previous day. There was no doubt about it, the countdown to Christmas had started. The battalion diary was a succession of parties for each of the companies: the Warrant Officers’ and Sergeants’ Mess Christmas Draw and Ball; the Wives’ Club Christmas Bring-And-Buy; the Officers to Sergeants’ Mess Drinks; the soldiers’ Christmas lunch; the Officers’ Mess Christmas cocktail party plus sundry other get-togethers and fund-raisers. In the last couple of weeks before the twenty-fifth itself, it seemed to Maddy that for most people associated with the battalion (and not just Susie and Mrs Notley) life was going to consist of recovering from one hangover before sinking enough alcohol to ensure the next one.

  Over a lunch of tomato soup and toast, Maddy broached the question of Seb finding time to babysit his son while she went Christmas shopping.

  ‘Oh, Mads. Must I?’

  ‘Seb! And how else is Christmas supposed to happen?’

  ‘Internet shopping?’ he asked hopefully.

  ‘Don’t be silly. I haven’t a clue what to get lots of people. I need to browse about the shops to get ideas and I can’t do that
with Nate in tow. And Caro has got Will to promise to take the boys, so we can go together. Please, Seb.’

  ‘I know but…’

  ‘He’s your son too, Seb.’

  Seb sighed. ‘When?’ he said wearily.

  ‘Next Saturday.’

  ‘But the Officers to Sergeants’ Mess Drinks is on Friday.’

  ‘So? It’s a lunchtime do; you’re not planning on getting so pissed you’re going to be out of the game for the best part of twenty-four hours.’

  ‘No, but…’ Seb looked at her pleadingly. ‘And if I don’t have a hangover, I thought I’d go rowing training.’

  ‘Seb,’ she said, a little more sternly than she meant, ‘when was the last time I asked you to look after Nate? Is it too much to ask that you don’t get shit-faced on Friday?’

  Seb looked woebegone. ‘But this is a once-a-year event.’

  ‘So it’ll happen again next year. Please, Seb, it’s not so much to ask.’

  ‘OK. All right. I’ll do it.’ He threw his spoon back into the bowl, spattering soup across the table.

  Maddy thought she’d never heard anyone give in with such bad grace ever but she wasn’t going to back down. Just for once, she needed to make Seb realise that marriage wasn’t a one-sided affair and she had rights in the partnership too, just as he had responsibilities – and one of his responsibilities, just occasionally, was looking after his son. And having asserted herself she felt pleasingly empowered. Maybe she’d try pushing the boundaries again – once Seb had got over the shock of her standing up to him this time.

  The Warrant Officers’ and Sergeants’ mess was rammed. It was barely possible to see the red, swirly carpet because of the press of people standing around in the main bar, and it was with huge difficulty that the waiting staff circulated with trays of wine and beer to keep pace with demand for drinks. The noise was ear-splitting.

  Seb bent his head close to his chief clerk’s to try to catch what he was saying. It wasn’t just the noise that made it difficult to hear what Chiefy was saying, the fact that his words were a bit slurry didn’t help matters.

  ‘… and I’m telling you, bossh, you’re the besht platoon officer I’ve worked for.’

  ‘Thanks, Chiefy,’ said Seb. He stumbled slightly and the dregs of his drink slopped in the bottom of his glass. ‘You’re not so shabby yourself.’ He threw his arm over his chief clerk’s shoulder, in a gesture of manly friendliness.

  ‘Aw, get away with you. Here, let me get you another one.’

  Seb shook his head and tried to focus on his watch. Was it half past three or a quarter past six? Nope… he couldn’t see clearly. Bloody stupid watch dial.

  ‘Come on, sir, one for the road.’

  Should he? Aw, where was the harm? And he didn’t want to hurt Chiefy’s feelings. It would be rude not to accept. Anyway, Maddy wouldn’t mind if he was a bit late, would she? She’d understand.

  Across the crowded bar, Seb could see the RSM and the CO both standing on their heads, trying to drink pints upside down. There was one thing you could say about the senior NCOs – they sure knew how to throw a party.

  ‘Oh go on, Chiefy,’ said Seb, belching slightly. ‘Why not?’

  ‘And a whisky chaser? It is Christmas, after all.’

  ‘That’s one helluvan idea. Thanks, Chiefy.’

  The next morning Maddy sent a text to Caro: Seb is dying how is will? Despite Seb’s truly epic hangover, the prospect of a day out with Caro was hugely cheering and, no matter how shit her husband felt, Maddy wasn’t going to change her plans. Hangovers weren’t fatal and Seb would just have to man up – as he was wont to encourage others to do.

  She hummed happily while she made two mugs of tea and found a rusk for Nathan to chew on. She spooned sugar into one mug – good for hangovers, she’d heard – found a pack of aspirin in a kitchen cupboard and, promising Nate she’d be back in a jiffy, she ran upstairs to deliver tea and painkillers to Seb.

  She wrinkled her nose as she entered the room; it reeked of stale beer. She thumped the tea down on the bedside table and put the packet of pills beside it.

  ‘You’d better hope these work miracles, because I’m going out at ten. Nate just may fancy a nap then but if he doesn’t, you’ll have to entertain him.’

  She ran back downstairs again, before Seb could protest, just in time to hear her phone chirrup the incoming-text alarm. She picked it up.

  Will also dying tee hee. See you later.

  Maddy giggled. Today was going to be fun, and after weeks and weeks of almost no free time she reckoned she really deserved a day out. And a bit of last-minute Christmas shopping with Caro was just what the doctor ordered. No doubt Seb and Will would get together at lunchtime and have a hair of the dog and moan about the unfairness of wives leaving them to deal with kids and hangovers.

  For the first time since she’d arrived on the patch, she felt really upbeat; maybe she had turned a corner, as her mother had predicted she would once Nate was sleeping better and his colic cleared. Maybe being an army wife wasn’t so bad. She had a gorgeous, fit husband (when he wasn’t dying with a hangover), she had a roof over her head, she was surrounded by neighbours with similar-aged kids and it was Christmas. Maybe, she thought as she went to meet Caro, maybe it was time to think about being more than just a mother. Maybe it was time to think about getting her own career back on track. It wouldn’t go down a storm with Seb – or Mrs Bloody Notley – but her degree from Oxford didn’t deserve to go to waste and she had her own life to live. Surely wanting to make a success of her own life wasn’t such a big ask? Although she had an awful feeling that maybe it was – or it would be to Seb.

  14

  Christmas Day dawned cloudy, grey and overcast with a hint of drizzle. It was one of those quiet, dreary winter’s days that would normally make people’s spirits sink: too warm for there to be any chance of it snowing and thus turning dull, drab, dark winter into a magical wonderland but, equally, too damn raw and cold to make it pleasant for kids to play outside on their new toys. But, at first light, none of the wives on the various patches around the garrison paid much attention to what the weather was up to, as they were roused by alarms signalling it was time to haul themselves out of bed, switch on their ovens and get the turkeys ready to go in.

  In her quarter, Jenna groaned as her alarm went off. For a while she lay in bed wondering what sort of stupid idea it was to buy a twelve pound turkey that needed getting in the oven at silly o’clock, so everyone could sit down for Christmas lunch at one. What was wrong with having a lie-in and everyone eating at four in the afternoon?

  ‘Because, if we do that,’ Lee had said, ‘we’ll all be pissed on Bacardi and vodka.’

  Jenna supposed he had a point, although she reckoned on having a skinful of bevvies by lunchtime because, if nothing else, it might be the only way to survive the visit from Lee’s mum. Shit, that woman was a pain. It wasn’t that she ever said anything really disapproving, but Jenna could just tell from the look on the sour old bat’s face that nothing Jenna did was good enough. She’d sniffed at the quarter – like Jenna had deliberately picked the worst one just out of spite – she’d turned her nose up at her bedroom, and the look on her face, when Jenna had made a lasagne with jars of tomato and cheese sauce, had been a classic. So she didn’t cook every last thing from scratch. Who the fuck did, in this day and age? Well, Nigella Bloody Lawson did for the cameras, but Jenna wouldn’t mind betting that as soon as the TV crew buggered off she was just like every other woman in the country and banged ready meals in the microwave at every opportunity. Since when was taking a cookery short-cut a crime? But Sonia obviously thought it was. Today, however, the old bat was going to get proper roast turkey and all the trimmings, and she could shove that in her pipe and smoke it.

  Spurred on by the thought that she’d show Sonia Perkins a thing or two, Jenna slipped out of bed, grabbed her dressing gown and stuffed her feet into her slippers, before padding downstairs. She switched the kit
chen light on, waiting a few seconds as it hummed and flickered, before she took from the kitchen drawer the instructions that Chrissie had written out for her. Jenna read them through once again and then turned on the oven. Chrissie had told her not to worry and that she’d be over mid-morning to help with the meal, but that it was essential Jenna got the bird in the oven first thing, and she’d written down exactly what Jenna had to do before she arrived.

  While Jenna waited for the oven to get to the right temperature, she got the turkey out of the fridge, wrestled it into a roasting tin and covered it tightly with tin foil. When the little red light went out, she heaved the whole lot into the still-sparkling oven – the ready meals she mostly dished up hadn’t sullied its pristine condition – and slammed the door. She slipped back upstairs to bed, hoping to God nothing held Chrissie up, as she didn’t have the first idea about how to carry on with the meal after this stage.

  When Chrissie and Immi arrived later, it was obvious to them both that Jenna had already made a start on the vodka – and although she wasn’t yet pissed, she soon would be. Sonia Perkins was glowering at her from her seat in the sitting room and Lee was looking nervous as he tried to keep the peace between the two women in his life. Immi and Chrissie handed over a few little gifts and were each given a present from under the tree.

  ‘Oh, choccies, lovely,’ said Chrissie, opening hers. Immi had the same and the two girls were both genuinely touched to be included in the family event. However, from the way Jenna was swirling the ice cubes around her now-empty glass and from the look on Sonia’s face, Chrissie realised that if the rest of the day wasn’t going to go tits-up, she needed to take action and fast.

  Muttering things about basting the bird, she dragged Jenna into the kitchen and shut the door. Immi, thankfully, got the hint that Chrissie had taken charge of the damage limitation exercise and began chatting to Sonia and Lee about Newcastle, which she had visited once and luckily could remember enough about her trip to make conversation.