Soldiers' Wives

by Fiona Field

  ‘It was. But you’re back now.’

  Seb nodded. ‘Let’s not fall out again like that. I promise I won’t bitch about who you keep as friends. Not even Jenna Perkins.’

  Maddy rolled her eyes. ‘She isn’t my friend, I keep telling you, but let’s not talk about her.’

  ‘No, fine. I wouldn’t mind about her, if she’d just caused trouble for her poor bloody husband, but she caused trouble for us, too.’

  ‘Yeah, well, as I said…’

  ‘He’s well out of it.’

  ‘Not sure being in Afghanistan is better than living at home with his wife, even if his wife is Jenna.’

  Seb snorted. ‘Personally, I think it would be.’

  Maddy let the subject drop, as she zapped Nathan’s vegetable puree in the microwave. ‘There’s a bottle of white in the fridge,’ she told Seb, bustling about her kitchen.

  Seb took the hint and opened the wine, pouring it into a couple of glasses.

  The microwave pinged. ‘Feed Nathan, while I dish up,’ said Maddy, starting to cut the lasagne into squares, then taking a slug of her wine.

  Seb tested the temperature of the green mush and settled down to feed his son.

  ‘And I did some thinking over at the mess. Maybe I’m expecting too much of you. What you said about being an army wife… I know it’s not easy and I know some of the other women can be pains in the arse, and I know you feel you live in a bit of a goldfish bowl, with Susie and Mrs N peering in at you. Maybe you should stop stressing quite so much about my career and let me worry about that. You just get on with being Nate’s mum and being yourself. I love you and anything you do is just fine by me.’

  ‘Oh, Seb.’ Maddy felt another surge of love for him. ‘Thank you. And I promise I’ll try hard not let you down. Truly. And even if I’m not the perfect military wife, I’ll do my best.’

  ‘I know you will. That’s why I adore you.’

  ‘Lee. Lee.’ Johnny shook his mate’s shoulder.

  ‘Sorry, mate, I was miles away,’ said Lee.

  ‘I could tell that. You had your thousand-yard stare on. Thinking about the missus again?’

  ‘Can’t help it, Johnny.’

  ‘Well, you’d better start trying to help it. Listen to me: going out on patrol with your brain somewhere else’ll do no one any good, least of all you. And, frankly, I don’t want you with us if you aren’t concentrating.’ Johnny gave his mate an angry glare. ‘Understand?’

  Lee nodded. He did. Going out on patrol was teamwork, and everyone relied on everyone else. He had about twenty minutes to get his head in the right place. He stood up from the table, where he’d been loading rounds into magazines, and went to his bed space to get ready. Like many soldiers, he had his rituals – rituals that had no rhyme or reason, but which he believed were the reason he’d been kept safe so far. Them and the bear. He fingered the little teddy which still hung on his dog-tag chain. Maybe he’d be better off thinking about Chrissie than he would about Jenna.

  No. He needed to think about going out on patrol. Period.

  He stripped down to the skin and began to put his military kit on. First up, his bomb-proof pants. Well, they were supposed to be bomb-proof, although Johnny reckoned they weren’t up to much. He said he’d already shredded his with farts. But then that made sense – that time he’d let rip in the ops room Johnny had been warned by Sergeant Adams that he was in breach of the Geneva Convention on chemical and biological warfare. Given the toxicity of Johnny’s wind, Lee reckoned he had a point; even Kevlar would be hard-pressed to survive close contact with it.

  Having got his pants on, he put on his socks, first the left then the right, then his T-shirt and jacket, then his trousers, then his boots, left then right and laces tied in a double bow, and finally his body armour. He picked up his belt kit and fastened it round his middle and then clipped his combat nappy into place. There, he’d got dressed in the right order to keep the luck good. He knew he was being irrational, he knew it was mad, but it kept him sane. Shit, he had more than enough to worry about, without stressing whether his luck was about to run out. He grabbed his Bergen and his helmet and made his way over to the old shipping container they used as an armoury. He signed out his weapon and made sure it was still squeaky clean, before going over to the table and helping himself to half a dozen magazines of bullets. He clipped one into his rifle and put the rest in his ammo pouches. Finally, he shoved half a dozen plastic bottles of water into his Bergen. He was ready.

  Ten minutes later, he and the rest of the multiple, minus the guys left behind to guard their patrol base, made their way out of the big metal gate for the umpteenth time. Lee had lost count of the number of patrols he and the rest of the guys had made. Five dozen, six? He didn’t like to think that, with every patrol, their luck was being spread just a shade thinner. He tried to think more positively: that they were getting more experienced, less likely to get caught out, but it was tough keeping upbeat. Only the week before, Op Minimise had been activated twice: once for a Canadian soldier who’d fallen foul of an IED out on patrol, and another for a Mastiff armoured vehicle that had been blown up. Luckily the guys inside had mostly been all right – just superficial injuries – but the Canadian had died and it had sobered everyone up. But it wasn’t just the death that had been a worry; the Mastiff had been on the main supply route and, given how that was guarded and patrolled, the fact that the Taliban had managed to mine it was a real worry. If they’d done that, where else could they manage to plant IEDs?

  Once out of the gate, they tabbed along the berm before they raced across the bridge over the canal, their boots clattering on the metal surface of the prefabricated span. The sun was even hotter today and Lee could feel the sweat trickling down his back under his heavy body armour as he ran. And they all knew what hot sun meant, apart from the fact that the patrols would become ever-more knackering. The snow on the passes would be melting, and as soon as it had gone and the rivers in the valleys began to dry up, the fighting season would start in earnest. The Taliban based in Pakistan could come down from their winter quarters and back up their Afghani counterparts, bringing with them new supplies of explosives and ammo and, more importantly, replacement fighters. Soon, thought Lee, they wouldn’t just have the local bandits to cope with; they’d have a whole bunch of reinforcements, plus one-hundred-degree heat. Between the heat, the Taliban and Jenna, his life couldn’t get much more shit.

  Jenna pressed ‘send’ on her phone.

  Got interview. Fingers crossed.

  She hoped Immi would be as pleased as she was. The catering company wasn’t her idea of perfect, but it was a job and, frankly, any job would be welcome. And anyway, as a lot of the work would probably be in the evenings, she could do hairdressing – if anyone wanted her to – during the day.

  Brill, Immi texted back.

  Now all Jenna had to do was think about what she ought to wear. When she rang about the position the guy who had answered the phone had sounded quite young, so should she go looking hot and sexy, or neat and tidy? Jenna pottered upstairs to the spare bedroom and began leafing through the clothes hanging on the rails. Maybe she could do a combo of both looks.

  Later, she drove into town, to the little industrial estate in the old station yard. She found the company easily enough and parked up in the space reserved for visitors. Before she got out of the car, she checked her appearance. Perfect. After all, she was sure they didn’t want mingers handing round the canapés – it would put people off their food.

  Smoothing her skirt down, she sashayed over to the front door, plipping her vehicle locked with a casual wave of her key. Three minutes later, she was in the MD’s office, looking at a guy with the worst case of acne she’d ever seen. Surely his skin condition had to be against food hygiene regs. Not that she knew anything detailed about food hygiene regs, but common sense said that putting him in a kitchen had to be just plain wrong.

  She had, of course, prepped answers to the sort of questi
ons she expected from Barry Carlton, which the plastic name plate on his desk told her was his name: why did she want the job, were there any dates she couldn’t work, any health issues that might prevent her from working… So she was a tad surprised by the first question.

  ‘When can you start?’

  Jenna tried not to look too surprised. ‘Erm, now?’ Shit, she hoped not. This dress was dry-clean only and she had nothing to change into.

  ‘This evening will do.’

  Phew.

  ‘Can you do silver service?’

  Jenna shook her head. The ad hadn’t mentioned that as a requirement.

  ‘Never mind, we can probably teach you how to do it before you’ll need it. Luckily tonight is just handing around platters of food and drink.’ The guy looked frazzled.

  ‘So what’s the event tonight?’

  ‘Engagement party at the football club.’

  ‘You’re leaving recruitment a bit late, aren’t you?’ blurted out Jenna.

  Barry shook his head. ‘I was planning on expanding anyway, hence the ad you saw, but last week three of my staff went down with norovirus.’

  Jenna shrugged. ‘In English?’

  ‘It’s also called winter vomiting disease.’

  ‘Euw.’

  Barry nodded. ‘Exactly. It’s just what it says on the tin. It spreads like wildfire, so there is no way any of the staff who were in contact with the infected staff can work, until we’re sure they’re in the clear.’ He rubbed his hand over his face. ‘It’s been a nightmare.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘So, I’ll give you a paid trial tonight, if you’re any good I’ll take you on and you’ll have a contract. I pay ten pounds an hour. If the client pays a gratuity, I split it equally between everyone. I expect the waitresses to wear black, but I provide you with an apron. Your hair must be pinned up and no nail varnish, unless it’s clear. Oh,’ and he glanced across the desk at Jenna’s feet, ‘you might want to wear flat shoes.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Right, follow me.’ He stood up and walked around his desk, before leading her along a corridor and through a pair of double swing doors. Behind the doors was a massive kitchen, all stainless steel and huge industrial ovens. There were lots of pans clattering, but very little in the way of other noise, despite the fact that there were already five people working there. Maybe music and chatter were not allowed.

  Barry moved about the kitchen efficiently, loading up a tray with glasses filled with water, which he then gave to Jenna. ‘Walk up and down the corridor a couple of times,’ he ordered her.

  ‘OK.’ She managed to shoulder her way through the big doors without spilling the drinks or dropping the tray, aware that Barry was watching her. She felt a bit like a fashion model, but reckoned he wasn’t watching how she walked as she returned into the kitchen; he was watching to see how steady she was.

  ‘Now walk around the kitchen.’

  ‘But there’s people rushing about here,’ she protested.

  ‘And they’ll be standing still at a party?’

  Jenna sighed and began to move between the two rows of big steel counters. It was a bit like Total Wipeout, she reckoned, as she timed her run in order to avoid the chefs bustling about.

  ‘Good,’ said Barry. ‘Now do it again and hold the tray on one hand.’

  Fuck, what was this? She was angling for a job as a waitress, not a circus performer. Once again, she circled the kitchen, only this time one of the cooks stepped back suddenly from a stove and Jenna, dodging her, managed to tip over two of the glasses. The tray was awash with water.

  ‘You can’t serve the rest of the drinks now. The glasses are wet and they’ll drip on customers.’

  ‘I know, sorry.’

  ‘You’ll probably find it easier in flat shoes, too,’ said Barry.

  ‘So have I still got the job?’

  Barry nodded. ‘Although we may just ask you to serve food. Canapés don’t tip over so easily. Maybe drinks next time round.’

  Four hours later, Jenna arrived back at the industrial estate as instructed by Barry. Outside the business were several vans, some designed to carry people, some to carry trays of goodies. A stream of workers were lugging boxes of glasses, cases of wine and platters of food to and fro.

  Jenna spotted Barry. ‘What do you want me to do?’ she asked.

  ‘Keep out of the way at the moment. We’ll give you some proper training tomorrow. Tonight just take in the food that Karen tells you to.’

  ‘Karen?’

  ‘I’ll introduce you at the venue. Now, if you’ll excuse me…’ and with that Barry disappeared back into the building.

  Feeling like a spare part, Jenna went and sat in one of the minibuses. It wasn’t her fault she couldn’t help; she hoped the other wait staff understood why she wasn’t.

  A few minutes later the vans were loaded and ready for the off.

  A severe woman climbed into the driver’s seat next to Jenna. She swivelled around in her seat.

  ‘You must be the new girl.’ Jenna nodded. ‘I’m Karen. I’ll show you the ropes tonight. I expect you to listen, ask if you don’t understand what I say and do as you’re told.’

  ‘OK,’ said Jenna. And nice to meet you too. But she told herself she didn’t have to like these people in order to earn money; all she had to do was work for them.

  Ten minutes later, they drew up at the football club on the edge of town. It was a new building which proclaimed in a large banner across the front that it had been funded by the National Lottery. Jenna wished they spent less money on stuff like this and more on the prizes so the punters had a bigger chance – she felt her finances were just as good a cause as a poxy game of football.

  After half an hour of toing and froing, lugging, carrying, running back and forth, she was knackered and her feet ached.

  ‘Chop, chop,’ shouted Karen, glaring at her, as Jenna took a breather.

  ‘Fuck off,’ muttered Jenna under her breath, grabbing yet another box of glasses to put out on the snowy cloths on the tables ranged along one side of the big club room. By the time the father of the affianced arrived, with his wife and daughter, the room was just about ready.

  Jenna stood at the side of the room, with a plate of mini Scotch eggs made from quails’ eggs, while he inspected the arrangements. A tweak here, a taste of the canapés there and then he nodded in approbation.

  ‘He must be worth a bit,’ whispered Jenna to another waitress called Helen.

  ‘Ex-mayor,’ confided Helen. ‘His daughter’s marrying a soldier.’

  ‘Stupid girl,’ said Jenna.

  ‘I think it’s romantic.’

  ‘It isn’t. Trust me, it’s a shit life.’

  Other guests began to arrive and Helen and Jenna moved off to circulate with their trays of food. As they moved through the party, the guests swooped on their trays like seagulls, and Helen and Jenna almost spent more time going back and forth from the kitchens to get new supplies than they did handing the food out.

  ‘Jeez, I’ve walked miles,’ said Jenna to Helen, as they picked up yet more nibbles. She’d only been working for around an hour, but she hadn’t imagined it would be as knackering as this – which came as a surprise, considering that being a hairdresser had involved being on her feet all day. But mostly standing still, which presumably made all the difference.

  By the time the party was drawing to a close, Jenna’s feet were caning. She felt as if she had broken glass lining her shoes, not kidskin, and that someone was trying to saw off her little toes with rusty wire. She tried really hard to keep a smile on her face and to walk normally, but in reality it was almost impossible not to hobble or keep wincing.

  ‘It’s Jenna, isn’t it?’ said a man in a sharp suit, taking a mushroom vol-au-vent off her platter.

  She stopped dead. ‘Might be.’

  ‘Thought I recognised you. I’ve seen you in the Spar, haven’t I?’

  Jenna nodded. But it still didn’t
explain how he knew her name. Her face must have reflected this.

  ‘My wife.’ He stopped and corrected himself. ‘My ex-wife used to go to Zoë’s.’

  ‘Oh. Did I do her hair?’

  ‘She was Trudy Armstrong and yes, you did. And I’m Dan. Dan Armstrong.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Dan.’ But ‘ex-wife’. That was interesting. She wondered why Trudy, whom she remembered vaguely, had dumped such a hot guy? And didn’t she remember Trudy had wanted her hair done specially for a dinner in the sergeants’ mess. Was Dan a sergeant? If so, he got paid a pretty decent wedge. Even more interesting.

  ‘So, are you a soldier?’

  Dan nodded. ‘REME.’

  ‘What’s that then?’

  ‘Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers. We fix stuff. Although other people say REME stands for Reck Everything Mechanical Everytime.’

  Jenna laughed. ‘I bet you don’t.’

  ‘We try not to.’ Dan gave her a slow smile before he added, ‘What are you doing after this shindig?’

  Jenna grimaced. ‘Getting these shoes off.’

  ‘How about slipping them off in a bar somewhere?’

  Jenna considered the offer. It was only a drink. Didn’t she deserve the chance to go out occasionally? Lee need never know and anyway, Dan seemed pleasant. And if he was a sergeant, he could afford to take her somewhere nice. ‘Cool. I’ve got to go back to the company offices to get my pay and pick up my car, though.’

  ‘OK,’ said Dan. ‘How about we meet in the Six Bells, in an hour? We’re not likely to run into any squaddies there. Nothing against soldiers, but they’re a bit rough for my taste.’ He gave her a smile.

  Did he know she was married? she wondered. Was that why he didn’t want them to be seen together by guys from the camp? Or was it really that he didn’t like soldiers? Either way, so what? It was only a drink, she repeated to herself. She made up her mind. ‘Yeah, great.’ And the Six Bells – swanky. Her hunch about his pay was right. ‘Now I’d better get on, or the boss’ll chew me out. Laters.’ As she circulated around the few remaining guests with the last of the party food, her feet suddenly didn’t seem to hurt so much.