Soldier's Daughters

by Fiona Field

  Seb went to find his wife. She was lying on the sofa, white as a sheet – maybe she wasn’t feeling a hundred per cent, thought Seb a little grudgingly – while Nathan amused himself in his playpen with a stack of plastic toys.

  Seb dropped a kiss on her forehead. ‘What’s for lunch?’

  Maddy groaned. ‘Dunno. Have a look in the fridge.’

  ‘But I’m famished,’ he protested, ‘and I haven’t got long.’

  Maddy gazed up at him. ‘Seb, I feel like I’m dying here. I honestly think I’m getting worse, not better. Today I haven’t even been able to keep dry bread and water down, and you want me to cook lunch?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Seb. ‘So haven’t you made anything for Nate?’

  ‘Nate’s had some finger food and as soon as he goes down for his afternoon nap, I’m going to be joining him. Why don’t you go to the mess and get a sandwich there and save me the bother? If I get a rest this afternoon I’ll probably be able to raise the energy to make supper.’

  Seb hoped she was right. He didn’t want to come home after a tough day in the office and have to rally round in the kitchen. But what Maddy said about eating in the mess made sense – and at least he wouldn’t have to listen to her banging on about how sick she felt. Odd that she’d been perfectly all right when it came to going out to get her hair done. Now he wanted a bite of lunch she was at death’s door. Well, she couldn’t have it both ways.

  Not, if he was honest, that he minded all that much about lunching in the mess. The prospect of chatting with his old muckers, rather than discussing Nate’s teething or the state of his nappies, was attractive. Best he didn’t look too enthusiastic, though – Maddy was bound to misinterpret it and get all frosty. He put on his sympathetic face.

  ‘Maybe your idea is best, Maddy. I don’t want to put you out, especially if you’re feeling a bit ropey. How about I book into the mess for lunch for the next couple of weeks – till you’re back on your feet? Then you don’t have to worry about me at all during the day.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Maddy, listlessly. ‘You do that.’

  As Seb made his way back to the mess from the officers’ patch, despite the fact he had a pink chit giving him complete freedom not to go home for lunch for the foreseeable future, he still felt a wee bit put out. Yeah, lunch in the mess wasn’t a problem, far from it, but it wasn’t just lunch that Maddy had ceased to bother with. Sex had been off limits since they’d moved, too. He and Maddy had barely got their sex life back on track following the horribly difficult and sleepless months after Nate’s birth, and now it had ground to a halt again. It was all right for her, he thought rather selfishly. She was feeling so poorly she obviously didn’t fancy it – but he bloody well did.

  He walked past a couple of houses where the occupants were moving in. This had to be the last of the rear party arriving. The chaos of arms-plotting an entire battalion across the country to a new location was almost at an end, and soon everything would be back to normal. On the plus side the battalion was going to be spared going on an autumn field training exercise; on the minus side they’d all have to up-sticks and fly out to Kenya for training in February instead. Or maybe that was a plus too, thought Seb. Six weeks in the sunshine might be rather pleasant. It was bound to be hard work but he could put up with that for a bit of extra summer. And by the time he got back, Maddy’s pregnancy would be almost over and frankly, the way it was going, missing a chunk of it might be no bad thing.

  He made his way into the mess, dumped his beret on the big round table along with everyone else’s and then made his way to the bar, where he ordered an orange juice and a round of cheese and ham toasted sandwiches.

  Andy Bailey was sitting at a table at the side of the bar. When he saw Seb, he called him over.

  ‘Just the chap,’ he said.

  Seb stifled a groan. The adjutant wanting to talk to you always meant work.

  Seb feigned cheerfulness. ‘What can I do for you, Andy?’

  ‘Got a job for you.’

  Knew it. ‘Really?’

  ‘I had a call today from Army HQ. They want to bring on more army rowers.’

  ‘I’m not going to complain about that,’ said Seb. ‘In my opinion, you can never have too many rowers.’

  ‘Good, because they want you to identify soldiers with potential and then train them. They’ve put out a call to all units for volunteers to come forward for an initial assessment weekend and then they want you to pick a dozen or so each from the men and women for a fortnight’s training.’

  ‘OK,’ said Seb. ‘When?’

  ‘Soon. I’ve got the dates in my office. Drop over after lunch and I’ll give you all the gen.’

  Seb nodded.

  ‘Maddy’ll be all right with that, won’t she?’ continued Andy.

  Seb rather thought she’d be more than happy not to have to worry about him, given the state she was in. It didn’t cross his mind that she might like him there to pick up some of the slack in the evenings and at the weekends, especially as she was feeling so lousy.

  Sam looked at the battalion orders which had been delivered to her in-tray. The sheets of paper detailed the guard rota for the next twenty-four hours, notice of a block inspection for A Company, and various other events affecting any, or all, of the soldiers. But nothing that Sam herself needed to worry about, she thought. She took the orders, left her office and began to pin them up on the main LAD noticeboard for the soldiers to read. She was turning back towards her office when one of the notices at the bottom of the orders caught her eye.

  ‘Inter-company handball competition.’ She looked at the details and then went to find the ASM.

  ‘How about it?’ she said when she’d given him a quick résumé of competition rules.

  ‘You can ask for volunteers,’ said Mr Williams. His tone implied that he didn’t think she’d have any luck.

  ‘I’ll get Sergeant Armstrong to put something on daily detail,’ said Sam, briskly. She knew the soldiers were more likely to read daily detail than battalion orders as the information on daily detail was only relevant to the LAD. ‘And we’ll see, won’t we?’ She eyeballed her second-in-command, daring him to make a snide remark.

  But, rather to her surprise, a whole sheaf of the guys in the LAD volunteered.

  ‘We’re going to have to run trials,’ Sergeant Armstrong told her, ‘to pick the best. We only need seven and we’ve had sixteen guys sign up.’

  ‘Seventeen,’ said Sam.

  ‘Oh, have I missed someone?’

  ‘Me. I’m rather partial to handball.’

  Sergeant Armstrong nodded. ‘Nothing to say you couldn’t play for the team…’

  ‘If I’m good enough.’

  The ASM joined the conversation. ‘Is that wise, ma’am? It’s a rough old sport. Lots of body contact.’

  ‘I know, I’ve played it before.’

  ‘But you’re a woman.’

  ‘Really? Look, Mr Williams, I’m an adult and I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘If you say so… ma’am.’

  Sam turned on her heel and walked to her office. Bloody man!

  Dan Armstrong organised the trial in the battalion gym the following morning before work. Sam was faintly surprised to see that Blake had turned up. She’d had a bet with herself that he would have thought he was far too superior to demean himself by having to go through a selection process.

  ‘Right,’ said Sergeant Armstrong. ‘I’m going to call out two lists of names. I’m afraid three of you will have to sit things out for the time being, but I’ll sub you in when we change ends. I couldn’t get hold of any bibs so to differentiate the two teams we’re going to have shirts versus skins.’ The lads all looked at Sam and someone wolf-whistled. ‘And let me say that we’re not drawing lots to see which team is which. Ma’am’s team will be shirts, always.’

  A rumble of laughter echoed through the cavernous gym, although Blake didn’t join in. Instead, he stared at her, his face expressionless. S
elf-consciously she tugged her shirt down.

  Armstrong sorted out the two teams and then one half of the lads stripped off their tops. Most of the opposing team were either stark white or had farmers’ tans. But Blake… Blake, Sam noticed, looked like a poster boy for Ambre Solaire. Armstrong blew a whistle to get the game under way. It was fast and furious and Sam soon found that being an officer and a woman made no difference to the way the lads treated her. She got tackled as hard and as ruthlessly as any of the players on the court, but she’d been a star shooter in her school’s netball team and managed to score a couple of goals, which she knew gave her a tiny bit of kudos with the men. And then she was lunging to intercept a pass between two opposing team members when she was barged. She crashed to the ground, banging her head hard on the floor. Pain exploded and then momentary darkness.

  ‘You all right, ma’am?’ The voice sounded distant and tinny.

  What the hell had happened? she wondered vaguely. Groping through the woolliness in her mind, she thought she must have blacked out for a second or two.

  ‘Ma’am?’ The voice was clearer now.

  Sam forced her eyes open. Above her were several worried faces, peering down at her.

  ‘You all right, ma’am?’

  Sam swivelled her gaze to the speaker, Sergeant Armstrong.

  She tried to rally. ‘What happened?’ she mumbled.

  ‘You hit the deck,’ said another voice. She moved her eyes to see who else was speaking. Blake. Even in her woozy state she heard him add, ‘Told you a woman shouldn’t have played. She was bound to get injured.’

  Sam lay still, trying to work out how bad she felt. She certainly had a belter of a headache. Even lying flat on the floor, her head was spinning. But it wouldn’t do to make a meal of it in front of the troops – confirm to the likes of Blake that she was weak and feeble.

  ‘Help me up,’ she said. She propped herself up onto an elbow and regretted it. She shut her eyes again as the entire handball court seemed to lurch like a raft on the sea.

  ‘She ought to go to the med centre,’ she heard Blake say. ‘You heard the crack when her head hit the floor. She’s probably got concussion.’

  ‘You’d better take her, then,’ said Armstrong. ‘Stay with her till you know she’s all right.’

  Sam managed to open her eyes again.

  ‘Ma’am,’ said Armstrong. ‘We think you ought to go to the medical centre. Blake’ll go with you and look after you. We think you ought to get checked over.’

  Part of Sam wanted to insist she was fine, that if she sat out for a few minutes she’d recover, but another bit of her knew Armstrong was right. And that knowledge was compounded by the fact she felt most odd. Maybe going to the medical centre was the best course of action.

  ‘I’ll carry you,’ said Blake.

  ‘No! No, I’ll be fine. I can walk.’ She hoped she could.

  ‘OK, then.’

  With Armstrong’s help she managed to stagger to her knees and then she leaned on Blake as he helped cart her towards the door of the gym. For a second or two her slight feeling of queasiness and a banging headache made her regret turning down Blake’s offer.

  ‘Put your shirt on before we go outside,’ she muttered. ‘You’ll catch your death.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me, ma’am.’

  It wasn’t him she was worrying about. ‘Do as you’re told,’ she snapped.

  Blake stopped dead. Swiftly and with barely concealed irritation he plonked Sam on a nearby bench before spinning on his heel and fetching his top as ordered.

  Their slow, hobbling journey to the medical centre was completed in silence and, although Blake stayed with her till she’d been checked over and given painkillers for her headache, the atmosphere was chilly.

  ‘I’ll see you to the mess,’ he said when the MO told her to take the rest of the day off and lie down.

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘You’re not well, you’ve had a bang on the head and Sergeant Armstrong told me to look after you.’

  ‘And I’m telling you I’m all right.’ She glared at Blake.

  He stopped walking. ‘Oh yes? If you’re so all right why did the MO stand you down for the rest of the day? I’m sorry, but I am going to see you to the mess and make sure the staff there look after you properly and you’re in no position to stop me. Ma’am.’

  Sam felt too shit and too tired to argue. If he wanted to trail along after her it was no skin off her nose, although she was quite surprised by his chivalry – if that’s what it was.

  8

  ‘Maddy.’ Seb’s voice permeated Maddy’s brain. Then he called her name again, louder. She was jolted awake. Shit, she must have dropped off.

  ‘Hello, Seb. You home already?’ she called. She rubbed her eyes and tried to look bright and breezy.

  Seb walked into the sitting room. At the sight of his father, Nathan hauled himself upright using the bars of the playpen that contained him, and held his arms up to be carried. Seb lifted his son out and then instantly dumped him on Maddy’s lap.

  ‘Yuck, he’s soaking. Poor little mite,’ Seb admonished. ‘How long have you been asleep and ignoring him?’

  Maddy scrambled to her feet. ‘Just a couple of minutes, honest,’ she lied.

  Seb rolled his eyes. Maddy took Nathan and shot upstairs to change him.

  ‘You know, she said to her son, kissing the top of his head, ‘it wouldn’t have done your daddy any harm to change you for once, now, would it?’ Nathan gurgled and gave her a gummy smile.

  When she got back downstairs with a clean and dry baby, Seb was happily reading the paper. She plopped Nathan back in his playpen.

  ‘God, that child spends his life in there,’ said Seb.

  ‘He does not,’ said Maddy. ‘He and I spent ages at the swings today and we went for a walk, but I can’t cope with him rushing around when I’m doing other things.’

  ‘Like sleeping.’ said Seb.

  She decided to ignore the comment. ‘And now I am going to make you a cup of tea and cook Nate’s supper. But,’ said Maddy, picking Nathan out of his pen, ‘since you are here, you can take over.’ She plonked the toddler on Seb’s lap.

  ‘But I was reading the paper.’

  ‘Read it later,’ said Maddy, disappearing to the kitchen. Honestly, she’d like to see Seb cope with a baby and housework and cooking with Nathan underfoot. Besides, he had all his toys in his playpen so he was hardly having a deprived childhood. She made up a plate of finger food for Nathan’s supper and then buttered some bread to go with it. When she returned to the sitting room to get him she found he was back in his playpen and Seb was, once more, immersed behind the paper.

  Huh, she thought, do as I say, not as I do… It was nearly eight by the time she’d got Nathan bathed and ready for bed and then cooked supper for Seb and herself. She reckoned she might make it as far as the ten o’clock news before she collapsed. She was knackered.

  ‘By the way, before I forget, I won’t be around this weekend,’ announced Seb as he tucked into his pasta bake.

  ‘Really? Rowing?’

  ‘Kind of. That assessment weekend for potential rowers that I’ve been spammed to run – it’s this weekend.’

  ‘Oh. Will you be away for all of it?’

  ‘I’m going to leave before lunch on Friday. There’s going to be tented accommodation set up for the participants and I need to make sure that’s all sorted before the rowers arrive. And I can’t see myself getting away till the evening on Sunday so there’s no way I’ll be back till late. Sorry, hon.’

  Maddy tried to look suitably disappointed but the truth was, with Seb away, she and Nathan could do some world-class loafing. She wouldn’t have to make proper meals; she could eat cold beans out of the tin if the fancy took her. She could even have Nathan in bed with her after his early morning feed and have a lovely lie-in. Seb would never allow Nathan in their bed – said it was a sign of lazy parenting and that it was the sort of way drunks a
nd junkies behaved. Like he knew anything about parenting, or drunks and junkies for that matter, but Seb had very set views about a lot of things and didn’t like them to be challenged, even if he was completely wrong.

  ‘Oh well, can’t be helped,’ said Maddy, trying to sound suitably disappointed.

  ‘Thanks for being so understanding, Maddy,’ said Seb. He sighed heavily. ‘It’s not my idea of a fun weekend but there’s no getting out of it.’

  You fibber! thought Maddy. Like he’d ever passed up an opportunity to get out on the water in a boat, and even if he was training other rowers, rather than doing his own training, he’d still be in his element.

  ‘Fancy jumping in your car after work tomorrow and coming down here to the sticks?’ said Sam over the phone to Michelle. It was Thursday evening and Sam was facing another weekend in the mess with precious little company and even less to do. ‘I’m supposed to be getting a haircut on Saturday but, if you come over, I’ll rearrange it for another time.’

  ‘Sam, I’d love to, but your hair appointment is safe. I’ve been dicked to run a sodding work detail starting tomorrow.’

  ‘What? Over the whole weekend.’

  ‘I know, I know. Shit, isn’t it? Honestly Sam, some of the officers here have got it in for me. It doesn’t matter what I do, I always seem to piss someone off.’

  Sam groaned. ‘What have you done now?’

  ‘I didn’t do the weekly stock check of the mess bar.’

  ‘Michelle! You’re the mess wines member. It’s your job to do that. It’s like not turning up for staff parade when you’re duty officer.’

  ‘Look, I forgot, that’s all. It’s not like anyone died, is it?’ Michelle sounded defensive; she always did that when she knew in her heart she was in the wrong.

  ‘No, it isn’t. But you can’t forget stuff it’s your responsibility to do. No wonder someone got pissed off.’ How could Michelle be so utterly hopeless and drop herself in it yet again?

  Over on the married patch Maddy was watching Seb pack, ready to go away to Dorney Lake in the morning. He wanted to be there before the wannabes arrived, to check all the kit, the boats, the arrangements, the tentage and everything else that would make the weekend a success.