Soldiers' Wives (24 page)

God, thought Maddy, now she couldn't even choose where to get her hair done. Bloody army. But over and above her annoyance was that thick layer of guilt. Never mind what Zoë might have threatened to do to scupper Jenna's business, she had done it for real.

Jenna was sitting in her swanky lounge, her feet up on the cream leather recliner, taking it easy. Business had been building up slowly and this morning had been her best day of trading yet. She'd had appointments all morning, she'd taken the best part of two hundred quid and, if things kept up like this, in six months or so she'd be able to pay off the cost of the bathroom and the other improvements she'd made to the quarter. Of course, when she'd run out of the products she'd filched from Zoë's, her overheads were going to go up, but she reckoned she'd still be able to undercut the bitch. She wasn't paying proper business rates on the property, nor was she intending to pay income tax. Cash in hand, who was to know what she earned? No VAT either, come to that.

She was flicking through one of the glossy mags she kept there for ‘her ladies', when there was a violent banging on her door. She jumped. She didn't have any appointments for another hour. Who on earth was this? Whoever it was was certainly impatient, she thought grumpily, as she got off the recliner and made her way to the door.

‘Yes?' she said to the major standing on her doorstep. She thought she recognised him from somewhere.

‘Mrs Perkins?'

She nodded.

‘I'm Major Milward, the housing commandant.'

Ah yes, the guy who'd done the march-in.

‘May I come in?'

‘I suppose.' Uh-oh, she thought, with a frisson of anxiety. She could guess what this might be – all those sodding regulations she'd been warned about.

‘Good. I don't think our conversation is one to be held in the open.'

And that just confirmed her fears.

She opened the door wide and let the officer in. She could see him taking in her improvements to her sitting room. And that was all legal, wasn't it? she thought belligerently. There was nothing in the army's sodding rules that said you couldn't have your own furniture, if you wanted it. And who wouldn't? The stuff they issued you with was gross.

‘Mrs Perkins,' began the major. He sounded very formal.

Time for the charm offensive, thought Jenna. She had nothing to lose and if she could get him on her side, it might make the difference. ‘No need to be so formal, is there? Call me Jenna.' She bestowed him with her very best smile.

There was a beat. ‘Mrs Perkins,' resumed Milward, ‘this isn't a social call. I believe you are running a business from your quarter.'

‘Not really,' she lied smoothly. ‘I do a bit of hairdressing for friends. There's nothing wrong with that, is there?' She looked him bang in the eye.

‘If I believed that was
all
it amounted to there'd be nothing wrong with that. But it doesn't, does it?'

‘Who says?'

‘That's irrelevant.'

‘It bloody isn't. It's that Zoë, isn't it?'

Major Milward shook his head. ‘Not Zoë.'

So who had bubbled her? She would give her back teeth to find out.

‘So are you?' probed Milward. ‘Running a business?'

‘No.'

Milward got up and headed for the stairs.

‘Hey, where are you going?'

‘I need to use your bathroom.'

Jenna ran to stop him but he was already halfway up the stairs. ‘Bugger,' she muttered under her breath. She returned to the sitting room to wait for him. It wasn't long before she heard his footsteps descending again.

‘Just what on earth did you think you were doing?' he said, as he entered the room.

‘Why, what's the matter?' She turned her big blue eyes on him, the picture of innocence as she well knew.

The major looked a little nonplussed. ‘Surely Private Perkins told you about the terms of your tenancy agreement?'

‘We'd only just moved in, when they sent him to Afghan.' Charm hadn't worked, so she decided to try another tack. She blinked rapidly, to get rid of imaginary tears.

‘But you can't do what you've just done!'

‘What?' Keep up the innocent act, she told herself, as she wiped away another non-existent tear.

‘The bathroom.'

‘What's wrong with it?'

‘What's wrong with it?' Milward was quite red now. Jenna wasn't sure if it was anger, or the embarrassment of dealing with a crying woman. ‘Everything.'

‘But it cost a fortune,' she whispered. She wasn't lying about that.

‘And I've no doubt it'll cost a similar amount to put it back to exactly how it was. And that's what you'll have to do. There will be no choice, do you understand?'

She managed to squeeze out a real proper tear. ‘But… but…' She let it roll down her cheek. ‘What a waste of money. Lee'll kill me.'

‘I'm sorry, Mrs Perkins.'

Jenna fled into the kitchen. She leaned against the tatty counter and sobbed theatrically.

‘I'm sorry, Mrs Perkins, I really am,' said the major from the doorway. Not that he sounded it. There was an embarrassed silence, while Jenna kept up the crocodile tears. She wondered for a second if she mightn't be overdoing it.

‘Would a cup of tea help?' Milward offered.

Perhaps she wasn't – she racked up the sobs. She could hear him clattering around, filling the kettle, looking for mugs. She wasn't going to help him out, why should she? Bastard. Finally, things calmed down, the kettle boiled and she could hear water being poured into mugs. She let her sobs subside a fraction.

‘Come on, Mrs Perkins,' Milward said cheerily. ‘Things will look better with a cup of tea.'

Jenna doubted it, but as she had no intention of converting her bathroom back – they couldn't make her, could they? – she might just humour him, to get him off her case. After all, she was a civvy – what could the army do to her? She could pretend to stop hairdressing, she could tell him she'd given up her business and, unless he kept an eye on her twenty-four-seven, how would he know?

Except of course her bloody neighbours might grass on her. That Sharon woman had never liked her and would probably kill for the chance to drop her right in it. No, thought Jenna, she had to be more devious. What she needed was Milward on her side.

Milward put the two mugs of tea down on her table and took a seat on one of the sofas. Jenna sat next to him. Not too close, she didn't want to be too obvious. She might only be a private's wife and a civvy to boot, but she was also a woman, and a woman who generally got her own way. She eyed Milward up: short, tubby and balding. Jenna bet her bottom dollar that he hadn't had a woman take an interest in him in a couple of decades. Well, his luck was about to change.

‘Thank you for being so kind,' she said, giving him a damp, doe-eyed stare from under her lashes.

‘Well, I haven't been, not really,' he blustered.

‘Making tea and everything. I didn't mean to cry. It's just… it's just…' She sniffed. ‘What with Lee being away and everything and I've been so worried about him.' She smiled weakly. ‘I thought if I had something to do, to take my mind off everything, it'd make life a little easier.' She sighed. ‘Looks like I won't have anything to help me now.' She allowed two fat tears to roll down her face.

‘I know how tough it is,' said the major.

‘No, you don't,' said Jenna. ‘You have no idea. You've never been the one left behind, have you?'

‘Well… no.'

‘Exactly. I'm a nervous wreck. Look.' Jenna held her hand out, making sure that it trembled convincingly. She used the opportunity to move a few inches closer to Major Milward. ‘I don't sleep properly, I'm losing weight.'

‘Can't the doctor…'

‘Hopeless.' She shrugged for emphasis. ‘It's the loneliness at night. That's the worst thing.' She gave the major a significant look followed by a coy smile. ‘And if I don't have a job, I won't even feel tired. I'll never get to sleep, all by myself.' She inched closer again so she was almost touching him. ‘You could make an exception for me, couldn't you?' she breathed, staring at him. ‘I'd be so grateful.' She put her hand on his leg.

Major Milward leapt to his feet, hitting the coffee table with his knees and making the tea slop over the sides of the mugs.

‘I've got to be going. You must cease trading forthwith.' He fled the room, and the house, slamming the front door behind him.

Fuck – she might have misjudged that one.

Lee adjusted his body armour and then strapped his helmet on. The rain of the previous few days had stopped and now the weather was bright, but cold.

‘Day four hundred in the Big Brother house,' he said to Johnny, deadpan in his Geordie accent, ‘and the housemates are making the most of the fine weather.'

‘Ha ha,' said Johnny, who was loading a magazine into his SA80 rifle. ‘And that's too close to the truth. Just like them we're shut up in a compound, surrounded by hostile strangers. The only difference is the inmates might get sex.'

‘And booze,' said Lee morosely.

‘And you shouldn't joke about the weather.'

‘Why not?'

‘Good Taliban fighting weather,' said Johnny.

Lee paused and swallowed. ‘Great,' he said with bravado he certainly didn't feel. It wasn't that he was scared, but no one in their right mind wouldn't be apprehensive about going out on patrol, with the possibility that they might get killed or injured. ‘Let's hope we get to slot a few first.'

‘Assuming they don't get us before we can.'

Lee concentrated on clipping up his chinstrap. ‘No chance,' he retorted with more false confidence. He hefted his Bergen containing ammo, medical supplies and water – lots of water – onto his back. The other soldiers were equally laden with other necessities: more ammo, more first aid kits, comms equipment, more water. Some of them had filled their pockets with boiled sweets from the compo rations to give to kids they might encounter. ‘Hearts and minds,' Johnny had said, as he'd raided the food store for the goodies. ‘Maybe if we're nice to them, the little buggers will be less inclined to kill us when they grow up.'

Lee wasn't convinced. The British had fought here in the nineteenth century and had had their arses kicked – twice – then the Russians had had a go in the twentieth and they'd lost, so why on earth did anyone think it was going to end with tea and medals all round for the allies in the twenty-first? Still, his not to reason why, his just to do and…

Let's not go
there
, he thought.

Sergeant Adams, in charge of their multiple, gave the order for the big metal door to the compound to be opened, and the ten-man patrol made their way out in single file. Johnny slung his rifle over his shoulder and switched on the Vallon mine detector. He wouldn't start sweeping for IEDs till they got over the Neb canal; the area around the compound was too closely monitored for the enemy to have any chance of laying an ambush on their doorstep, but once they got behind the compounds on the far bank, that was when the danger really started.

‘It's like going for a heavy night on the lash, isn't it?' said Johnny over his shoulder, as he moved forward.

‘How do you work that out?' asked Sergeant Adams.

‘We might get legless.'

The multiple laughed, as did Lee. The gallows humour was in such poor taste it really was quite funny, and he couldn't help himself. But even so, he felt his heart start to accelerate. He had been here for several weeks now and the fear at the start of each patrol was just as intense as it had been on his first one. He wondered if the others were cacking it too. Not that it was a question he could ask. The others would rip the piss out of him if he admitted how he felt, no matter that they might be in the same state. Johnny led the way, followed by Sergeant Adams and then Lee, with the others following on.

The metal bridge built by the sappers was about a hundred yards down the canal, and they could pretty much relax till they got to it and crossed over. Despite the fact that it was chilly, the sun was bright in the clear blue sky and the effort of walking with sixty kilos meant that Lee broke into a sweat as he climbed up the berm. Or was it nervous tension that caused trickles of perspiration to run down his spine? Like all the soldiers he kept his head moving, scanning for movement, looking for a glint of sun on metal, checking for any sign of the enemy.

Nothing – or rather nothing that he could spot.

The patrol tabbed on down the berm, across the canal bank and onto the bridge. If there was a sniper out there they'd be sitting ducks here – no cover, nothing. Swiftly they ran over it with Lee's adrenalin reaching epic levels. Now things could get really dodgy. On this side of the canal, the locals could be intimidated by the Taliban. And, worryingly, it was suspiciously quiet. If there were kids kicking about, playing in the dust or tending goats, you could be pretty sure that there was no chance of an ambush. The locals knew when it was safe and when it wasn't, and if it wasn't, they kept their children away from the danger.

Lee reached to the back of his belt kit and undid the straps of what the army coyly called ‘tier two' personal protection, which was designed to protect his tackle, should he get his legs blown off. The soldiers called it the combat codpiece or the armoured nappy but, whatever its name, it did wonders for morale. The idea of being an amputee was bad enough but being an impotent one was far worse. Knowing that his knackers were safely tucked away behind some serious protection was a big comfort. He pulled the front of the nappy-shaped piece of kit between his legs and attached the clips at the side, then he carried on walking, although his level of vigilance had racked up again. His nuts might be safe, but the rest of him was pretty exposed, and there was no point in meeting trouble halfway, as his mum liked to say. Keeping a sharp lookout, he also concentrated on putting his feet exactly where the sergeant had placed his.